Fate and Fortune Page 13

  ‘Then there can be no impartial juries,’ Hew objected.

  ‘Indeed not. Their position is a strange one, straddling judge and witness. On the one hand, the role of the assize is to hear probation, and to assess, on the basis of the law, whether what it hears is proved. But on the other, the assize is called from those who have foreknowledge of the case; they know both parties, and are predetermined of the panel’s innocence or guilt. I have seen trials, where the defence has sought permission to examine witnesses, and the justice has refused, on the grounds that the jury are quite adequate as witnesses themselves, for they already know the panel as a rogue. Therefore, our role as defence is to preclude those jurors who are set against our client, in so far as we can, and if we are not able to, then to bypass their prejudice, convincing them that they must listen to probation, and that what is stated is not proved, or, failing that, to offset their prejudice, with threats and promises, or bribes. It is a hazardous path, and one that takes some years to circumvent, learning how to read the jury – who remains resolute, who is impressionable.’

  Before Hew could reply, the jury reappeared, and Richard returned to the bar. The justice peered down from his stage. ‘Have you a verdict?’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ replied their chancellor. ‘By majority, of nine to six, the panel is acquit.’

  Richard gave a quick tight smile. ‘A bottle won of gascon wine, I think,’ he muttered quietly to Hew. He bowed to Robert Crichton, who reciprocated stiffly, as they left the court.

  ‘I do not often take to drinking claret in the middle of the day,’ he excused himself, ‘yet we shall allow ourselves a cup or two, as testimony to our small success. I know a place, not far from the netherbow, where we can drink in private, the better to unpick our triumphs and replay them.’

  They walked towards the netherbow port, near to Christian’s printing house, stopping at a close upon the north side, just before the gate.

  ‘The taverner is Robert Fletcher, that keeps the caichpule for Master Patrick Fleming, of Patrick Fleming’s close,’ Richard explained. Fletcher has a chamber at the back of his house that overlooks the tennis play, likely to be quiet at this hour.’

  The caichpular seemed to know Richard well, for he received them warmly. ‘The room is empty for an hour, sir, and the court. Will you play?’

  ‘No, alas, another time,’ Richard said regrettably. ‘We have business to conclude. May I ask you do not let the court this present hour? You know my terms. And we would like a jug of gascon wine, your very best.’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘It will be sent up to you, sir.’

  ‘Do you keep the caichpule, for your private use?’ Hew asked, amused, as they settled on their stools. The room was small and dark, no more than a closet enclosed, at the top and the back of the house, but it had the advantage of a long partition opening downwards, that overlooked the tennis court, behind the service end, allowing full view of the play.

  ‘I have an understanding with Fletcher,’ Richard smiled. ‘The caichpule is my passion, though I have so little time to play, with work, and family life, both of which, you know, are close and dear to me. I come to practise here on Sunday afternoons. Fletcher is a pillar of the kirk, and most devout; he will not hire the tennis court on Sundays, and his tavern doors are closed, most properly, through the hours of prayer. Yet though he will not hire the court, he is not averse to profit, and so we are come to an arrangement. He locks the court on Sunday, and goes to evening service, knowing all the while, of course, I have a key. He leaves the balls in place below the net. Thus, I have my practice on a Sunday afternoon, and Fletcher’s conscience is not troubled by my play. For this, I pay him a retainer through the week, which allows me private access to this room. Pray, do not tell Eleanor. She thinks I spend the hours in religious meditation.’

  Fletcher returned with a lantern, two cups and a flagon of wine, and Richard poured their drinks. ‘The most difficult part,’ he explained to Hew, ‘was persuading Simon Pettigrew that he should confess.’

  Hew sipped his wine, shaking his head. ‘What I do not understand is why he needed to confess. If Robert Crichton had no proof …’

  ‘You miss the point. Crichton had no proof because Pettigrew confessed. And because he had confessed, Crichton saw no need to look for proof. After all, he knew that Pettigrew was guilty of the crime. If Pettigrew had not confessed, then Crichton would have called for witnesses. It’s likely that he would have found them. The turnpike is a common stairway, in a busy close.’

  ‘You mean to say …’

  ‘Pettigrew was guilty, Hew. He killed his wife. And everyone there knew it; or rather, they presumed it so. Crichton knew it, and he knew that Pettigrew had confessed, and so he did not bother to look for further proof. He is an old man, at the close of his career, and his concerns are now with bigger things. He is fixed upon the Morton trial. He did not care so much about this little case. He was complacent, and he let his eye slip from the ball, so oftentimes returned without a thought; he did not read the angle when it came.’

  ‘Will Crichton not indict the jury, to assize of error?’ questioned Hew.

  ‘I think that unlikely. The truth is that he failed to prove the case. He will not care to have his failings held to scrutiny. Nor, since his probation was negligent, would he be likely to win. Those members of assize who voted in our favour were aware of this. I had convinced them that their actions were most proper to the law. Crichton knows it too. He has fallen to the simplest trick, and will hope to keep it quiet. In any case, even if the jury were indicted, and convicted, of assize of error, the verdict would still stand, and Pettigrew go free. But you are very quiet, Hew. I’m afraid you disapprove,’ Richard said perceptively.

  Hew hesitated. ‘May I speak plainly?’ he asked.

  ‘I wish that that you would.’ Richard smiled.

  ‘I am conscious of your kindness, and am more than grateful for it. You have taken me into your home, and extended every courtesy. I would not offend you for the world.’

  ‘There is nothing that you cannot say to me. I am your friend.’

  ‘I am your pupil, sir.’

  Richard burst out laughing. ‘And a more reluctant one I have not seen. Peace, I will not have you whipped! What is on your mind?’

  ‘It is the case,’ Hew confessed. ‘I understand its subtleties, and I applaud your cleverness, and yet that case was everything that I detest about the law. It is a game of tricks, playing with men’s lives.’

  Richard was silent a moment. Then he answered gravely, ‘You are right, of course.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Hew said simply.

  ‘No, not at all. You cause me no offence. But I confess, I am to blame in showing you this case, where by my subtlety a guilty man walks free.’

  ‘I do not blame you,’ whispered Hew. ‘In truth, I admired you, and that makes me ashamed.’

  ‘It was a thoughtless case to pick. And I allowed my vanity to overcome good sense, in showing it to you. The truth is, I had hoped to right a wrong,’ Richard answered seriously, ‘but with another wrong, and that was simply pride. You are correct, this is a game of tricks. And I have waited for a long while to use that particular trick. Do you know who told it to me?’

  Hew shook his head, knowing that he did not want to know. Richard went on gently, ‘But I think you do. It was your father. I have waited in the shade for twenty years, to see it work on Robert Crichton. Therefore, though I understand your scruples and applaud them – believe me, I do understand them – you must understand my satisfaction.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, I do admire your skill.’

  ‘But not my pride,’ Richard answered dryly. ‘I think you may be right, in that you are not well suited to the law. Yet for your reservations in this case, I blame myself; the trial was not well chosen. There is something about you, Hew, I know not what it is, that makes me want to show you my worse side.’

  ‘You have shown me nothing but kindness,’ Hew protested.


  ‘That was my intention. Do you play tennis?’ Richard put in suddenly.

  ‘Aye, when I can.’

  ‘Then you and I shall play a game sometime. I warn you, though, I may not be so gracious in defeat.’ Richard gave a sigh. ‘Ah, well, I must return to work. I can spare you for an hour or two, till suppertime. Will you return to the printing house? It is close to here, I think.’

  ‘Aye, across the street. Do you not mind it, sir?’ Hew replied politely.

  ‘Of course I do not mind. I am afraid I misled you into thinking that I disapproved of Matthew’s book. But I was merely curious. I should be very glad to see it. I suppose it is now in the grip of the press?’

  ‘They have begun to work on it. It will take a little time, for the manuscript was damaged in the Forth,’ acknowledged Hew.

  ‘Then I must wish you luck with it. And the printer, Christian Hall. You say she is a widow. Do you know how Matthew came to know her husband?’

  ‘No, that is a mystery. I hope that the goldsmith, George Urquhart, will be able to explain it.’

  ‘That is more than possible,’ Richard answered thoughtfully. ‘When you have your letters, I will introduce you.’

  Family Ties

  In the collating room, Christian had removed the damaged papers from their binding and set them out in order on the floor. Where the pages were stuck together she had slit them apart with a blade and in part had managed to keep the letters intact: the iron gall ink was waterproof, and could only be removed by shearing with a knife. But in places, the top surface of the paper had been damaged and the letters had transferred onto the other side. These parts Hew was forced to reconstruct, to supply the missing words as best he could. With Christian’s help, he began to make some progress and they worked together on the manuscript until the light began to fade. Hew was conscious of the business in the main shop, where a constant flow of visitors appeared to come and go, and once or twice they were interrupted by the week boy, Michael, or by Walter, with a stack of pages from the press to be hung up to dry. But for the main part, they were alone. And Hew discovered he quite liked the work, tedious and slow, in Christian’s gentle company.

  At last Christian said, ‘It is almost dark. Nonetheless, we have made a start. Can you come tomorrow, and go on with it?’

  ‘I hope so,’ answered Hew. ‘It depends on Master Cunningham. I am beholden to him now, and if he wants me to attend him, then I must.’

  ‘I understand.’ She smiled at him. ‘And do you like the courts?’

  ‘Not at all. The courts are tainted and corrupt. In truth,’ he confided recklessly, ‘I would much rather be here.’

  ‘Truly? That is strange.’ Christian looked surprised. ‘For we are working on a law book, after all. And though I can know little of such things, I confess, it seems a little dull to me. I should have thought the courts were more diverting.’

  Hew broke into a grin. ‘Though it pains me to say so, the book appears blindingly dull. It’s true the practice is a little more engaging than the text. My father was an eloquent and most persuasive advocate. And yet he had a way with words that wrung the life from them whenever he committed them to ink. Yet, I have enjoyed the last few hours more than I can say. It is the company.’

  Christian blushed, unused to compliment. ‘If you like it here,’ she ventured, ‘then perhaps you’ll stay awhile. It is our custom, at the close of day, to have a little supper in the shop, in what printers call the chapel. Would you like to share it with us? It’s nothing grand.’

  Hew was touched. ‘I should like to very much.’

  He followed her back into the main part of the printing house, where Walter was rinsing off forms in the trough, and Phillip distributed type, newly washed, in his cases to dry overnight. The week boy unpicked the ink balls, leaving the leather to soak. Hew leant against the wall and watched their preparations as they put the press to bed. Finally, Phillip lit the lamps and said politely to Hew. ‘I will lock up the shop now, and say our goodnights to you, sir.’

  ‘Master Cullan will stay,’ Christian contradicted, ‘and share a bite with us.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Phillip looked alarmed. ‘Ah, that is a pity … no, I do not mean that, sir … only there is something I had wanted to discuss.’

  Christian bit her lip. ‘If it is a matter for the chapel, then you may speak freely. Hew is our friend. In truth, he owns us, Phillip.’

  ‘Aye, I had forgotten that,’ the compositor allowed. ‘I must beg your pardon, sir. Lady Catherine Douglas called. We are to print her poems, and they are almost ready for the press. And,’ he added quietly to Christian, ‘I have made your feelings plain to Allan Chapman. He will not trouble you again.’

  Christian coloured. She was so very fair, reflected Hew, that the slightest hint of awkwardness showed clearly in her face. He found her openness appealing. ‘We must hope so,’ she said quickly. ‘Thank you, Phillip. Will you go upstairs, and see if Alison is home with William? They went walking by the burgh loch.’

  ‘He is a little too protective,’ she remarked to Hew as Phillip left. ‘He keeps our secrets close.’

  ‘It is a mark of good intent; he cares for you,’ acknowledged Hew.

  ‘He is a loyal friend. And also, to speak truth, he has cause for his suspicions.’ Christian blushed. ‘Things have not gone well for us of late. There is someone in this town who wants us out.’

  ‘Truly? Who is that?’

  ‘The printer, Master Chapman,’ she admitted.

  ‘Whose attentions Phillip has discouraged?’ Hew said shrewdly.

  ‘Aye,’ she looked away, ‘he says he wants to marry me.’

  ‘Which is not quite the same,’ Hew pointed out, ‘as wanting you out.’

  ‘It is the same,’ insisted Christian. ‘It’s the press he wants, not me.’

  ‘Then he has poor judgement,’ Hew said lightly, ‘and will not make a go of it.’

  Christian flushed. ‘It is not a jest, Hew. I did think he meant well. But Chapman has done us great harm. You know I told you we were frozen out? We have fallen behind with our work. In particular, a large order of tracts we were printing for Henry Charteris; one of which you saw the other day. Charteris is a bailie on the burgh council, and he has been good to us since William died. But he is a man of business nonetheless, and he expects his work on time. Chapman offered to help out. He had an old press, in the laich house of his printing shop, that was little used, and he offered us the use of it, for it was warm and dry. His own press had escaped the worst effects of frost. And so we set up shop there for a day or two. He even lent a journeyman, to help complete the work. As you will understand, the laich house was quite dark, and not well placed for printing. Still, with lanterns and by candlelight, we managed it. Phillip and Walter were careful, as always, to put out the lanterns at night, and extinguish every flame. But there was a fire. Someone left a candle burning in the night, and the press caught light. All our forms and letters were engulfed, and the pages we had printed turned to ash, together with the copy. Strange to say, the fire was contained in the cellar. Chapman’s own house was untouched.’

  ‘You mean to say he set the fire deliberately? But that is murderous! Was there no redress?’

  ‘I am convinced he did,’ Christian nodded. ‘Yet we have no proof. Chapman blamed the fire on Phillip. He almost had him charged with it. We could not prove we had not left our candles burning in the night. I know Phillip,’ she concluded quietly, ‘as I know myself. And I am quite certain he was not responsible. It was Chapman’s boy who set the fire. Chapman was solicitous – aye, quite solicitous. He went straight to Henry Charteris, and told him he would do the work himself, for half the fee. And so we lost that portion of the contract, though Charteris has allowed us to fulfil the rest. Since then, Chapman has pursued me like the plague. Each day he comes and makes another offer, more insistent and insulting than the last: I will have to marry him, or else sell him the press, for tis clear I cannot manage on my own.


  ‘There must be some recourse to justice,’ protested Hew.

  ‘I do not have the money to pursue it. And I do not have the time. Phillip says, that it were better to make good our loss ourselves, and carry on.’

  ‘I cannot think that that is good advice. You must consult a man of law.’

  Christian pulled a face. ‘And you are the one who was telling me, that the law is tainted and corrupt.’

  ‘Let me think on this,’ Hew persisted thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure that I can help. And, as you say, I have a proper interest in the press.’

  Christian shook her head. ‘It’s best to leave it, Hew. We can manage it alone. You do not understand the workings of the council.’

  ‘Aye, I had a glimpse of them,’ admitted Hew, ‘and did not much like what I saw.’

  ‘Then let us hope our fortunes change,’ Christian answered, ‘with your father’s book.’

  Phillip had returned with Alison, the nurse, and William, who was gnawing on an apple. Christian exclaimed, ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘Man,’ said the child elliptically, and took another bite. The apple was wizened and dry.

  ‘What man? Alison, you must not let him take things,’ Christian remonstrated.

  The nursemaid pouted. ‘The fruitman gave it to him. The bairn was girning on the street, and he had an apple rotten on one side – he cut the bad bit off. William has been fretful all the day,’ she returned defensively.

  ‘For a bairn to have an apple,’ Phillip said to Christian, ‘surely does no harm. You’re as bad as he is, for you fret too much.’

  ‘I do not like that Alison consorts so much with strangers,’ Christian asserted. But she relaxed a little, reassured, and lifted up the little boy to sit him in her lap. ‘Put aside your apple now, for here is Michael with the cheese.’