David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

‘Can you tell me, Mr Bassett, exactly what the nature of your work at the Inn entailed?’

John Bassett smiled. ‘Seeing as I started there nearly fifty years ago, my lord, and the work didn’t change very much, I can do that right proper. Memory’s all right going back to the Crimean War. Once up to them Boers it gets a bit hazy.’

He fidgeted about in his chair as if settling himself for some great speech.

‘Money goes in, money goes out,’ he said as if he had just discovered an eleventh commandment, ‘that’s the secret. Money comes in, that’s money for chambers, cheaper if the gentlemen pay a year at a time, money for food, money for wine. Money goes out, wages for the servants, payments for the food and wine, payments for benchers, payments for the gardeners, payments for painters and decorators. If the in and the out are more less the same, you’re fine. If the in is more than the out, even better. Only if the out is a lot more than the in are you in trouble. And I can truthfully say that the out was more than the in only once in my time, my lord, and that was when we had to repaint everything unexpectedly for a visit from Queen Victoria.’

‘That’s very clear, Mr Bassett,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and could you tell me what your relationship was with the bencher who looked after the overall financial picture? I believe he’s called the Surveyor.’

‘That he is, sir. Just two of them I knew in my time. Mr James Knighton, he was the first, sir, and now Mr Obadiah Colebrook, why, he’s even older than me, sir, he’s eighty if he’s a day. Funny how they don’t retire at Queen’s like they do in them other Inns, but ours not to reason why. I got on fine with both of them, sir, better with Mr Colebrook, I think, definitely better.’

Mr Bassett leaned forward and began speaking in a confidential voice, as if he was betraying the state secrets of Queen’s Inn. ‘Fact is, my lord, that Mr Knighton, he was a Quaker or one of those strange sects that don’t believe in washing or whatever it is, and he didn’t touch a drop. Completely teetotal. Mr Colebrook, sir, he was the wine steward as well for part of the time, and he used to invite me to sample the latest stuff the Inn was thinking of buying. “If you like it, Bassett,” he used to say, “then the ordinary barristers will like it too.” I was never sure whether that was a compliment or not, sir.’

‘I’m sure it was a great compliment to your palate, Mr Bassett. One of the best assets a man can have, a fine palate. Now tell me, did Mr Colebrook control a lot of money you never saw? Money from investments, that sort of thing?’

‘There was two kinds of accounts, my lord. Both operated on the same principle, money comes in, money goes out. I was Ordinary Accounts, if you follow me, my lord. Mr Colebrook was Special Accounts. I didn’t have anything to do with them, sir, nothing at all.’

‘You never even managed a peep at them, Mr Bassett? People can get curious sometimes.’

‘That was not my place, nor my position,’ said the little man indignantly, as if his integrity was being impugned, which perhaps it was. ‘I would never have done such a thing.’

‘My apologies, Mr Bassett, I never meant to suggest that you might be party to some underhand action,’ said Powerscourt. Suddenly he remembered some of the bequests he had noted in his basement. ‘Did you have anything to do with bequests for poor scholars like the ones Mr Dauntsey mentioned?’

‘That would be Mr Colebrook’s line of business, sir.’

‘I see,’ said Powerscourt. ‘And finally, Mr Bassett, was there anything you can remember about the finances of Queen’s Inn that might lead to murder, anything at all?’

John Bassett was very quick to answer. ‘Nothing, sir, on my honour, nothing at all.’

The following afternoon Edward had promised Powerscourt a treat. For it would be the second day of the Puncknowle trial before Mr Justice Webster in a Court of the Queen’s Bench. Maxwell Kirk, head of the Dauntsey chambers, leading for the prosecution, with Edward acting as his junior for this day, was expected to begin his cross-examination of Jeremiah Puncknowle, the first day and a half having being taken up with the opening statements. Early in the morning the queues stretched out from the Royal Courts of Justice way down the Strand, almost as far as Waterloo Bridge, as the British public waited for the chance to see Puncknowle in the dock. He had, after all, cheated so many of them out of their savings. So deep had he penetrated into the lives of the working classes of Britain that four members of the jury empanelled to try him obtained exemption from service on the grounds that they had financial interests in one or other of his companies.

Edward, Powerscourt thought, was looking even younger than usual in his wing collar and ill-fitting wig, as he brought Powerscourt past the afternoon crowds and into the court. He parked him with the instructing solicitors one row behind the gladiatorial seats occupied by Kirk and himself, facing the jury with the judge on their right.

Kirk began in solemn fashion. He had outlined the nature of the prosecution’s case the day before. Now he intended to run the general headlines past Puncknowle at the beginning of the cross-examination to try to establish fixed points of suspicion in the minds of the jury. Edward was partly responsible for this strategy. He and Kirk both believed that the technical aspects of accounting practice and revaluation of assets, so crucial to their case, might pass right over the heads of the jury. Better, they had decided, to keep making the more intelligible points over and over again.

Maxwell Kirk was not an emotional barrister. Not for him the histrionics, the dramatic gestures of a thespian advocate like the great Marshall Hall. But after a quarter of an hour it seemed as though something was beginning to go seriously wrong. His voice grew lower. He began to shake slightly. He was sweating profusely. The defence barristers were exchanging notes with their solicitors, Charles Augustus Pugh, shining out as the best-dressed man in the court, if not in London, with an Italian suit in light grey of exquisite cut, and a pale blue silk shirt. Edward turned round and looked in desperation at Powerscourt. The spectators in the public gallery began to mutter to themselves. Was the man drunk? Was he having a stroke or a heart attack before their very eyes? With a loud bang of his gavel Mr Justice Webster brought the uncertainty to an end.

‘Silence!’ he said, looking sternly at the public gallery. ‘This court is adjourned for fifteen minutes. If Mr Kirk is unable to carry on, his junior will continue in his place.’

With that the judge swept away to his room. Two porters helped Maxwell Kirk out of the court into a waiting room at the side. One of them left to find a doctor. The spectators did not want to leave in case they lost their places and had to go to the back of the queue. The prosecution team were looking up something in a battered law book. Edward had turned deathly pale. This was his worst nightmare come true. He was busy talking to the clerk when Powerscourt summoned one of the runners who were lurking around the courts ready to take urgent messages.

‘Do you know Mr Kirk’s chambers in Queen’s Inn?’ The young man nodded. ‘Run as fast as you can to the top floor. Find a stenographer called Sarah Henderson. Tell her Edward has to speak in court. She must come at once. My name is Powerscourt.’ The young man sped off. Powerscourt heard the clerk talking to Edward and the senior solicitor. ‘Until we know precisely what has happened to Mr Kirk, Mr Edward has to carry on. We simply cannot ask for an adjournment. It would not be granted. Barristers present in court for one side or the other are supposed to be able to continue if their colleague falls ill or breaks down. If Mr Edward does not continue, then the case will fall by default. Puncknowle will walk free. He cannot be tried on the same charge twice. All of these villains may be free men before the end of the day. And Kirk’s chambers will never receive a brief from the Treasury Solicitor again.’