The Cogspeare Conspiracy (The Cogspeare Chronicles Book 1) (18 page)

              Magnus stopped dead in the middle of the hallway.

              “The SWSMC case?”

              “Yes, sir!”

              “When is it scheduled for?” Addison looked down at the cheap tin watch his mother had bought for him.

              “It’s to begin in six hours and twenty-four minutes, sir.”

              Magnus swore, rather eloquently, and Jim blinked in surprise.

              “I say, sir, that was rather good!”

              “Compliments of my younger brother, you know which one.”

              “A shame I have three sisters, then,” Addison sighed as he followed Magnus into the office, when his boss uncharacteristically threw down his briefcase and slumped in his chair.

              Jim Addison slowly and quietly moved around Magnus as he looked off into space.

              “Um, would you like a coffee, sir?” he asked after a few minutes. It was so odd, because he had expected Magnus to start hauling off orders. This inaction was extremely perturbing.

              “Food, perhaps?” Still no answer.

              “I’m sure it will go splendidly, sir. After all, you have the best acquittal record in the history of the firm, aside from Grimsby, of course.” Magnus grunted. Addison scratched his head.

              “Did you have a good trip yesterday, sir? Find out anything in particular?” Magnus suddenly looked at him.

              “Damn it! I never asked about George Talliburn,” Magnus murmured. “But then again, does it matter if he even got there? He’s still dead, with odd circumstances surrounding his death.” Addison looked lost, and Magnus quickly changed the subject.

              “Addison, why was the case moved forward?” Jim was caught off guard, but quickly, and honestly, replied,

              “I really don’t know, sir. Perhaps the Lord Justice Philodendrington has a backlog of cases?” All cases in the House of Lords were presided over by a member of the House with a degree in law. Since most nobles were missionaries, mercenaries, or misfits of one brand or another, Lord Justices were rather hard to come by. Then again…

              “Addison, you know as well as I that Abraham Philodendrington hasn’t had a backlog since the Crimean War. I want you to find out the reason for the case’s advancement.” Jim turned, but then popped his head back in.

              “Meanwhile, I’m thinking.”

Chapter 35:

It was a few minutes before lunchtime and Magnus had resorted to something he never considered doing; he was pacing the floor of his office. He had always seen it as a measure of weakness if one couldn’t sit still in one’s place of business, but it was actually rather soothing. Ten paces to the window, ten paces back, with the occasional foray to the door with another six steps.

              Jim Addison burst through the door. Magnus stopped midstride, and it was difficult to say which one was more shocked at the other’s behaviour.

              “Sir, are you feeling alright?”

              “Fine, Addison. Now tell me, what did you find out?” he stalked back to his desk and sat heavily behind it. For the first time in their relationship, he indicated that Jim should take a seat. Jim crept forward and slid down into the leathery embrace.

              “Well, sir. I first went to the House of Lords and tried to speak to the secretary of the Assistant Secretary. I thought, secretary to secretary, he’d at least tell me who rescheduled the court case on behalf of Lord Philodendrington. Very uppity he was though, sir, and refused to tell me anything. So then I went to the secretary of the Keeper of Records, thinking he might know something, but nothing doin’ either. And there I was, walking along those hallowed halls, when who should I bump into but George Keeling’s secretary, Tom Whitby.” At this point, Magnus had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Really, Addison was as bad as his mother when it came to lengthy gossip.

              “Well, it seems that young Tom,” he said of the secretary who was a decade his senior, “was supposed to be hired as Lord Philodendrington’s second secretary, in preparation for when his first secretary puffs the powdered wig, if you get my meaning, sir. But apparently Philodendrington himself appointed his grand-niece’s step-mother’s brother to the position, and now Whitby is stuck with Keeling indefinitely.”

              “Addison, is there a point to this?”

              “Yes, sir! Of course there is!” Addison would have seemed offended if not for his ever-pleasant smile. Even his pimples seemed to grin. “So there we were, commiserating-like, and after finding out my mission, he let it drop that Earl of Dashington-Hill is hosting a house party this weekend.” He paused and waggled his pale eyebrows significantly.

              “So?”

              “So, sir, the Earl is known for his famous house parties, chock a block full of decadence and debauchery.”

              “You sound wistful, Addison. What would your mother say?” Jim blushed, but continued.

              “This house party has a few guests who aren’t usually part of Dashington-Hill’s circle, including…”

              “…Philodendrington?”

              “Exactly, sir. Even a Lord Justice wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for some good old-fashioned debauchery.”

              “Indeed,” Magnus replied meditatively. “Dashington-Hill…didn’t I have an appointment with him a few days ago?”

              “Yes, sir. Monday, sir. Was it related to ‘decadence and debauchery’?”

              “It was related to confidential and private, Addison. And don’t use the word debauchery again. You use it far too enthusiastically.” He leaned back in his chair.

              “Am I to conclude that Lord Philodendrington has indicated the trial will use the swiftest form of justice because he wants to go to a house party?” he asked sceptically.

              “As far as I can tell, yes, sir.” Magnus shook his head in disgust.

              “Well, Addison, I suppose we’d better get on. Not that many papers to file at the House before the trial, but I like to get there early.”

              “I’ll go powder your wig, then, sir.”

Chapter 36:

Standing in front of a gilded mirror in the changing rooms of the House of Lords, Magnus stared at himself. Usually before a trial, he was infused with power and elation, knowing he was fulfilling his dream, his destiny. But this time, all he had was a sinking, sick feeling. And he realized that if he had a choice, he would rather go back to his office, have a cup of strong tea with lashings of sugar, do some paperwork and forget about the whole thing. After all, there really was no challenge here.

              He sighed and adjusted the freshly-powered wig, tucking his ginger hair underneath.

              “Pull yourself together, man,” he growled at himself. He tugged his ebony silk waistcoat into place, folded his jacket away, and donned the long, flowing robes of a barrister’s court dress. Taking his papers, he went armed into battle, summoning up all his confidence.

              As he strode down the elaborate hallways, passing colleagues with a nod of his head, it never ceased to amaze and fill him with wonder that he was a cog in the well-oiled, if at times overly-contrapted, machine of justice.

              He turned a corner into the small atrium behind the courtroom, where a small man was sitting behind a smaller, spindly desk.

              “Name of barrister?” the man squeaked as menacingly as possible.

              “Magnus Cogspeare.” He carefully inscribed his name in the records book with a ridiculously large quill.

              “Affiliation?”

              “Grimsby and Associates.”

              “Case number?” The barrister had always felt these were a series of ridiculous questions, remnants from a time when multiple cases would be heard at one session. These days, it was one, or perhaps two, cases per day.

              “Twenty-three sixty-five.”

              “You may enter,” replied the man grandly.

              “Thanks, Cerberus,” Magnus grumbled the nickname bestowed by young barristers two generations ago.

              He pushed open two sets of heavy, carved oak doors, and was suddenly in the heart of the judicial system, at the top of the hierarchy.

              Before him lay the Court of Lords. Set out much like any other courtroom in the realm, the Judge’s bench was placed front and centre, and high above all others. The clerk’s bench was set directly below him, and the clerk was already in position, sharpening his steel-tipped quills.

              In front of him were the benches where the prosecution and defence would sit, left and right, respectively. To the far left was the witness stand, and to the right, the docket for the defendant.

              But though the layout of the courtroom was the same as any other, the plushness and the comfort that gilded everything, from the polished rare woods to the soft, feathered seats of the docket, branded this a courtroom for only the most important and wealthy people in the land.

              Magnus much preferred the stark, smaller rooms of the civil courts. This court room was, to his mind, a gaudy inversion of the stern, vital work that it should carry out.

              As he approached the defence bench and made to put down his papers, he stopped short when he heard the murmurings behind him. He turned and saw to his horror that the gallery was filled to capacity.

              His eyes, his dratted eyes, were immediately drawn to Minerva. Of course, that wasn’t difficult, considering she was in the front row centre, pretty as a stark picture in pure white, with her tri-coloured tie and top hat.

              She was sitting between his mother, resplendent in chartreuse silk and tassels, and Twym, notebook in hand, speaking avidly about something, probably the law and women’s rights. But then he looked over, and on the left side, third row, were Declan, Amadeus, and Quintus. When they saw him, they waved, but Magnus just brusquely nodded and looked away.

              At first his eyes refused to process the implications of what he was seeing.

              His boss, Sir Nicodemus Grimsby sat next to a young gentleman dressed to kill, not an obvious choice for a neighbour. After a moment, Magnus recognized him as the Ear of Dashington-Hill. Standing and speaking with them was the dapper man he was defending, Lord Edgar Clinton. The three of them, standing together like that, turned his stomach into a pit of fiery acid. He quickly poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher provided.

              But not before Minerva saw where he had been staring.

              Suddenly the doors which Magnus had come through flung open and a young, scruffy man came stumbling through, papers spilling out of his arms. Magnus had to restrain himself from smiling and going to help him. But that didn’t stop some of the gawkers or the press from their comments and chortles.

              Dropping his bundle on the table next to his, the man wiped his brow and looked over to Magnus, paling. As was good form, Magnus held out his hand and said,

              “Magnus Cogspeare for the defence.” The man’s Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

              “Ga-Gawain Dolts, pr-prosecution,” he stuttered. Magnus tightened his lips in a small smile and nodded, shaking the man’s wet hand, then quickly turning away to wipe it.

              This was going to be pitifully easy. Magnus now truly felt like a cad. A mentally astute and powerful one, but a cad nonetheless.

              “All rise for the Lord Justice Philodendrington” announced out the liveried caller.

              They all rose, and from underneath the gallery processed a rotund man in his late seventies with a grizzled beard and a leer in his eye, swathed in gold-embroidered black robes. Magnus suppressed a cringe when he thought of this man being decadent and debauched, as Jim would say. Jim, hiding in the wings with the other secretaries, was looking through the peepholes hidden in the woodwork.

              “Sit,” the judge grunted, and all assembled sat with a collective swish of cloth.

              “His Lordship will now hear the case of,” the caller looked down at his notes and said with distain, “the Port Prudence Miners versus Lord Edgar Clinton. Will the prosecution please stand.”

              Dolt, shaking with nerves at his first appearance in the Court of Lords, slowly got up and bowed ridiculously low to the judge. Philodendrington grunted.

              “It seems,” he harrumphed, “that the
miners
,” he sneered, “whom you represent are not here. Did they have something more important to do?”

              “N-no, your judgeship. Your L-lordship!” he stuttered as a few snickers snaked through the crowd. “T-there are over t-two hundred of them, and they w-wouldn’t all fit in the court room.”

              Now outright laughter filtered down from the rafters, and the judge leaned forward to bark,

              “Are you being impertinent, young man? Do you mean to tell me that not one of the miners would deign to grace us with their presence?” Dolt swallowed, eyes as wide as dirigible cogs.

              “N-no, sir. Your Lordship. W-what I mean is, t-two of t-them did come, b-but th-they w-wouldn’t l-let t-them in, sir.” Dolt’s stutter was getting more severe by the moment. Here’s a barrister, thought Magnus, who should never have left his desk.

              “Harrumph. Well, they’re probably ruffians, anyway.” Philodendrington leaned back and folded his hands. “You’ll act on their behalf, and that’s that.” He nodded to the caller, who continued.