P. Chisholm - A Murder of Crows

It was indescribably noisy. Not all the partitions had judges sitting behind a wooden bench, but in the ones that did, red-faced men in black gowns were shouting at each other and waving papers. Bailiffs and court servants shouted at each other for the next cases to come to whichever court. There was a hurrying to and fro and an arguing and shouting between lawyers, between litigants, between lawyers and litigants. At every pillar it seemed, there was a huddle of mainly black-robed men engaged in some kind of argument at the top of their voices. It was exactly like a rookery.

Dodd was already starting to get a headache. Although lacking the clang of metal and the snort of horses, the row was as loud as a battlefield, or even louder.

Enys seemed to have spotted his judge and was beckoning them over to stand next to him by the partition.

“I wanted to see what kind of mood his honour is in.”

Dodd peered around the high wooden boards. The judge, sitting with his coif on his head and a pen in his fist, pince nez perched on his nose, was scowling at a shivering young lawyer in a rather new stuff gown.

This judge seemed a little different from the others: an astonishingly luxuriant but carefully barbered grey beard decorated his face and his grey eyes glittered with wintry distaste.

“Mr. Burnett,” he was saying witheringly, “have you in fact read your brief?”

The young lawyer facing him trembled like a leaf and gulped. Judge Whitehead threw his pen down.

“This matter, Mr. Burnett, clearly comes under the purview of the Court of Requests, not King’s Bench. Why you have seen fit to plead it in front of me is a mystery. Well?”

The young lawyer seemed to be choking on his words while behind him his clients looked at each other anxiously.

“God’s truth,” said the judge wearily, “Get out of my court and go and redraft your pleadings, paying due attention to the cases of Bray v. Kirk and the matter of the Abbot of Litchfield v. Habakkuk. Adjourned.”

The young lawyer scurried off, trembling. An older lawyer warily approached the bench, trailing his own clients. “Yes, Mr. Irvine, what is it now?” said the judge in a voice as devoid of welcome as a winter maypole.

Dodd glanced at Enys to see how this was affecting him. To his surprise he saw Enys was smiling quietly and his brown eyes sparkling.

“Disnae sound verra happy the day,” said Dodd, tilting his head at the judge who could be heard berating the unfortunate Mr. Irvine from the other side of the partition, his weary voice cutting through the hubbub like a knife.

“Shh,” warned Enys, with his pocked finger on his pitted lips, “Mr. Justice Whitehead has very good hearing.”

“Ay.”

“Mind you, he may not be able to understand you for all that.”

Dodd sniffed, offended. It was southerners who spoke funny, not him. Meanwhile Enys was listening to the judge’s comments with his head tilted as if listening to music. At one piece which seemed to be entirely in foreign, he chuckled quietly.

“Whit language are they speakin’?” Dodd wanted to know.

“Norman French,” said Enys. “Generally most cases are heard partly in English nowadays, but a great deal of the precedent is in Latin or French.”

“Jesu. And what’s sae funny?”

“His honour just made a rather learned pun.”

“Ay?”

Enys chuckled again in the aggravating way of someone enjoying a private joke. Carey had found a pillar he could lean languidly against and had crossed his arms while he surveyed the passing throngs through half-shut eyes.

“D’ye think he’ll be on my side?”

“Sergeant, his honour will find what is correct in law, you can be sure of that.”

“Ay, but will he be on ma side?”

“My father was wondering if a gift…?” said Carey delicately.

Enys shook his head. “Asolutely not, sir…It would guarantee the opposite decision.”

Carey looked surprised and worried. “Yes, but if we can’t buy him…”

“If we could buy him, then so could Mr. Vice-it would become not a court case but an auction,” said Enys. “I had rather deal with someone that gives justice without fear or favour.”

Carey’s eyebrows went up further. “I hadn’t thought that any judges did that.”

“Remarkably, sir, there are a few. In fact, I am in some hopes that Mr. Vice might make the mistake that we will not.”

Dodd was listening to the learned judge asking Mr. Irvine if he had ever heard of the relevant law and precedents to this case, and if he had, why had he quoted the wrong ones? Enys had an appreciative grin on his face.

“He sounds a terror,” said Dodd.

The bailiff gave mournful tongue with their names five minutes later as Irvine and his clients fled with their case adjourned until the lawyer could learn to read.

With a spring in his step and an expression on his face that looked remarkably like Carey’s before he launched into some insane battle or gamble, Enys led the way into the little booth and bowed to the judge. Watching Carey out of the corner of his eye and seeing him uncover and bow, Dodd scrambled to do likewise, dropped his new beaver hat on the disgusting floor, and had to grovel to pick it up again before somebody stood on it.

“Mr. Enys,” growled the judge, “I had heard you had thought better of the law and gone back to Cornwall?”

“No, my lord,” said Enys surprised. “Who told you that?”

“Evidently a fool,” snorted the judge. “Well?”

Enys handed over the sheaf of pleadings and the warrant written in a fine clear secretary hand. The judge paused as he saw who was named as the Respondent and shot a piercing grey stare over his spectacles at Enys who stared straight back, not a muscle moving in his face. Not that you could have told if it had, thanks to the scarring, thought Dodd. That lawyer would be a nightmare opponent at primero.

The judge turned to the warrant. Very briefly, something like the ghost of a smile hovered near his mouth.

“You have started proceedings in the Old Bailey?”

“Yes, your honour. Not wishing to waste any time, I briefed a solicitor to file the necessary criminal indictment about an hour ago. We are here because although the crimes were committed in the City, Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage is in fact resident at Chelsea which is for our purposes in the borough of Westminster.”

Another small smile. The judge turned to Dodd. “Mr. Dodd…”

Dodd coughed hard with nervousness, but he was not going to go down in the record as anything other than what he was and what he was came to more than a mere mister.

“ Sergeant Dodd, my lord,” said Dodd. “Beggin’ your pardon.”

“You’re not a lawyer, surely?” said the judge, his brow wrinkling.

Crushing his immediate impulse to challenge the man to a duel over the insult, Dodd coughed again.

“Nay sir, Ah’m Land-Sergeant o’Gilsland, in Cumberland. On the Borders, sir.”

The judge’s lips moved as he worked this out. “Really? My apologies. How do you come to be in London, then, Sergeant?”

“Ah come with Sir Robert Carey, my lord.”

The judge transferred his attention to Carey who stepped forward and swept him another Courtier’s bow.

“ Carey ? Is my lord Baron Hunsdon involved in this matter, Sir Robert?”

“Yes, your honour,” explained Carey with a face so open and innocent, Dodd felt the judge was bound to get suspicious. “My most worshipful father is outraged that Mr. Vice Chamberlain Heneage should have falsely imprisoned and assaulted Sergeant Dodd who serves under me in the Carlisle Castle Guard where I am Deputy Warden under my Lord Warden of the West March. My father is very kindly helping Sergeant Dodd seek redress for his injuries and the insult.”