The Soldier's Curse (14 page)

As the notion stretched out to fill the corners of his mind, Monsarrat realised it had an awful elegance. He remembered that the doctor had mentioned arsenic. ‘Very well. I think we must at least entertain the idea, Mrs Mulrooney. You have one of the sharpest intellects I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. You would leave those dullards at Lincoln's Inn standing in the dust. So if the facts are suggesting to you such a terrible explanation, we must at least do what we can to prove you right or wrong. What do you suggest?'

Mrs Mulrooney had left the stove unattended for as long as she ever had in Monsarrat's presence. Now she removed her cleaning cloth from its hook and went to a great deal of trouble to slowly circle the table until she reached the empty space behind his chair. She very deliberately pulled back on the cloth and then released it so that it connected with as much force as possible with the back of his head. It would never have occurred to him to object. If Mrs Mulrooney believed he deserved a thrashing with the cleaning cloth, he had no doubt it was true.

‘If I didn't know you, Mr Monsarrat, I'd think you'd been at Slattery's poteen, so dull are your wits today. Why, are we not in the ideal situation to look into this? Are you not on your way to the workroom, in anticipation of a visit from the very man we're discussing? And will he not be expecting a report from you on the woman whose life he may be in the process of ending?'

‘As always, what you say is true,' said Monsarrat.

‘So do as our captain has asked you. Make sure to emphasise that Mrs Shelborne's condition is unlikely to give her much more time on this earth. Observe his reaction. And then, report everything to me.'

So Monsarrat made his way to the workroom, now with two commissions to fulfil, for two different but equally formidable taskmasters. He was ashamed, given the mortal peril in which Honora Shelborne lay, to feel a stirring of excitement, of the kind he had last felt when he realised what Dodds was up to in forcing payments from wool merchants.

He had barely settled himself at his desk when a solid, even tread announced the captain's approach. The man pushed open the door with more force than even Slattery would have used. Why do these soldiers feel the need to abuse timber so? thought Monsarrat.

Mrs Mulrooney had been right when she said he was a student of human nature. Monsarrat made it a habit to look people in the face while conversing, believing their expressions could tell him as much as their words, if not more. But recently, with the dark turn in Diamond's character, more often than not he had observed his boots while in conversation with the officer. Today, he realised, that would have to change.

Diamond had made immediately for the study, where he was going through the dispatches, shuffling the sealed papers like a deck of cards. Setting them aside in frustration, he called Monsarrat in.

Monsarrat entered and stood respectfully in front of the major's desk – it was still the major's desk, he told himself, despite the usurper currently sitting behind it. ‘Good morning, sir,' he said, with what he hoped was the right level of obsequiousness. Overdoing it might scare the horses.

‘Monsarrat,' said Diamond. ‘I trust you have a report for me.'

‘A troubling one. Mrs Shelborne appears to be unresponsive. It is not known whether she is still able to hear speech, but she is incapable of it herself. Breathing is becoming more difficult for her. I have not yet had a prognosis, but it is hard to see how she can survive much longer.'

Monsarrat forced himself to look at the officer while delivering the report. Diamond kept his eyes down on the dispatches. He did not betray any emotion; however, Monsarrat fancied he saw a flicker at the corner of the man's right eye.

‘Well, that's of limited use to me. The suppositions of a housekeeper are hardly likely to give us an accurate picture of the lady's condition. What do you propose to do about it, Monsarrat? And I do hope, for your sake, that you have a proposal.'

‘Indeed, sir. It would be a very natural thing for you to send me to report the housekeeper's observations to the surgeon. With your permission, I will tell him that you have requested his urgent attendance on the lady, and accompany him back to Government House. During the journey I may learn something.'

‘You had best be off then, Monsarrat. And deliver another report this afternoon. My arm is tired from my exertions yesterday, but I fancy it may have a few more lashes left in it. Or Slattery might enjoy some company.'

Monsarrat tried to dismiss Diamond's throwaway threat of imprisonment. He was, after all, the settlement's best clerk, and nothing here moved forward unless the orders for it to do so were transcribed by his pen. Still, Monsarrat was only an inch away from imprisonment at any time, and had experienced several gaols now. Some were better than others, but he had no wish to revisit them or any of their relatives. He also hoped Slattery wasn't suffering too greatly in the guardhouse – the man was not made to be confined.

Monsarrat's first night as a prisoner in Exeter County Gaol was more comfortable than it could have been. The gaoler did not particularly care that Monsarrat's funds were the proceeds of crime, and was more than happy to take some of the tainted money in exchange for a private cell. He drove a hard bargain on the matter of fetching Monsarrat some dinner from the Wool Sack Inn, but eventually they agreed on the price for that service too.

As he finished the meal, Monsarrat wondered whether he had wasted his money – although he was outwardly calm, every cell in his body had gone into revolt at the thought of his exposure, and the dread of what was to come. It seemed that his ability to taste food had shut down so that his body could direct its resources
into more useful areas. What these areas might be was lost on Monsarrat for now, for unless he was able to grow wings, he could not see a way out of his present situation.

His generosity to the gaoler also meant that, in theory, he could receive visitors. But Monsarrat did not believe he would get any. He was proved wrong when Samuel Smythe appeared at the door of his cell. His friend was smiling, though Monsarrat could not for a moment think why.

‘Well, of all the adventures, this takes it, Monsarrat,' said Smythe, clapping his hands with enthusiasm. ‘We will be able to dine and drink on this one for months. Our first port of call will be that fool Dawkins. We will make him buy us the most lavish dinner ever seen in Exeter in exchange for his putting you to this inconvenience. Have you sent to London yet? When will the letters attesting to your good character start to flow in?'

Since leaving London, Monsarrat had become skilled in convincing himself he was who and what he pretended to be. He now realised this conviction had been crucial to his ability to convince others of his credentials. He thought, for a moment, of going along with Smythe's interpretation, of pretending that he had been unfairly accused by Dawkins, but he knew this would only delay the inevitable moment when Smythe would learn that his friendship with the London lawyer was grounded in fiction.

‘Smythe, I beg your forgiveness,' he said. ‘It's true. I should be here. I have never been called to the bar, although I know a good deal of the law, as you've seen yourself. Still, I have appeared in court when I have no right to do so, and my next appearance will be on the wrong side of the dock.'

Smythe continued to smile, perhaps believing that Monsarrat was extending the joke. But when he realised the look on Monsarrat's face was anything but mirthful, his own glee began to fade, and in its place rose the first stirrings of anger.

Smythe's mouth began to work, but for a few moments no sound came out. He took a deep breath, collected his thoughts, and in an even voice said, ‘You're serious. I can see that. But how? I've seen you in court, Monsarrat. You have the same knowledge
as any other man who appears before the bar, more than some. Why would you go to the trouble of acquiring that knowledge without acquiring a genuine call to the bar to go with it?'

‘Calls to the bar are beyond the means of the likes of me. I lacked the connections to be accepted to any Inn of Court, to attend those dinners which the gentlemen I served complained were so tedious. To me it would have been like an invitation onto Mount Olympus. But to them it was a chore. As to the knowledge, I worked for several learned barristers, conversed with them on the same level of intellect, read their briefs and sometimes saw in them overlooked but crucial points bearing on the outcome of cases. I read everything which went through my hands, and every law volume I could find. My competence owes everything to diligence and nothing to privilege.'

Smythe was glaring now. ‘I trusted you. I funnelled work to you which could have gone to other barristers, real barristers, those with families. You made a fool of me, you made a fool of the whole damned court. Did you think there would be no reckoning? How could you possibly have expected to evade detection indefinitely?'

‘I hoped my success in court would reduce any chance of discovery, and for a short while I deluded myself that I lived in a world where skill could excuse my presumption,' said Monsarrat. ‘Still, I became very used to living from one day to the next, and evading detection by sundown seemed a good enough result for me. I did not know how many sundowns I had, but I'd convinced myself there would be more than in fact there have been. Smythe, I am sorry. I didn't do this to make a fool of you, and if you feel that that's been the result, I regret it more than I can say. Our friendship has been one of the delights of my time in Exeter.'

‘Our friendship was no such thing, based as it was on a falsehood,' said Smythe. He was silent for a minute or so. ‘But I will do one thing for you, Monsarrat, criminal though you be. You know I deal in criminal matters as well as civil ones. There's another young man I've been dealing with lately, who is proving himself very able at criminal cases. Now, I don't for a moment believe that you will be acquitted – you've confirmed
your guilt to me, and those letters I expected to flood in from London may yet still flood in, but with rather different information. You are doomed. But you deserve representation. I'll ask this man – Telford is his name – if he is willing to represent you. But do not be surprised if he declines. You've made a mockery of his profession as you have of mine. You and I will not be meeting again.'

When Smythe left, Monsarrat realised he was probably on his way to a legal dinner which Monsarrat himself had been going to attend, and at which he would now be the chief topic of conversation.

Monsarrat's only other visitor, during the long wait for charges to be laid, was Matthew Telford, the lawyer sent by Smythe. It turned out that Telford was willing to assist Monsarrat out of conviction that even the meanest criminal deserved representation. He was one of the young Exeter radicals who belonged to the Reform Society and who understood the frustrations of young men of intellect who were faced with the phenomenon of unworthy wealth and rank in other men. Nonetheless, he made no secret of his disapproval of Monsarrat's actions, or of his dim assessment of Monsarrat's prospects. Monsarrat and Telford expected the charges, when laid, to be serious.

Both men were right. Monsarrat was charged with forgery and fraud. The statement of facts said Monsarrat had wilfully passed himself off as an officer of the court, had knowingly received fees under false pretences, had been guilty of forging a document. With all the fees he had falsely claimed, he had exceeded by far the amount required for a capital sentence. Combined with the forgery, they meant that he could be found hangable on two counts.

Monsarrat was put down to be judged at the summer assizes. He could just manage until then to rent a modest room from the warder.

The assizes, as Monsarrat knew, were presided over by two judges of the High Court. These were men of eminence from the outside
world, who were met at the borders of the county by the best people in their carriages and by the sheriff and his bailiffs, and the mayor and his liverymen.

As the assizes judges neared Exeter city, the church bells tolled, and trumpeters began to accompany the procession. Monsarrat could hear all this as the judges' carriage approached the Crown Court. He knew that these men would be appalled when a fraudulent barrister appeared before them. He anticipated the sentence they would hand down would be all the harsher for the fact of Monsarrat's education. A man of his intellect and knowledge, they would say, would be fully aware of the laws he was breaking, making his crime one of moral depravity. He was in a different universe, they would say, from the uneducated man who stole to survive. Monsarrat knew, however, that when such an uneducated man inevitably appeared before them at the same assizes, they would not let his lack of learning ameliorate the sentence they handed down.

Monsarrat lay on his bed the night before the trial was to start, in a room comfortable only by the standards of Exeter County Gaol. He looked at the stone walls. From the damp walls of my London lodgings to the mahogany panelling of the lawyers' chambers at Lincoln's Inn, and now to this, he thought. These will be the last walls I have the opportunity to stare at. And stare at them he did, through the night, training his ear on the smaller sounds, particularly natural ones – the call of an owl, hoof beats in the yard. The sounds he had taken for granted, but feared he might never hear again. In the early hours, he began howling and crying into the cell's stones with no one to hear, or care. The next morning when constables escorted him across a yard into the court itself, he believed he was no longer breathing, and if he'd expired in the dock, that would have suited him greatly.

A large part of the day had been taken up with choosing members of a grand jury, made up of mayors and other officials and county worthies.

Monsarrat had pleaded not guilty, as all those accused of capital crimes were advised to do – entering a guilty plea would mean the certainty, rather than the probability, of execution.

When he stood in the dock he saw that the public gallery was full of nearly every lawyer in the town, except the one acting as Crown prosecutor, his own barrister, and Samuel Smythe, who was no doubt still feeling humiliated. There too was Johnathan Ham, the wool merchant. The eyes which had once looked on Monsarrat as an ally now blazed at him with impotent fury.

The prosecution had an easy time making Monsarrat look abominable, a man who had undermined the dignity of the court, a man who had used a forgery to deny his clients their right to genuine legal representation. Many of those clients had received excellent representation anyway, better in fact than that provided by real lawyers. But none of them came forward on Monsarrat's behalf. They, like Smythe, felt embarrassed to have been duped, and the sting of it overrode any impulse they may have had to support the young man who had worked so hard on their behalf – and, it must be said, taken a handsome fee for doing so.

Matthew Telford, in opening remarks, argued that his client was a man who had found himself in the position of many well-educated but unprivileged men now. They saw men of inferior sensibility raised to eminences of which they could be considered unworthy – it was money and time that the poor lacked, and in society as it now existed, money and time were given too much value. None of Mr Monsarrat's clients, though fraudulently represented, had suffered before the courts as a result. Though he was not a barrister, and nothing could make him a barrister, he had been in his way a competent advocate. And not only that, he had been able to discourse with fellow lawyers in social and indeed in trial conditions without their feeling that in any way were they speaking to a man of inferior intelligence, and without in any way suspecting he was guilty of deception.

‘While we can deplore the crime,' said Telford, ‘we must feel some sympathy for this young man of notable talent whose limited resources condemned him to clerkhood, but whose intellect made him desire a profession. Surely we are poorer, as a society, when men like Mr Monsarrat have no legitimate way of pursuing careers for which their intelligence fits them.'

Monsarrat could see that these arguments were not resonating well with the judge, who was probably not an enthusiast for reform and French-style equality. He started to wonder whether Telford was in fact undermining him.

But Telford was not in the business of securing an acquittal, not today. The lawyer's aim, and his only realistic prospect, was to save Monsarrat from the death sentence.

Various of his clients were called – they were embarrassed to have been fooled, but the judge would lean forward like a kindly uncle and tell them not to be because this man before the court was obviously the deepest-dyed and most skilful imposter. In the judge's eyes, the fact that he had done well by the clients made his crime graver. For he had thereby stood in the place of better men, men who had earned the right honestly to wear the gown and the wig.

When the trial was nearly concluded, Telford turned to Monsarrat with eyes full of pity and gave a little shrug in which the whole tragedy of Monsarrat's human existence was summed up. There was nothing that could be done. Iron-bound laws were about to descend like an axe.

By now Monsarrat felt surprisingly little. He saw the judge put a black patch of cloth over his wig and he felt as though he was watching a play which he had seen several times in dress rehearsal. He knew, of course, what the black cloth signified. In it, he saw a future measured in days.