Jack Frake (35 page)

Words had been spoken in answer to the charges; this Wicker could not deny. But he was under pressure to expedite the matter. And his mind, calcified by decades of passing judgment on formulary pleas, stratagems and arguments, could not find a hole in his legal knowledge in which to fit the peg of “self-defense.” Wicker sweated under his wig. He was in a panic to block a dangerous appeal to the Constitution, one which he did not want to contemplate and did not want the responsibility of admitting. There was no precedent for it, and the issues the prisoner had raised foreshadowed wider matters which caused him to feel the first twinges of a paralyzing fear.

Still, the device of standing “mute of malice” was serviceable. After a long moment of thought, during which he felt every set of eyes in the courtroom on him, he spoke some words about the plea standing in nullity, and treated Redmagne’s technical refusal to answer the charges as grounds for proceeding with a trial, resorting to the paradoxical fiction that Redmagne had both stood “mute of malice” and pleaded “not guilty” on behalf of himself and the other prisoner.

The prisoners were arraigned. Jack Frake’s name was not spoken by the magistrate. Both Redmagne and Skelly thought that this was odd, but did not question the omission.

Following the indictments, Wicker scheduled a special assize in January, the day after Twelfth Night, for the joint trial of Osbert Augustus Magnus Skelly and John Smith. And in confidential letters to the Lord Chancellor and the Solicitor-General, to which he appended documents pertaining to the case together with a précis of the incident, he asked that a special magistrate be dispatched to the assize, as Skelly and his men were too popular, and the expected verdicts and subsequent executions might
endanger his life, or at least render his continued tenure in Falmouth impracticable. He suggested the names of colleagues on the civil court circuit who had criminal trial backgrounds.

Henoch Pannell persuaded the Lord Lieutenant of Cornwall to furnish troops to guarantee the orderly conduct of the trial and of the expected executions. And he made further arrangements for a second trial, one which he hoped would be just as sensational as the first.

* * *

One morning after the grand jury indictments, at the end of the first week of December, Isham Leith bought passage on a coaster from Gwynnford to Falmouth. It was only a day’s trip, and he told his wife, Huldah, that he had business there and would be back the evening of the next day.

In Falmouth, he strode up the street that paralleled the river and went directly to the Revenue Bursar’s office in the mayor’s palace. Here he told a clerk his business, and handed the man the letter of claim. There were other men waiting in the anteroom, but after a curious raising of his eyebrows, the clerk seemed to recognize his name on the document and rushed back into the Bursar’s office. He emerged in a minute and asked Leith to wait on one of the benches in the anteroom. “It won’t be more than a quarter hour, sir. There’s so much work to do this time of year.” Another clerk hurriedly passed through the anteroom and went out. Leith lit a pipe and waited, listening to the other visitors trading hearsay about Skelly and the indictments.

Twenty minutes later, a stocky, florid-faced man came into the room with two tipstaffs in tow, accompanied by the second clerk and, to Leith’s surprise, Henoch Pannell. The Commissioner pointed to Leith, and the large man approached him. “Isham Leith, of Trelowe?”

Leith rose slowly. “Yes, sir.”

The man produced a folded sheet of paper. “I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Reverend Robert Parmley, rector of St. Gwynn, in April of 1744. Submit to cuffs, and come along quietly.” The tipstaffs had come behind him, and each laid a hand on his shoulders.

The pipe dropped from Leith’s mouth. He shouted, pointing a finger at Pannell, “You great pile of sheep droppin’s! You lied!”

Pannell smiled with a shrug. “May I introduce Mr. Humphrey Grynsmith, sheriff of Falmouth? You’re in his custody now, not mine.”

“Didn’t my help count for nothin’?” wailed Leith.

“It counted for much, Mr. Leith. You will get your fifty guineas, if you don’t first confess under interrogation, and I understand that Mr. Grynsmith is every bit as good in that art as his colleagues at Newgate. Or if you’re not convicted.”

“Why didn’t you have me arrested in Gwynnford?”

“What?” chuckled Pannell, enjoying the man’s predicament. “And embarrass you in front of your many friends there?” He shook his head. “I know it’s been said of me that I lack merriment. But I do like to play my little jokes now and then.” He paused. “Your real question, Mr. Leith, should have been: Why did I raise your hopes, why did I allow you to think you could commit a heinous crime and escape punishment? Well, it was my prerogative. You are a little man, but you will serve a large purpose.”

* * *

Two weeks after the indictments, a day before Christmas Eve, several men met in the evening in the study of the chief magistrate’s country house near Falmouth. They were James Wicker; Henoch Pannell; Fulke Treverlyn, a Crown prosecutor from London; and Lord Hugo Twycross, the designated presiding magistrate, who had been hastily drafted from his circuit court duties to handle the touchy case in response to Wicker’s urgent letter.

Also present was the King’s Proctor, Armiger Edgecombe, who suddenly appeared in Twycross’s wake in a coach of his own. Edgecombe had yet to make the purpose of his visit known to his host, but Wicker dared not ask him his business. The King’s Proctor, at that time, represented the sovereign when he wished to intervene in certain cases in which especial church matters were at issue, though his personal involvement would be seen as indelicate or controversial. Neither Treverlyn nor Wicker could imagine what interest the King could have in the Skelly case, though they both noted that Twycross and Pannell did not share their assumption that Edgecombe’s presence was anomalous.

“It will be easy to dispose of the whole lot of these scum,” said Treverlyn, standing before the fireplace, “but we want no complications. Mr. Pannell, you are certain that your witness will cooperate in this matter?”

“Yes, he’ll cooperate,” said Pannell, standing opposite him. He had
been offered an armchair by Wicker, but he was too excited to sit. “He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll cooperate.”

“I’ve reviewed the evidence you have against this other party, and it looks fool-proof. An indictment is guaranteed. The local prosecutor may handle the Crown’s case. Who would he be, milord?” asked Treverlyn, turning to Wicker.

“Simon Haslam,” said the magistrate. “He presented the Crown’s case to the grand jury. But, wait,” said Wicker. “
I
am the chief justice here, and I would need to call a new grand jury to indict this person. I refuse to do it, at least not so hot on the heels of the Skelly matter. There are not so many qualified jurors for a grand jury or a trial in these parts that they wouldn’t begin talking amongst themselves and see through it all. It would be a travesty of justice!”

“Well, then,” said the King’s Proctor, speaking up for the first time, “indict this witness with the rest of the accused, but neglect to include his name in the spoken, oral indictment. The accused do not receive a copy of the indictment, so neither this person, nor the accused, nor the jurors of the second trial would be the wiser. When the second trial is adjourned, put the witness in irons and read him his sentence — from the written indictment.”

“Excellent suggestion,” said Treverlyn with a chuckle, “but too late. That’s already been done by Justice Wicker, at Mr. Pannell’s suggestion.”

Pannell took a sip from the glass of the Madeira in his hand. “The second trial will divert attention and passion from the first. It is a perfect opportunity. It cannot fail to achieve its purpose. My question to you, milord,” he said, turning to Wicker, “is this: Will
you
preside over the second trial? It’s absolutely essential that a man of your known character preside over it. You’re practically one of the family in this lovely community.”

The magistrate wavered. “I’m not entirely convinced of the necessity of my role in this ruse.” He looked around at the expectant faces, then asked Pannell. “Where is this person? In custody?”

“Very much in custody,” said Pannell, “and in very much of a frothy snit.”

Wicker sat for a moment, thinking. “All right. I’ll ask my associate justice, Mr. Ashton, to convene a
petit
grand jury for the day following Christmas. There’ll be grumbling, but it shouldn’t take more than an hour to secure an indictment, given what Mr. Pannell here has revealed.”

“How do you think he’ll answer the charges?” asked Twycross, an
elderly gentleman seated across the fireplace from him.

Pannell’s smile was faint but discernible. “He can be persuaded to plead guilty, or not guilty, if you like — just so long as he hangs. Expect no surprises from him.”

Wicker turned to Treverlyn. “How long do you think I should, well, remain in
villegiatura
?” he asked.

Treverlyn laughed. “How
Italian
you are, in a venue so far removed from society as Falmouth!”

Wicker snorted in offense. “We are not all bumpkins here, I might remind you, sir,” he said. “I am a premier member of the Silks Club of London, a most selective association of jurists.”

“I did not mean to suggest that
you
were a bumpkin, milord,” said Treverlyn with deference. He thought for a moment. “How long should you be away — ill, perhaps, incapacitated by some execrable malady? Well, I should say that if you took sun in Penzance, you may be tardy in convening the second trial. Even a brief sojourn in Wales to visit family would be too long.”

“I do not have family in Wales,” said Wicker, frowning.

“My apologies,” said Treverlyn, startled at the justice’s resentment. “I was merely making humor.” He paused. “Now, I don’t intend to dally at this trial. It’s a pretty neat matter, all in all. The accused have no defense worth mentioning. I should think the trial would last no more than two days, at the most. And —
Prestissimo!
— immediately upon its conclusion, the second trial must begin, and also be brought to such a speedy conclusion that the accused of the second trial can be hanged with those of the first. I should like to speak with Justice Ashton and Mr. Haslam on the matter.” Treverlyn strode over to the Commissioner and slapped his shoulder. “We owe much thanks to Mr. Pannell. He put his finger on the nub, milords. There is a point the Crown wishes to make in this matter.”

“Which is?” asked Wicker.

“That there is no distinction to be made between
any
of the accused.”

“Well, who makes such an unwarranted distinction now?”

“The people, milord.”

“Oh… ”

Treverlyn went on. “And before I forget, milord, may I compliment you on the reasoning you employed to deal with the prisoners’ specious answer to the charges? A most unusual rebuttal to a grossly obscene plea, one which, I needn’t stress, the King’s Bench would not like to see encouraged.”

Edgecombe leaned forward in his chair and said to Wicker with a wink, “A deftly dealt demurrer, milord, if I must say so myself!”

“Thank you, sirs,” said Wicker. Then, unbidden, the fear he had felt that day as he tried to fathom the meaning of Redmagne’s words came back to him. He exclaimed with an abruptness and a bitter petulance that startled the others, “Those men are a threat to the Crown! They must be exterminated as ruthlessly as Mr. Pannell assaulted their lair, as ruthlessly as the Duke punished those Scots rebels!”

“Milords,” said Pannell, “can you imagine what would happen if all these smugglers and free-traders learned to use that trick in court? Or even on the floor of Parliament? Why, we would be poor in no time, and the King would need to return to Hanover for want of money. There would be anarchy, and chaos… And no Crown… ” He looked earnestly from face to face. “There would be a revolution in law, and a fatal alteration in men’s natural relationship to their sovereign. It could not be stopped… ”

“We are all aware of the implications, Mr. Pannell,” said Edgecombe. “There’s no need for any
gentleman
to dwell on them. It’s too horrifying even to joke about,” he said with a shudder.

“We have endeavored
not
to imagine them, for the nonce,” remarked Twycross. “Well, Walpole, God rest his soul, tried to scotch that kind of business back in ’33, but no one wanted to listen to him.” He turned to Wicker. “About your handling of that plea, Wicker. Well, it was a somewhat complex and confusing line of reasoning, I thought. It needs refinement. But, mind you, it did the job. We shouldn’t complain.”

“This Smith, or Redmagne, or whatever he calls himself,” interjected Treverlyn, “do you think he’ll make more trouble at the trial? Do you think he has another card up his sleeve?”

“That, I can’t tell you,” said Wicker. He waved a hand at Twycross. “That is now for Lord Twycross to worry about.”

Pannell remarked, “Thank God he didn’t pursue the law. We’d all be in a dither today. There mightn’t be any advantage in pursuing a career!”

Twycross grinned over his glass of claret. “I do not expect this scribbler to surprise me, Treverlyn,” he said. “Quite the contrary, I have a surprise or two in store for him.” He turned and addressed Edgecombe. “Sir, would you be good enough to explain the thing to them?”

“My pleasure, your lordship,” said the King’s Proctor. He crossed his legs and looked at all the faces. “Have any of you ever read a book called
Hyperborea; or, The Adventures of Drury Trantham
?”

* * *

Isham Leith was accorded all the legal protection available to a man of his means, and then some. For his own protection — and for Pannell’s purposes — he was put in a separate cell, and measures were taken to ensure that other prisoners could not get to him. The murder of a man of the cloth was regarded then as a particularly revolting crime, even in the minds of other murderers.

He smelled the muckish soup that was brought to him before he tasted it, expecting it to be doctored with poison. His ears pricked up when he thought he heard his name spoken by prisoners outside in the pen. His body jerked when he heard a footfall outside his cell door. He dreaded the return of Sheriff Grynsmith, who had promised to take him to the cellar of the prison for a “quiet interview.” The shouts of other prisoners’ children and the crying of infants played havoc with his nerves. Even the prison ordinary, a meek, almost dwarfish man with a limp and a cauterized eyelid, struck terror in him; the parson would sit across the cell from him and recite the most gruesome parts from the Old Testament, then ask Leith if he had any thoughts on remorse and vengeance.