Jack, Knave and Fool (45 page)

He was especially aggressive on cross-examination. He played hard upon the fact that Bunkins’s identification of the head had not been positive (Bunkins, of course, had never claimed that it was), but he managed also to use this to impugn his identification of Jackie Carver as one who made long and frequent visits to the Bradbury pawnshop. He forced the stablekeeper Matthew Gurney to admit that so much of Carver’s face had been destroyed by Mr. Cowley’s shot that he could not give certain identification beyond allowing that “it looked like it might have been him who sold the white horse to me.” I, too, felt the sting of Mr. Ogden’s wit and intelligence when I was called as a witness for the Crown. Because I had seen enough of him by then to know what he might do to my testimony in cross-examination, I was very careful and precise not to claim to have heard or seen more than I actually did. I had to admit in cross-examination, however, that neither Thomas Roundtree nor Jackie Carver had mentioned the part, if any, Mrs. Bradbury had played in the murder of her husband. And he did attack the single weak spot in my identification of Jackie Carver as one who had been present at the scene when the Runners made their midnight raid upon the pawnshop.

“How could you be sure it was this fellow Jackie Carver?” he asked.

“Because he was known to me by sight and by his evil reputation.”

“You had met him? Seen him often?”

“I had met him once or twice, seen him often in the region of Covent Garden, and heard his reputation as one who used a knife to threaten and to do physical harm.”

“Wereyou friends with him?”

“Certainly not.”

“Enemies perhaps, then?”

“Certainly not friends,” I repeated. “I would say, however, that my contacts with him were brief. He gave me a wide berth, not because he feared me personally but because of my known association with the Bow Street Court and Sir John Fielding.”

Then, happily, Mr. Ogden went on to other matters, leaving at that my past relations with Jackie Carver.

In presenting his case for the defendant, he first read in full to the jury a document they had heard only in part from the prosecution. It was the letter from the Warwick magistrate. Mr. Ogden gave great emphasis to the fact that the magistrate had warned George Bradbury against making the trip to London on horseback, and repeated this line, “Though it is no great distance from here to your great city, the roads between are known to be infested by highwaymen,” and another, “He may have been caught in some ambuscade and now lies in some shallow grave in a wood between here and there.”

Then did Mr. Ogden call Mary Brighton Bradbury to the stand in her own defense. He led her through the same story that she had told Sir John: that her husband had never returned from Warwick and that in her desperation she had agreed to take a load of stolen goods, which she otherwise would not have consented to do. And as for Jackie Carver, she claimed again that he had simply been hired off the street to help unload the wagon which supposedly contained the booty taken in burglary. It was a simple tale, one which every member of the jury could grasp. She stuck to it tenaciously during cross-examination by the Crown prosecutor. He railed at her, bullied her shamelessly but she did not break, nor did she alter her story. Yet she was in no wise cold, for she presented herself as a bereaved widow and wept for her lost husband. As the prosecutor’s attack intensified to a climax at the end, she cried out, “No, no, I would give all if George would return to me —and I pray that one day he may Perhaps he was hit on the head and his brains was addled, or he may be recovering from a gunshot. He may come back!”

With that thought firmly set in the minds of the jury members, the Crown prosecutor had to strive mightily to assemble the bits and pieces ol the case against Mrs. Bradbury in such a way as to convince them of her guilt. Yet strive he did, rumbling darkly of her infidelity, shouting of her final betrayal of her husband in her collaboration in his murder, demanding finally that “this Jezebel hang for her sins.”

Mr. Ogden, by contrast, was calm, the very voice of reason, as one by one he pointed out the flaws and gaps in the Crown’s case: that the identification of the head was uncertain; that no one had seen George Bradbury arrive on his white horse; that a white horse had been sold to a stable near the pawnshop, but he who had sold the horse could not be certainly identified as the one who was present when the Bow Street Runners made their raid on the pawnshop; and as to the hearsay confessions of Thomas Roundtree and Jackie Carver, that neither gave mention of Mrs. Bradbury in the alleged murder of George Bradbury. “We know not truly if such murder took place,” said Mr. Ogden, raising his voice just slightly, “because there id no body. It was good of Mrs. Bradbury in her reply to the prosecutor to remind us of an important point. Though even the Magistrate of Warwick seemed to think it unlikely that George Bradbury would return unscathed or indeed at all, he may indeed someday return. Will it be that he comes back the day after his wife has been hanged for his murder? Think of that possibility, gentlemen of the jury. The decision in this matter is yours, and yours alone.”

As the Lord Chief Justice gave his summing-up and instructions to the jury, it had the tone of a second statement from the prosecution. Nevertheless, he seemed in a sense almost apologetic for the flimsy case brought by the Crown, noting that, yes, it was unusual to try a case of homicide when the victim’s body was nowhere to be found, yet a head had been discovered and given approximate identification — and if it was not George Bradbury’s head, then whose was it? None, to his knowledge, had reported one missing. (This brought uneasy laughter from some in the courtroom, though not from the jury.) And if the testimony regarding the murder was in part hearsay, he had admitted it because it was of a convincing nature and from a good source. (I puffed a bit at that.) It may be that it did not directly implicate Mary Brighton Bradbury, yet it proved to his satisfaction, at least, that murder had been committed —and what did they suppose she was doing as her husband was being killed and sawed in parts? Tending the shop below? And so on. The Lord Chief Justice had insisted on bringing the case to trial, and he had no wish to feel on the morrow that he had wasted two days of his life.

And so the jury went out to determine the fate of Mrs. Bradbury. I, one among many, was prepared to wait to hear the verdict no matter how long it might take; nearly all in the courtroom, save those leading actors directly involved in the drama we had witnessed, reseated themselves, relaxing somewhat, beginning to talk in hushed, respectful tones.

The fellow next me, perhaps a few years older than I, turned to me of a sudden and surprised me by telling me that he had been quite favorably impressed by my testimony.

“How often have you given testimony before?” he asked.

“This is my first time ever,” said I, in a manner quite naive, “that is, my first criminal trial. I’d never even visited this court before, though I’ve sat more often than I can count through Sir John Fielding’s sessions at the Bow Street Court.”

“Why, then I’m doubly impressed —giving testimony at your first trial in Old Bailey —imagine! But after all, a magistrate’s court must be much different.

“Not so much, no.”

He was a good-looking chap, sandy-haired and well dressed, with an eager manner. “I was a little unclear as to your relationship to Sir John. It was not made specific.”

Unable quite to help myself, I laughed at that, then said rather hastily: “Forgive me for laughing, but it is something I have wondered at myself. In truth, I am but one of his household, yet I help him sometimes in court matters.”

“Did he truly allow you to question that man Roundtree?”

“Yes, he trusts me sometimes to carry out such duties. He advised me on the approach I might take, and I followed it.”

“With good results.”

“Satisfactory,” said I, alas, a bit smugly. Then did I make bold to add: “I am preparing to read law with him.”

“Ah! Preparing? In what way?”

“He has assigned me the task of reading twice through Sir Edward Coke’s Instituted of the Law of England ‘—the first time to acquaint myself with the matter and the second time to take notes and prepare questions for next year, when we begin reading through it together. Then, he says, we shall be on to other things. But I have time. I am yet young.”

“Fascinating,” said he, “but let me introduce myself. I am Archibald Talley, and I, too, am preparing for the law. I’m reading with my uncle Benjamin, who is a common-law judge. I clerk in his office, as well.”

I quickly presented myself, and I said how pleased I was to meet one who, like myself, was aiming for the law.

“But between us,” said he, “you know, surely, that your Sir John should never have sent such a weak case up to be tried in felony court.”

“He argued against it to the Lord Chief Justice, and when he set me to writing drafts of the parts of it I knew best, I saw that he was right. It was indeed weak.”

“You helped him prepare the case?”

“A memorandum outlining it —and only the parts I knew well. It was the first time he had asked me to do so.”

“Even so, that is most impressive. I envy you your participation, Mr. Proctor.”

“But didn’t Mr. Ogden tear into it remarkably well?”

“He was quite marvelous!” said Mr. Talley. “I’d heard he was worth coming to watch—and I certainly wasn’t disappointed.”

We then spent well over an hour discussing the trial — or more specifically, Mr. Ogden’s handling of it. As we did so, I gradually became aware how beneficial it was to me to discuss such matters with one who was formally engaged in the reading of law. He brought an insight and a variety of reference to his comments that I could only envy. Yet he was neither pedant nor peacock. He did not parade his knowledge; it was simply there, and he used it to good advantage. I swore to myself that I would go at Coke more diligently in the coming months.

Then, with the entrance of the bailiff and the clerk, came the first hint that the verdict of the jury would soon be forthcoming. Mrs. Bradbury, in the company of a second bailiff, the Crown prosecutor, and Mr. William Ogden followed them, and the room went silent as the jury filed in. All stood as the entrance of the Lord Chief Justice was announced; not until he, too, was seated did we resume our places. Then was the formal request made for the jury’s verdict. The foreman stood, a shopkeeper by the look of him, and after clearing his throat, said as follows: “M’lord, in the absence of a body, we find the defendant not guilty.”

There was no demonstration of approval or disapproval in that august hall. The only emotional response came from the judge himself, whose expression turned from grave to sour as he dismissed the jury and called Mary Brighton Bradbury before him.

“You, madam, are a very fortunate woman,” said he. “I, for one, was convinced of your guilt and am still. That, however, matters little, for the jury has spoken otherwise. You are free on this charge, but I return you to the Fleet Prison to serve the remainder of your sentence for conspiracy to receive stolen goods.”

Then he brought down his gavel. Mrs. Bradbury was ushered out; then we all stood once again as William Murray, the Lord Chief Justice, made his departure.

As we were taking our leave, Archibald Talley declared his pleasure in meeting me; and I impulsively invited him to come sometime for a visit so that I might introduce him to Sir John. (My true purpose, I confess, was to extend our acquaintance.) He brightened at the suggestion and promised to do so sometime soon. Then, pleading work awaiting him at his uncle’s, he hurried away with the crowd. I left Old Bailey that day with a sense of elation. Though a guilty woman had gone free, I had watched a brilliant barrister reveal the paltry nature of the case against her: the law had been served. And I had made the acquaintance of one who might prove a friend. I felt more certain of my future and the profession I had chosen than ever before.

But to end the tale of Mary Brighton Bradbury, let me move swiftly a month ahead to her release from the Fleet Prison. It was said —and I’ve no reason to doubt it —that William Ogden was waiting for her at the prison gate when she passed through. They proceeded together to the pawnshop, which she opened with the keys that had been provided her by the Bow Street Court. Asking him to wait, she disappeared into the rear of the shop. After an absence of many minutes, she reappeared with his fee, doubled as promised, in gold guineas. He left with thanks. The next day she appeared at the offices of the Public Advertiser and purchased an advert putting the shop up for sale. She had a buyer within the month, and it was sold for a goodly price, lock and stock, and the building, as well. And then she disappeared —quite vanished, she did. None seemed to know where she had got to; none seemed to care. When I asked Sir John if he had any idea of her whereabouts, he simply shrugged and said, “More than likely to the colonies. They seem to accept most of our trash. If there be any true justice, perhaps she has been washed overboard on the voyage, or having arrived, been scalped to death by some red Indian.”

Arthur Paltrow did not fare near so well. Though, as Sir John predicted, Mr. Donnelly had no difficulty removing the pistol bullets from his arm and shoulder, Mr. Perkins’s ball had broken the bone when it entered. It was necessary to set the left arm, causing Paltrow greater pain, and fashion a sling for it. The right shoulder wound was not near so serious, for the ball was embedded in the fleshy part and had nearly passed through altogether. It made quite a gouge, but Mr. Donnelly cleaned it thoroughly and bound it up.

Next day he was indicted by Sir John for the murder of Peter Pugh and directed to Newgate to await trial at Old Bailey. Mr. Paltrow protested grandly, claiming the right to be tried in the House of Lords. Sir John, wishing all to be done properly, detained the prisoner an extra day in the strong room so that he might hear from Parliament on the matter. He was informed that while the House of Lords had received his “letter of patent” to the Laningham title, it had not yet issued to him the Writ of Summons to Parliament. Mr. Paltrow, in other words, had made his application, but as yet had not been given his invitation — nor would he be. It was proper, then, to try him in felony court and improper to address him by the title Lord Laningham. So oil he went to Newgate to await trial. It seemed strange to me that he should have wished to be tried in the House of Lords, for if found guilty, as he most certainly would have been, he would have surrendered his head to the executioner’s axe; hanging, the mode prescribed by the felony court, seemed infinitely preferable to me.