The Price of Murder (37 page)

“That is correct, yes.”

“Then how do you account for the fact that Elizabeth Hooker found in your daughter’s closet the very frock that you took from her upon her arrival at your . . . your . . . house?”

“I know of no such frock,” declared Mother Jeffers. “I know only of one taken unlawfully from my daughter by that girl. Mistress Hooker claimed it as her own. It fitted my daughter, and here is the dressmaker’s bill to prove it is hers. You have seen her and you have seen Mistress Hooker, and thus you know that the same dress could not have fitted both. I challenge them to show it to us now.”

“Bring forth the frock that we may see it now,” cried Mr. Edgington.

There was an awkward pause. And then a small voice was heard from behind the attorney for the prosecution. “It is . . . unavailable.”

Mr. Edgington whirled about angrily. “Unavailable? What does that
mean
?”

“It has disappeared, sir,” came the voice again. “Probably stolen.”

Mother Jeffers said naught, yet the look of withering contempt that she showed her interrogator was far more eloquent. It was, in any case, far too much for Mr. Edgington. He turned away in disgust.

“I have done with her,” said he as he strode back to his seat.

Thus did the prosecution of Mrs. Jeffers come crashing down. I mean no disrespect to Mr. Edgington, for he was in his prime as good as any barrister at the bar, but his failure in this instance proved once again the importance of proper preparation. There was but one more chance for him to win back the jury, and that would come on the morrow with his final speech in summary of the case for the prosecution.

In just such a way did the support of public opinion begin to ebb from Elizabeth Hooker. It was physically perceptible how the talk upon the street in front of Old Bailey quietened down as word came out to them of developments inside the vast court building. The crowd began to shrink. By the morning of the third day of the trial, there were few there before the great doors. Where over a hundred had gathered on the first day, there were now less than ten.

Inside, Mr. Edgington attempted to do with oratory what he had failed to do during the previous two days of questioning. In truth, all that he managed to accomplish was to retell the pitiful tale of abduction and incarceration which Elizabeth had recounted a couple of days before. He left nothing out; in fact, he added a few flourishes of his own, all intended to wring sympathy from the twelve stolid faces in the jury box. His performance was indeed impressive, yet it was, in spite of all, a performance. When he raised a hand to brush away the tears, his fingers remained dry. Yet had he told the same tale to them at the beginning and then polled the members of the jury, he would have had an immediate conviction.

Mr. William Ogden, on the other hand, said little in defense of his client. Rather, his device was to attack her accuser—and attack and attack yet again.

“Gentlemen, behold a liar,” said he to the jurymen, waving his hand in the direction of Elizabeth Hooker, who sat in the front row. “I do not believe that I have encountered such a complete liar in all my years at the bar.” (Which, indeed, at the time were not so many.) He went on to cite the many statements made by Elizabeth and the ways that they had been contradicted by others who had appeared as witnesses—Kathleen Quigley, Virginia Jeffers, Sally Ward, Joan Simonson, and, of course, the most forceful contradiction of all, from Mother Jeffers. Nor did Mr. Ogden hesitate to remind them of what was the most embarrassing moment of all for Louis Edgington: the discovery that the frock in Virginia Jeffers’s wardrobe claimed by Elizabeth as her own had vanished.

All in all, it was a most instructive trial for one such as myself who hoped to make a career in the law. So far as I could see, William Ogden had not made a single mistake, whereas Louis Edgington had made many; and, as Sir John had put it to me, one can learn as much from another’s mistakes as from his greatest triumphs. Sir Hubert Timmons must have thought as highly as I did regarding Mr. Ogden’s ability to pull a case together in a short time, for he commented upon it and praised him for it in his summing-up to the jury. He stopped short of directing a verdict, yet it was clear that he felt that Mr. Ogden had made the case for acquittal. And it was acquittal voted by the jury. The only surprise was that their verdict was returned in less than fifteen minutes’ time.

 
My account of the trial here, while no doubt accurate enough, was pieced together from the memories of William Ogden (whom I came to know quite well in later life), my own sketchy recollections, and other, incidental research. As I mentioned earlier, ’twas the death of Mr. Marsden that prevented me from spending more time at the Old Bailey during the trial. It meant that I would serve as Sir John’s court clerk for an indeterminate length of time (which, in the event, proved a very long time indeed). It also meant that I, along with all the rest at Bow Street, would attend Mr. Marsden’s funeral at nearby St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. Following the graveside service, as the Runners hurried off along their separate ways, Sir John took me aside and asked if I might return with him to Bow Street.

“Certainly,” said I. “Was there something special . . . ?”

“As it happens, there is,” said he. “I know you wish to get on to the Old Bailey—but this shouldn’t take long.” Saying no more about it, he started off at a brisk pace through the field of gravestones, swinging his walking stick in wide arcs before him. ’Twas all I could do to keep up.

There was a single letter upon Sir John’s desk. For whom it was intended I could only guess, for it was placed so that the address and addressee were invisible to me. Nevertheless, I could plainly see that the seal that it bore was that of Sir John’s himself. Perhaps, I thought, it is a letter he wishes me to deliver. However, I soon found out that in this case Sir John was the deliverer.

“This is the usual time for attending to such matters,” said he.

“If you will pardon me, sir,” said I, “what sort of matters do you mean?”

“Oh, the reading of wills, that sort of thing.” He felt around the top of the desk until his fingers touched the letter. When they did, he pushed it across the desk toward me. “Open it,” said he. “I know the contents. I am in fact witness to them. That scrawl below Mr. Marsden’s signature is mine, as you, I’m sure, will recognize.”

And, below that familiar scrawl, was this note: “Witnessed and signed to on this date, the 25th day of April, 1774.”

“Less than a week ago,” said I.

“Yes, Mr. Marsden knew that he had not long to live, and he came to me and asked if I might help him a bit in the wording of the will and then witness his signature. I agreed, of course, and what you have before you is the result of that unequal collaboration. ‘Unequal,’ I say, because all the thoughts and intentions expressed here are his own. Read it, if you will, Jeremy, and read it aloud.”

“All right, sir,” said I. After clearing my throat, I began: “I, Jonathan Partridge Marsden, being of sound mind, et cetera—”

“That ‘et cetera’ was mine,” said Sir John, interrupting. “Neither of us could think what it was followed ‘sound mind.’ That’s the important phrase, anyway. But continue, lad. I shouldn’t interject in such a way. Forgive me.”

“As you say.” After again clearing my throat, “. . . sound mind, et cetera, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.”

We went on in just such a way—I reading ahead, and he interrupting after every sentence or two (it seemed) with comments of his own and explanations. (Just as if any were needed.) The burden of it was that after Mr. Marsden’s possessions had been sold by his landlord, all the rest in money and coin was to go to me. His approximate wealth he estimated at a little more than thirty pounds—and most of it was mine. This did quite astonish me.

“It should have been more, I know,” Mr. Marsden had written, “but I was never very good at holding on to money, and I’ve enjoyed myself a fair amount. I have left twenty pounds in the hands of Sir John. There should be ten more coming from the sale of furniture, clothing, et cetera. It is the custom, I am told, to split the proceeds of the sale with him who does the selling—in this case, my landlord. He has been made aware of my wishes and has agreed to them.”

At this point, Sir John interrupted and assured me that he had the twenty pounds locked away and that I might have it whenever I wished. “As for the sale of his goods and furniture,” he added, “that is scheduled to proceed Saturday next. You may or may not attend, as you see fit.”

Then came a brief section that to me was most interesting of all. Sir John told me that in its intention, it had all come from Mr. Marsden. “My only part in it,” said he, “was to approve what was said and in a few places suggest more forceful wording that it might resist challenge from some distant and unknown relative.”

Having heard this much, I hastened to read the remainder, for I was deeply curious. I cleared my throat, lowered my voice half an octave or so, and began reading:

“I never married and therefore have I no legitimate children. As for the other sort, there are none known and none likely. Indeed, I have no known kin, having come to London as a babe with my parents so many years back. I have no recollection of my parents’ home, which was said to be Bristol. I have no ties to that city, nor do I know of any aunt, uncle, or cousin living there, or anywhere else on this earth.

“For this reason, and for a few others that shall be made plain, I have chosen to pass on my little fortune to Jeremy Proctor. He is, as I am, an orphan. He was in his thirteenth year when I first came to know him, and so I have seen him grow in mind and body into the sort of lad I should be proud to call a son. This small amount that I leave him may in some way help him along in the career that he has chosen for himself in the law. If that be so, then I am grateful, particularly in that it was once my chosen career, as well. Godspeed to him in pursuit of that which I was never able to achieve.

“Thus do I give this as my wish and mine alone. May Jeremy Proctor prosper in life, then shall I rest ever easy into eternity.”

Below that he had signed his full name with a grand flourish. It occurred to me then that I had never known that his middle name was Partridge. Was it a family name? His mother’s, perhaps? There were so many things I had not known about Mr. Marsden. I found myself wishing greatly that I had known him better, that I had taken more time with him instead of rushing round the great city on errands of varying importance. Then did I think upon my only visit to his room in Long Acre—the sense of solitude I perceived there, the coldness, the stale smell. Only then did I discover that I was weeping.

 
I had not seen Mr. Deuteronomy Plummer since that day upon which Pegasus dealt so cruelly with Lord Lamford. Nor, in a sense, did I expect to. I had not quite believed Deuteronomy when he rode away upon the horse, declaring that he would see to destroying Pegasus. Nor, apparently, did Sir John, for after a day or two, I was sent by Sir John to the Hay Market Coffee House to inquire after horse and rider.

Just to be sure, I rapped loudly upon the door above the coffee house, waited, and rapped again even more loudly than before. I called out his name a couple of times. Getting no response, I trudged down the stairs and, entering the place, I sought out the chief and was directed by one of the servers to a man in the rear of the establishment. He sat at a desk, tallying sums. When I impatiently sought to draw him away from his figures, he held up a hand to silence me. But a moment or two later, when he had reached the sum at the bottom of the column, he smiled and gave me his attention.

“How can I serve you, young sir?”

I explained that I had been sent by Sir John Fielding of the Bow Street Court to inquire after Deuteronomy Plummer.

“Ah yes, Mr. Deuteronomy,” said he with a smile.

“Has he been seen by you?”

“Seen? Yes, oh yes, and I bade farewell to him, as well.”

“Then he is gone? Did he say where to?”

“No, but if your name happens to be Jeremy Proctor, I have a letter for you.”

“That is indeed my name. May I see the letter?”

“Not quite so fast, young sir. He said that Jeremy Proctor would know the odds that were paid on Pegasus to win this year’s King’s Plate race at Newmarket.” He ended that with a look sharp enough to stop any pretender.

“Pegasus paid bettors—and there were not many—at the rate of thirty to one.”

“Excellent,” said he, “and here”—he opened the top drawer of the desk—“you have your letter.” He presented it to me.

Wasting no time, I tore it open rather roughly and took off a corner of it as I did. Still, I had done no real damage to the body of the message, for it was short and quickly read:

“My dear Jeremy,” he greeted me, and then continued: “I have decided that Pegasus deserves far better than to be destroyed for killing that great, fat lump of midden, Lamford, and so we have gone off where we cannot be easily found. Don’t bother to search for us, for Britain is a large island—and we may not even be here. Little good has come of this whole nasty experience. Yet I am glad to have had the chance to meet you and Sir John. Tell him that, and bless you both.” It was then signed, “Your friend, Deuteronomy.”

 
During all of this, Clarissa had attended to all of my tales from the trial of Mrs. Jeffers and rejoiced with me when William Ogden’s masterly defense of the woman brought a not-guilty verdict from the jury for his client. She was particularly interested in my explanation of why the barrister had put to Elizabeth that curious question, “Are you pregnant?”

“Do you suppose he knew that she was?” Clarissa asked.

“I don’t think so,” said I, “though it’s possible. Yet when such questions are asked, it is often the case that even if denied, and even when the jury is told by the judge to disregard, the idea has nevertheless been planted in the minds of the jurymen that this might be so: she
might
be pregnant, in which case her testimony is compromised in their eyes.”