Betina Krahn (4 page)

“An inheritance gone awry, no doubt.” Cole rose and resettled his vest.

“Suing her lawyers for the release of her trust money.”

“How novel,” Cole said acidly, reaching for his hat and heading for the door. If he hadn’t turned back for his gloves, he might have seen the glint in the old man’s eye. When Sir William passed into the hall, he planted himself and his bandaged leg so as to block the exit. The only avenue of egress was down the hall leading to the courtroom and the visitors’ gallery.

“If you fall asleep up there, make certain you don’t snore.” Sir William summoned his infamous courtroom demeanor as he ordered Cole ahead of him with a brusque wave of hand. “I fine snorers.”

The courtroom was of recent vintage—the courts of Chancery having moved from Lincoln’s Inn a mere eight years earlier—and a prime example of the current fashion for Gothic architecture. Its small windows set high in the walls and dark, massive woodwork lent a suitably gloomy atmosphere to sorting out the tangled obligations and intentions of the dearly departed. Since the courts of Chancery were concerned primarily with contracts and the disposition of wills, there was no prisoner’s dock or jury box. The larger part of the main floor was taken up by several long tables, where barristers and junior barristers in solemn black robes were clustered like a flock of fastidious crows. The justice’s bench sat at the front of the hall on a raised dais. A small gallery ringed the rear of the hall.

Not surprisingly, the gallery was virtually empty. The only people who attended Chancery hearings were anxious
plaintiffs, solicitors, and legatees. Usually, after a few days of enduring the endless nitpicking of procedures and the windy discourses on the nuances of the Latin that peppered many wills, even the most litigious parties staggered from the courtroom dazed and bewildered. Notorious inheritance cases came up only once a decade, and the rest of the time Chancery was so deadly boring that news writers were known to use the galleries to catch a few winks of sleep while following more sensational cases in other courts.

Cole climbed the side stairs and took a seat halfway up, along the side, folded his arms, and settled back with a resentful glower. The smell of the aged wood, the parchment, the ink, and the musty robes brought back a swirl of memories and emotions he had to work to suppress. He squeezed his eyes shut, so determined to control his emotions that he scarcely heard the bailiff announce “the Honorable Sir William Rayburn. The court will be upstanding.” When the sound of participants being seated wafted up to him, he opened his eyes and watched the Clerk of Court read the action being brought.

It was then that Cole noticed a curious imbalance in numbers on the two sides of the floor below. On the left side of the courtroom were at least a score of black robes, with senior barristers at the front table and junior members of the defense’s representation filling the long table behind them. On the right was a single barrister, a gnarled old fellow with a wisp of white hair poking out from beneath his periwig, a rumpled robe, and a definite stoop to his shoulders. Stacks of documents and books containing precedents and intended evidence were piled on the tables in the midst of the throng on the left. The old man had but a single slim folder on the table before him. Cole frowned.

Turning his attention to the defendant’s front table, he was startled by the sight of one of the senior partners of his own legal firm: Sir Harvey Farnsworth, barrister, counselor to the wealthy, and blowhard extraordinaire. He scowled at
Farnsworth, then at his meddlesome uncle. An “interesting” case, the old man had said, knowing all the while that Cole’s former firm represented the defendants. He didn’t know whether to be intrigued or outraged at the old man’s attempt to—what? Goad him back to the bar?

He was surprised again to recognize Farnsworth’s clients as Sir Dennis Ecklesbery, Carter Townshend, and Sir Edward Dunwoody, partners in a firm of solicitors with offices in the East India Building, where his own firm of barristers resided. These were men he knew by both reputation and professional association. Reputable, well-heeled, dependable, and scrupulous to a fault, they were part of the bedrock of the London legal establishment. According to the cause being read by the clerk, they had refused to release funds and properties to one Miss Madeline Duncan.

Miss Duncan, whoever she was, didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting her money out of Ecklesbery, Townshend, and Dunwoody
, he thought grimly.
Or out of Chancery
.

Chancery was a veritable tar pit. General wisdom held that heirs who fell into its unplumbed depths could flail and protest and petition all they wanted, but they were stuck there until either fossilization or the Second Coming, whichever claimed them first.

Sir William hammered down a lengthy recital of “whereases” and “pursuant untos” and peered down over the bench at the venerable counsel for the plaintiff. “Sir Richard Pendergast. Your opening statement.”

When the old fellow struggled to make it to his feet, Sir William watched for a moment, then waved him back down. “Bother it all, Pendergast, save your breath. From the looks of you, you’ll need it. Suffice it to say, your client wants her money released from trust.” Then he turned to Farnsworth with an impatient glare. “Get on with it, man. State your case.”

Sir William’s judicial demeanor was frequently characterized
as being in the style of a Socrates—bitten by a rabid mastiff. Cole smiled.

“Your Honor.” Farnsworth positioned himself before the bench and gripped the folds of his robe in an oratorical pose. “My clients have been given a weighty and most solemn charge. It is their somber and often lamentable duty to act in the guise of a guardian … to see to the best interests of their clients, especially when their clients’ judgments fail them. It is my clients’ sworn duty—as charged by the law, by their profession’s noble ethics, and by the terms of the testaments they execute—to protect their clients’ good names and good fortunes.

“This action is wholly derived from their solemn and even sacred sense of obligation to their clients, both past and present. For these good gentlemen—Sir Dennis Ecklesbery, Sir Edward Dunwoody, and Mr. Carter Townshend—do not believe that their responsibility to their clients ends even at the very threshold of heaven.” He gestured expansively. “They are honor bound to carry out the functions and duties devolved upon them through the final wishes of their clients. It is a rare and precious trust they bear, and they accept it in solemn—”

“Yes, yes, Fartsworth, we all know what a sterling bunch of fellows they are,” Sir William declared, waving an impatient hand. “Get on with it. This Miss Duncan wants her money and your clients won’t give it to her. Why the hell not?”

Farnsworth opened his mouth, closed it again, and his fleshy face turned red. The others seated at the tables behind him looked at one another, wondering if they had misheard the magistrate. In the gallery Cole had choked on an inhaled breath and began to cough.

Dunwoody came to the barrister’s rescue, springing to his feet. “We believe it is in Miss Duncan’s best interest, Your Worship. If you will permit me … you see, our client—”

“
Unwilling
client.”

Sir William scowled at the plaintiff’s elderly legal representative. “Wait your turn, Pendergast.” As the old fellow sank back into his voluminous robes, Sir William turned back to the defendants. “Proceed”—he waved a hand perfunctorily—“Dimwitty.”

Dunwoody started, aghast at Sir William’s mispronunciation, not to mention the omission of his title. “It is
Dunwoody,
Your Worship.”

Sir William produced a pair of pince-nez spectacles out of his robe and peered through them at the array of documents spread before him on the bench. “So it is. Continue, Dumwoody.”

Dunwoody stood for a moment, rigid with indignation, then sat down abruptly. A testy and determined Farnsworth resumed his discourse, proceeding straight to the arguments themselves. “Your Honor, my clients’
unwilling client
is the heir of a deceased lady of considerable worth, Miss Olivia Duncan. Over the years their firm has cared for Miss Olivia’s affairs as if they were their own. In their hands her investments and properties flourished so that she died with a very fine fortune, the bulk of which she left to her grandniece, Miss Madeline Duncan.” He moved closer to the bench, as if to enlist Sir William’s understanding, man to man.

“If it please Your Honor”—his voice lowered—“Miss Olivia was a rare soul who lived a most unworldly life. And Miss Madeline Duncan is of the same constitution and background. They are women of very high ideals but with little experience in the real world. What Miss Madeline Duncan proposes to do with her new fortune shows an ignorance of both society and humankind. As Miss Olivia’s executors and as trustees of Miss Madeline’s fortune, my clients cannot permit her to squander her resources so frivolously and irresponsibly.”

“Oh? And just what does she intend to do with her money that they find so objectionable?” Sir William demanded.

“It is all in the court briefs we’ve submitted,” Dunwoody muttered, still stinging from Sir William’s misuse of his good name.

“But, of course, we shall be pleased to review for Your Honor,” Farnsworth hurriedly interposed, shooting Dunwoody a narrow look. “It seems Miss Duncan has rather quaint notions of reforming the world … beginning with the very
foundations
of womanhood.”

“Foundations?” Sir William leveled an impatient look at the barrister. “What the devil do you mean, Fartsworth … 
female foundations
?”

The barrister reddened and appeared to be sorting his words. “To put it bluntly, Your Honor, female ‘improvers.’ ” At the blank look on Sir William’s face, Farnsworth said bluntly, “Miss Duncan wishes to rid women of their
corsets.
”

Sir William’s eyes widened on the barrister, requiring him to continue.

“In Miss Duncan’s opinion, female corsetry ranks as the eighth deadly sin.” She proposes to launch a crusade against that particular female unmentionable and the fashions that require it.”

“And how, pray, does she mean to do this? Petition Parliament? Revive the clerical courts? Accost women in the streets and rip the lacer-uppers from them?”

“Nothing quite so public, Your Honor … yet,” Townshend put in, rising. “She intends to convince women to abandon their ‘smalls and propers’—along with their good sense—by enticing them to wear ‘reformed garments.’ ”

“Reformed garments? As opposed to what?” Sir William’s mouth twitched at the corner. “Incorrigible garments?”

“As opposed to
regular
clothing, Your Honor. Time-honored and traditional garments. Decent and commonly accepted raiment. There is a small but vocal group of malcontents in our society agitating for reform in clothing. Lunatic fringe, mostly. They would have us all dress in peasant shirts and wooden shoes—”

“Pssst!”
An audible hiss came from across the way, and when Cole looked up he found a woman in black bending over the railing, trying to get the attention of the plaintiff’s counsel. “Sir Richard!” she whispered loudly. “Say something!” When he didn’t respond, she tried again.
“Pssst!”

Sir William heard her and looked toward her and the old man. “Dickie! Dickie Pendergast!” he thundered. The old man started and jerked his head up from his chest. “I believe your client wishes you to wake up and attend the proceedings.” He pointed to the gallery, and the old man turned to see the woman making furious hand motions.

The aged barrister turned back and raised a gnarled finger into the air.

“I object!”

“Do you indeed?” Sir William said dryly. “On what grounds?”

Old Sir Richard rose unsteadily and scratched beneath his wig. With a scowl of confusion, he again consulted the woman at the railing.

Miss Duncan, no doubt. Cole shook his head. Whatever the woman’s case, with such representation her cause is hopeless.

The unlucky Miss Duncan whispered something the old boy was apparently at a loss to hear. Exasperated, she finally said loudly: “Tell him you wish to call a witness!”

The plaintiff’s counsel teetered forward to face the bench and raised that arthritic finger once again. “I wish to call a witness.”

“Outrageous, Your Honor!” Farnsworth stalked forward. “We have not yet concluded our opening arguments, much less entered into eviden—”

“Stuff the outrage, Fartsworth. I’ve heard all I need from you for now.” Sir William glowered, then turned pointedly to the other side of the court, leaving Farnsworth with his chin on his chest, gasping like a beached whale.

“Proceed, Dickie.”

The old barrister teetered around to face the gallery, where the woman was growing steadily more frustrated by her failure to communicate. She finally demanded aloud: “Call
me
to give testimony!”

Sir Richard’s head bobbed. He turned to Sir William and steadied himself on the table. “Your Honor, I wish to call Miss Madeline Duncan to give testimony.”

Without waiting for the bailiff to summon her, the woman hurried down the side stairs, her long black cloak billowing around her. Cole watched in bemusement as she took the stand by her barrister and began to speak without being sworn in.

He winced.
Hopeless
.

Sir William halted her with a raised hand and ordered the oath administered. She had old Dickie object on the basis that her solicitors had spoken in court without being sworn in. Sir William glowered, then had the lot of them sworn in by his beleaguered bailiff. As soon as the others were seated she began to speak, but was again stopped by an objection from Farnsworth, who was mightily affronted by her addressing the court from the floor, a privilege afforded only to members of the legal profession. He was instantly overruled.

“Your Honor, I simply cannot allow these charges to go unanswered,” Miss Duncan said in a clear, steady voice that had nothing of the withered spinster about it. “The products I propose to make at my Ideal Garment Company are anything but ridiculous. In point of fact, they are the complete opposite of the cruel, absurd, and oppressive garments currently foisted upon my fellow humans in the name of fashion.”