David Dickinson - Death Called to the Bar

Powerscourt felt that encouragement would work better than threats. At that moment, Edward looked, if anything, more ill than the unfortunate Kirk had done just before the adjournment. Powerscourt checked his watch. There were six minutes to go.

‘Edward,’ he said, holding the young man firmly by the elbow, ‘you wrote most of those questions for Mr Kirk, didn’t you?’

‘I wrote all of them,’ said Edward miserably.

‘Well, all you have to do is to say them yourself. You can do it. Think of all the people willing you to success, all the people in your chambers, your grandparents, Lady Lucy and Thomas and Olivia and the twins, they all know you can do it. Think of Sarah – she’s on her way. Think of Sarah’s mother, wanting you to do well.’

‘I’ve never spoken in court before, Lord Powerscourt, never.’

‘Remember this, Edward. There was a time when Napoleon fought his first battle, there was a time when W.G. Grace played his first innings, there was a time when Casanova made his first conquest. Sarah and I will be silently cheering you on when it starts, Edward. You’ll be fine, absolutely fine.’

This oration brought some colour back to Edward’s cheeks. Powerscourt saw he was digging his nails into the palm of his left hand. There was a rustle in court to announce the return of Mr Justice Webster. Edward took a drink of water and picked up his notes. To his right Powerscourt sensed a hint of perfume and the swish of a skirt as Sarah squeezed in beside him. She coughed discreetly and beamed a smile of intense, passionate devotion into the well of the court. Powerscourt thought that statues of the dead cast in bronze or marble might come back to life for such a smile. Edward turned round and smiled back. Sarah was so nervous she seized Powerscourt’s hand and held it as if they were going down together in a sinking ship.

One person had been able to enjoy the confusion and wonder how to turn it to his advantage. Jeremiah Puncknowle, still standing in the dock, felt glad that the sombre and serious figure of Maxwell Kirk had been removed from the scene. He patted his ample stomach and rolled his bright little eyes as he contemplated the callow youth being sent out to question him. How young the fellow seemed! How innocent! How helpless! Jeremiah felt rather like the wolf who has not eaten for some days when he finds a herd of succulent sheep. Powerscourt remembered that Puncknowle had reneged on his promise in Paradise. He had never been in touch about a possible threat to Powerscourt from any of his co-defendants in this case.

Mr Justice Webster glowered at the whisperers at the back of his court. ‘The case for the prosecution will resume. Mr Hastings!’

So that was Edward’s surname, Powerscourt thought. Hastings, a perfectly respectable name. He wondered if Sarah knew. For a terrible moment he thought Edward was not going to stand up. He seemed to be rooted to his chair. Very slowly, like a tree falling in reverse, he attained the upright position and turned to face the jury. Powerscourt wondered if Edward had dreamt of this moment, a great ordeal in court which would cure him of his stammer for ever. There was a long and terrible pause before he spoke. The judge was staring at him. Puncknowle was smiling at him as if welcoming him into armed combat in some dreadful arena from long ago. The earnest gentlemen of the jury were mesmerized. The clerk had his head in his hands. Powerscourt closed his eyes.

‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ Edward began, slightly hesitant, but fluent, ‘you were hearing before the adjournment about the strange accounting practices of the defendant’s companies. Mr P-P-Puncknowle.’ He turned to face the dock, struggling through the p’s but reaching the other side.

‘Objection, my lord,’ said Sir Isaac Redhead. ‘This youngster has neither the years nor the qualifications to continue this important trial which could result in my client being falsely incarcerated for the rest of his days. The defence submits that the case be dismissed now.’

‘Mr Hastings?’ said the judge.

‘I have been published, my lord, as a practising barrister of my Inn as Sir Isaac has of his. I do not believe age has anything to do with it. Mr Edmund F-F-F-Flanagan, my lord, conducted a defence in a murder case at the Old B-Bailey, my lord, in the year 1838, I believe, and he was only twenty-one.’

‘Objection overruled. Mr Hastings.’

‘Mr P-P-Puncknowle,’ Edward began, ‘I would like to draw your attention to various documents relating to the first of your p-p-public companies.’ There was a rustle as judge, jury and defendant riffled through their papers for the relevant piece. Sarah Henderson wished the letter P could be erased from the English alphabet. Something told Powerscourt that things might be all right if Edward could get through the next ten minutes and into his rhythm.

‘P-P-Page three, line seven, sir.’ Edward appeared to have decided to avoid using the Puncknowle surname altogether. ‘The figure for commission for the disposal of these shares is some thirteen thousand p-p-pounds.’ Edward turned his absurdly young-looking face round to address the jury. ‘The normal figure for commission in the City for such a figure would be between two and three thousand p-pounds. Why, sir,’ he turned back to face Jeremiah Puncknowle, ‘was the figure so large?’

Puncknowle smiled avuncularly at Edward. ‘I believe you must have been six or seven years old when that company was floated, young man. No doubt your expertize in its figures began at a very early age. The figure was such, sonny, because nobody had tried to sell shares to this class of person before and the intermediaries had to be well rewarded. I don’t suppose they were teaching you any financial lessons at school at the time. You were probably still learning to read.’

There was a low muttering from the public gallery. Powerscourt heard Sarah muttering ‘Disgraceful’ to herself several times. Her hand was still locked in his own. But Edward didn’t seem very concerned.

‘We shall have to take your word for it, sir, that these monies went to the intermediaries, not to line the pockets of yourself and your colleagues. I come now to an entry on the next page. Halfway down under the heading Property there is an entry of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds credit.’ He turned again. ‘I would remind you, gentlemen of the jury, that it is this holding which puts the company into profit and enables it to pay its enormous dividend. Perhaps you could tell the court, sir, what and where these various properties were?’

Jeremiah looked flustered. ‘I cannot remember, sonny,’ he said finally, ‘any more than you can remember what toys you had at the same time when you were seven years old.’

‘I would suggest you try again, Mr P-Puncknowle,’ said Edward in a calm yet firm voice. ‘After all, you have had six or seven years yourself to prepare your defence against these charges.’

There was laughter from the public gallery and a low cheer from Edward’s supporters’ club, the clerk looking as though the horse lately at the back of the field, once in danger of falling down completely, was now moving cleanly through the other runners and might even be first to the winning post. There was a lowish rumble that might or might not be a throat being cleared from the judge.

This time there was no answer from Puncknowle. Not bad, Powerscourt thought to himself, reducing a figure of this stature to silence at Edward’s age. Perhaps they were witnessing a historic moment that would be talked about in hushed tones for years to come, like Shakespeare’s first play or Gladstone’s maiden speech.

‘I put it to you, Mr P-Puncknowle, that it is much better for you to have forgotten the details of those properties. And since you have no recollection of them, I will tell the members of the jury what was going on.’ Edward looked down at his notes once more and faced the jury. ‘What we have here,’ he went on, ‘is essentially a conjuring trick. The p-p-property concerned was a group of hotels in London which were initially p-purchased by another of Mr P-Puncknowle’s companies, the Barnsley Development Corporation, for forty thousand pounds. Then they were sold on to another company owned by Mr Puncknowle for one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. I should add that no substantial improvements were made to the hotels between the two purchases. Nor were there any improvements made before the final sale to the Puncknowle Property Company for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. We have been unable to find any traces of payment. The whole exercise was designed to increase the apparent assets of the Puncknowle company to the point where it could appear solvent. Without this sum, which existed only on paper, the company would have been bankrupt.’