CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I wish I had better news for your return,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘but at times one’s friends are sadly disappointing.’
‘At others, however, they exert themselves to a degree that even the most sanguine could never expect,’ said Stephen.
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Sir Joseph, smiling and waving his hand. ‘Yet the fact of the matter is that Holroyd will not appear for Captain Aubrey. I regret it extremely, for Holroyd is one of the few counsel who are well with Lord Quinborough, who is to conduct the trial: Quinborough would not bully him, as he bullies so many counsel, and he might even treat his client decently. Furthermore, Holroyd has an excellent way with a jury -everybody says he is the very man for the case. His refusal vexes me, I must admit, for I had not thought he could refuse my direct request, he being under some obligation to me. Indeed, he looked both shabby and mean when he said that he was not master of his time – that with the trial being hurried on so soon he could not do the defendant justice, being deeply engaged, and a variety of other shuffling excuses.’
‘They did not convince you, I collect.’
‘No, they did not; and until the afternoon I could not understand why he was making them.
But then I dined at the Colebrooks’, where I heard that one of the judges had died unexpectedly and that the choice of his successor was in the balance, with Holroyd and a couple of others as the most likely candidates. Since the ministry has set this whole unusually rapid and zealous prosecution on foot with the sole intention of damaging the Radical opposition
– of destroying General Aubrey and his friends – Holroyd does not wish to indispose the Chancellor by appearing as the champion of the General’s son at this decisive moment. Nor does he wish to indispose Lord Quinborough, who is as furiously anti-Radical as the Chancellor and who is also a member of the Cabinet: it is odd that a judge should be a member of the Cabinet.’
‘Jack Aubrey is so far from being a Radical that he hates the name of even a moderate Whig,’ said Stephen, who did not give a curse for the composition of the Cabinet. ‘When he thinks of politics at all, which may happen twice a year, he is a high Tory.’
‘But he can be shown to be the son of a Radical – a damned noisy Radical too, perpetually on his feet in the House, denouncing the ministry – the son of a Radical and at least in this instance the associate of Radicals: so it makes little odds what he may say once or twice a year.’
‘Is there any news of the General?’
‘He is said to have gone to ground in Scotland, but there is no certainty about it. Some people say he has shaved and hidden himself among the Repentant Magdalenes at Clapham.’
‘Do not his parliamentary privileges cover him?’
‘I know they cover practically everything except treason and felony, and I do not imagine rigging the market amounts to either; but I dare say he means to make assurance double sure, to lie low, risk nothing, and rely on his son and his friends to take all the blame. He is a horrible old man, you know.’
‘I have met General Aubrey.’
‘To go back to Holroyd: he did produce one piece of advice. Since the entire defence lies in identifying the man in the post-chaise who started the lie, he said we should apply to an independent thief-taker and he gave me the name of a man who had been useful to him in several cases, the best of his kind in London, often employed by the insurance companies. Since time presses, I took it upon myself to set him at work directly, although his
fees are a guinea a day and coach-hire, and I have him in the kitchen at this moment. You would not object to seeing him?’
‘Faith,’ said Stephen, ‘I have hob-nobbed with the hangman for the sake of an interesting corpse before this, and I am certainly not going to jib at a thief-taker.’
The thief-taker, whose name was Pratt, looked like a discreet tradesman of the middle sort, or possibly a lawyer’s clerk; he was conscious of the general dislike for his calling, so close to that of the common informer, and he stood diffidently until he was asked to sit down. Sir Joseph told him that this gentleman was Captain Aubrey’s particular friend, Dr Maturin, who had been obliged to attend a patient in the country: Pratt might speak quite openly in his presence.
‘Well, sir,’ said Pratt, ‘I wish I had better news for you; I am morally certain how the case lies, but so far I have nothing that will stand up in a court of law. Of course the whole thing
is a put-up job, as we say: that was clear from the moment I saw the Captain. Yet even so I made the necessary checks: I found there was no parliamentary draftsman by the name of Ellis Palmer or anything like it, nor any member of the learned societies except a Mr Elliott Palmer who is close on eighty years of age and confined to his house by gout. So when I had satisfied myself in London I went down to Dover. At the Ship they remembered the Quaker and the flash cove and the row about the post-chaise, but nobody had taken much notice of Mr Palmer; they did not remember having seen him before and they could not give me any clear, reliable description. Howsomever, I had better luck at Sittingbourne, where they recalled how particular he had been about his wine and where the daughter of the house said there was something odd about him, because although he had only been there once he talked and behaved like a man who had known the place for years. 11cr description matched the Captain’s – it is very
important to have at least two versions – and I came hack to town with some notion of the kind of man I should look for and the kind of place where I might find him -an educated chap – person, I mean – perhaps connected with the bar or even the Church, perhaps an unfrocked parson – likely to frequent the better gambling places -and I travelled back in a chaise with the same post-boy that had driven the Captain and Mr P, dropping the Captain at his club and Mr P in Butcher Row. That is just after Hollywell Street, sir, towards the City.’ This aside was for Stephen, who reflected ‘My clothes were made in London, my half-boots also; I have not uttered five words, and I am tolerably good at preserving an impassive countenance; yet this man has detected that I am not a native. Either I have been flattering myself these many years, or he is exceptionally acute.’ ‘And then, sir,’ Pratt went on, now addressing himself more to Sir Joseph, ‘the post-boy, having seen his fare walk off northwards up Bell Yard, wheeled his chaise down Temple Lane, called a street boy to water his horses in Fountain Court, and went back to the mutton-pie shop on the corner by Temple Bar, where the hackney-coaches stand: it is open all night. He was standing there with some of the drivers he knew, eating his second pie, when he saw Mr P
on the other pavement, walking very tired with his little portmanteau and papercase. Mr P
crossed Fleet Street, coming from north to south, you follow me, sir, and hailed the first coach. The post-boy did not hear where he went, but the next day I found the driver, who remembered having taken a gentleman from Temple Bar to Lyon’s Inn very early in the morning. Lyon’s Inn.’ Pratt’s eye rested on Stephen for a moment, but Stephen happened to know that obscure, out-of-the-way series of courtyards, once the haunt of Chancery lawyers, and he said ‘I believe Mr Pratt began by observing that we have nothing yet in the way of legal proof – that we are not approaching a crisis, but rather reviewing the present position – so perhaps I will retire for a moment.’ He
smiled apologetically at Sir Joseph, adding ‘I travelled all night.’
‘Of course, of course,’ cried Blaine. ‘You know the way.’ Stephen knew the way. H also knew that a lamp was kept perpetually burning in Sir Joseph’s dim, book-lined privy: he took a cigar from his case, broke it in two, lit one half at the lamp (he was no hand with a tinder-box) and sat there drawing the smoke in deep. Somewhere far below him in the house he heard the grinding of a coffee-mill, no doubt fixed to the kitchen wall from the way the vibration travelled, and he smiled: the present tobacco and the prospective coffee soothed at least the very top of his mind, that part which had been so harassed by an exceptionally disagreeable night’s journey in a lurching coach with drunken fellow-travellers. The rest of it could not so easily be relieved: he knew little of the English law, but he was almost certain that Jack Aubrey was undone; he was intensely anxious about his friend Martin, upon whom he had operated, perhaps too late, for a badly strangulated hernia and whom he had left comfortable but still in grave danger; and then he had had a particularly trying time with Sophie when he called in at Ashgrove Cottage. He was very deeply attached to her, and she to him; but in this instance her tears, her unconcealed distress and her need for support were something of a disappointment. Of course, exhaustion from her long journey and the sudden overthrow of her happiness accounted for a great deal, but it seemed to him that Diana, or at least his idealized Diana, would have shown more courage, more fortitude, more manliness. Diana might well have used foul language, but surely he would never have heard the faintest echo of Mrs Williams from her. And surely Diana, having failed to bribe or bamboozle those sent to arrest her husband, would have followed him with a change of stockings and a couple of clean shirts in spite of his direct command, instead of wringing her hands. For a while he twisted the knife in his wound, thinking of Diana as a tigress; then,