Don Gutteridge - Minor Corruption

Broom told a persuasive story, one Marc wouldhave to break – somehow.

For the sake of completeness he walked to theweir at the millpond. He stood on the little dam and gazed backtowards the barn. Except for its roof, it was invisible. Where, ifat all, was the weak link in this credible chain of events? Hewished he could interview the witnesses, but that was notpermitted. He thanked Seth Whittle and left, wiser but no closer towhere he hoped to be before Monday.

He rode on up to Spadina. Robert was expectedhome soon, but it was Dr. Baldwin who led him up to Uncle Seamus’sroom. The interview did not go well. Uncle Seamus insisted on hisinnocence, and Marc believed him. But when he tried to get the oldfellow to elaborate on the explanations he had given Cobb andrecall anyone else who might be able to corroborate them, UncleSeamus was of no help. He was deeply depressed and sleep-deprived.His answers wandered and did more to confuse Marc than enlightenhim. For the old man’s sake, Marc soon gave up.

“Maybe he’ll be better able to helptomorrow,” Dr. Baldwin said without much conviction. “But it maywell be all down to you, lad.”

That’s what I’m afraid of, Marc thought.

***

When Marc got back to the chambers at Baldwin House,Clement Peachey handed him the witness-list, which had just arrived- days late.

“Any surprises?” Peachey asked.

“Yes. Cobb is not on here.”

“Then you may have to call him yourself.”

Marc sighed. Then whistled. “But my wife is .”

***

Marc always shared his investigations and courtcases with Beth, insofar as confidentiality or his barrister’s oathwas not broken. Since the details of the indictment were bothnumerous and public, Marc did not have to hold much back. And hedid not have to refer to the interdicted witness-list because Bethherself had received her subpoena a few hours before he arrivedhome for supper. They went immediately into their new parlour, andBeth asked Etta Hogg to watch the children and hold supper for halfan hour.

“Why would the Crown call me as a witness?”Beth said. She was well aware of the Crown’s case and Marc’s senseof how it would unfold.

“To make mischief, I’m afraid,” Marc said.“This whole business reeks of politics. The Tory prosecutors wantto drag the Edwards clan into this – you and me both, so we willall be tarred with one brutal brush.”

“But I’d just deflect them from their case,wouldn’t I?”

“Well, you and I have been out toSpadina.”

Beth winced. “The birthday party and thoseshenanigans!”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. And itshows how low our opponent’s have sunk. But your name is well downthe list, so perhaps I’ll have so shaken them by then that they’llhave less petty matters to attend to.”

“You figure you can unsettle the Crown’switnesses all along?”

“I have no other choice. I must attackrelentlessly and toss out alternative versions of the crime as Igo.”

Beth frowned. “You mean the way Doubtful Dickoperated?”

“Yes. All I need to do is unsettle the juryabout the Crown’s patched-together fairy tale, and Uncle Seamus’scharacter and name will do the rest. It’s a reasonable doubt, asDick always reminded me.”

Beth reached over and stroked her husband’scheek. “But my darling, you are not ruthless. And you’re not DickDougherty.”

By ten o’clock Monday morning the courtroom wasjammed. Citizens of every class and gender were packed into theside-galleries, and the VIP benches facing the august, judicialpodium were fully occupied by a who’s who of the Family Compact,the proprietors of a dozen newspapers from Toronto and theadjoining counties, and of course the family and friends of theaccused. Robert Baldwin and his father sat directly behind Marc’sbench, and in back of them were Diana Ramsay, Brodie Langford (oncethe ward of Doubtful Dick Dougherty) and Robert’s eldest son,William. Beth was in the witness-room. And high above them all: thepitiable figure of Uncle Seamus in the dock.

Despite the size of the crowd, the place wassubdued. People chatted in desultory whispers, in part because themorning sun slanting in through the tall, elegant windows uponvarnished wood and polished brass gave this regal space theambience of a cathedral and in part because the trial itself wasalmost too sensational for words. The jury had been selected onSaturday. Everything was set for the proceedings to begin.

Marc sat at his bench and studied the jury.They looked as ordinary as he knew them to be. There was no-onehere more prominent than a tobacconist. Tradesmen and labourers,the rest. How would they judge a privileged gentleman alleged tohave seduced and raped his brother’s maidservant, and thencallously slipped her five pounds for a botched abortion? It wasgoing to be uphill all the way. Across the aisle from him satNeville Cambridge, his blond hair just showing under his wig,elegant in his silks, unflappable. He did not look once in Marc’sdirection, probably because he was serenely confident of aconviction. Cobb had assembled an airtight case for him.

Mr. Justice Gavin Powell struck his gavel onthe bench before him and ordered the trial to begin with thereading of the charges

***

In his opening address, as expected, Cambridge spunthe seamless story of a gentleman, pampered and privileged, whodisported himself in unseemly ways with the young women in hishousehold and with occasional female guests, and who subsequentlyand ruthlessly raped one Betsy Thurgood on the third day of Augustin the barn of Whittle’s mill. Thereafter he dallied with the girlat will for the next two months until he discovered she waspregnant. Cambridge went on to detail the horrors of the botchedabortion and the gentleman’s role in it, a role that, without adoubt, bespoke manslaughter. Numerous references were made tounimpeachable eye-witness testimony. For his part, with noelaborate defense to outline, Marc was compelled to offer the jurythe distinct possibility that said witnesses were mistaken and thatone or more other villains could just as easily have committed thecrime. Further, a plausible and exculpating explanation would beoffered for the circumstances of the abortion. He planned to savehis arguments about Uncle Seamus’s true character until hissummation.

The first witness called by the Crown wasBurton Thurgood.

Neville Cambridge greeted him with thebriefest of smiles, then effected a sombre, almost tragic,expression, as if alerting the jury to the dire nature of what wasto follow. “Mr. Thurgood, we realize that you have recentlysuffered an unspeakable loss, and hence I propose that we moveslowly, one step at a time. Just answer the questions as best youcan under these trying circumstances.”

Cambridge’s voice was in the middle rangebetween tenor and baritone, and would not have been forceful orcolourful enough to have earned him a place on the stage. However,he used it to startlingly good effect. Marc could see the membersof the jury lean forward as if they wished to be included in aconversation too compelling to be missed.

“Thank you, sir. I will do my best.”Thurgood’s attempt a humility was not completely successful. Hehung his head and spoke in a hoarse whisper, but in the eyes -peering up under the humble, black brows – there lurked defiance,aggrievement and scorn.

“If you will, sir, cast your mind back tothat terrible night when your daughter, Betsy, informed you thatshe might be with child. Tell us in your own words and in your ownhonest way precisely what happened from that point on.”

The prosecutor was suave enough to beappointed British ambassador to France, Marc thought. Butterwouldn’t melt . . . And slipping that “honest way” into thequestion! For the moment, though, there was little Marc could dobut watch and listen.