Mathew's Tale, page 17
‘That is our lawyers’ hope and belief, and I am guided by them.’ He rose. ‘Now I am off to my bed, for I want to get back to Edinburgh at a civilised hour tomorrow.’
He, young Matt and Beattie arrived in the capital half an hour before four. The day had turned chill, and the coachman drove the horses along at good pace. Before leaving, the four, Flemings and McGills, had attended morning service in Carluke. Lizzie had insisted on going.
‘I must, Mathew. If I was not seen there some might say it was out of shame, and I cannot have that. Matt and I must be there with our heads high, in support of David. The number of folk who speak to us afterwards, that will tell me how the village really feels.’
That number was considerable, although it did not include her cousin Daphne, who sat at the back of the kirk, and left as quickly as she could once the service was over. Grose, her husband, was nowhere to be seen, and the Cleland family pew had been empty also.
John Barclay’s sermon had ignored the death, and David’s predicament, entirely. Instead it had been a prayer for a summer of good weather and a bountiful harvest, always sure to be well received by a rural congregation. From the minister’s first brief glance at the empty front row below the pulpit, Mathew had sensed his relief that at least one of the protagonists in the dispute over Gregor Cleland’s death had chosen to avoid further confrontation.
His mother had been right, he thought. Events were too much for him; the old man was afraid.
Barclay’s farewell to Lizzie and Matt at the door of the kirk had been effusive. ‘I am pleased that you both felt able to come today,’ he said. ‘My prayers go with you for the resolution of your terrible situation.’ He clasped Matt’s hands. ‘I want you to know that the entire congregation holds you blameless for what has happened.’
‘That is not so, Mr Barclay,’ the young man retorted. ‘Sir Gavin Cleland swore the opposite in his statement to the Sheriff.’
‘I am sure he misunderstood,’ the minister murmured.
‘There was no room for misunderstanding. His statement says that I scared thon horses on purpose and that I was insolent. I never was; it was an accident, as I told you right after it happened.’
‘I have high hopes that he will think better of it,’ Mathew intervened, quickly, to cool young Matt’s quick temper. He looked down at Barclay. ‘John, if our advice holds good, we will not need you as a character witness this week. If we do, I will send for you.’
A quick flash of apprehension ran through him as he stepped down from the carriage outside the Waterloo Hotel.
‘It is going to be all right, Mathew, isn’t it?’ The boy’s question was quietly spoken, but there was anxiety in it.
‘Of course it is, lad,’ he replied. ‘You heard what the lawyers said; James Douglas’s reputation is built on knowing when to play his hand and when to throw it in. He knows that our defence is serious, and his ambition could not suffer a public defeat.’
Mathew’s optimism was boosted even higher when he registered the party, and found a message waiting for him in a sealed envelope, at the reception desk. He tore it open there and then, and saw that it was from Paul Johnston, and had been written on the previous Friday. He read it quickly and then for a second time, aloud.
Dear Mr Fleming,
I have received a summons, from the Lord Advocate himself, written in his own hand. Mr Douglas commands us to meet with him in his chambers in Parliament House, on Monday, at ten o’clock in the morning. He requests that Mr Irvine and I be present, and also yourself, Mr Fleming. He says that he understands that you are the principal figure in the preparation of the prisoner’s defence, and wishes to make the acquaintance of such a forceful person.
I propose that the three of us meet in Parliament Hall, at ten minutes before ten.
Yours . . .
‘There you are, Matt,’ he exclaimed, ‘the news is good. The great man wants to see us.’
‘Why not me too?’ the youth asked.
‘Because like it or not, you are a minor, and this is men’s business.’
Matt grunted, but said no more.
When Mathew arrived in Parliament Hall, five minutes before Johnston’s meeting time, he found the two lawyers already there and deep in conversation.
‘Well then,’ he exclaimed, ‘you were right enough, Innes. It seems that your bold strategy has worked.’
‘Indeed,’ Johnston agreed, ‘it seems so. But Mr Irvine is nervous nonetheless. He is, remember, the most junior member of the Faculty, and for him to be called before its foremost figure is a daunting prospect. Worry not, Innes; I’ve seen Douglas in action. He won’t bite you. More likely he will offer you a position in the Crown Office.’
‘You say so,’ the advocate replied, ‘but why is he doing this, when all that was needed is for him to advise the court that the indictment is deserted simpliciter, and that our client should be released?’
‘Who knows? He may wish to toast our success.’ He glanced to his right, past Mathew. ‘We shall soon find out, I think.’
As he spoke a court usher joined them. ‘Gentlemen, if you will follow me.’
They did as he asked, following him out of the great hall, along a maze of corridors and up a flight of stairs. ‘One second,’ he murmured when they reached the top, disappearing through a door then stepping back out little more than that single second later. ‘The Lord Advocate will receive you now.’
James Douglas was seated in a huge red leather chair that served to underline the shortness of his stature. When he rose and looked up at Mathew, there was almost a foot in height between them. He was dapper, in ordinary rather than legal clothes and wigless, with dark oiled hair that shone in the light from the lamps on his desk, and from the window. He extended his hand and when the two men shook, it seemed to disappear into his visitor’s.
‘Mr Fleming,’ he began, ‘I have heard much of you; you are a power in the new world, beyond a shadow of a doubt.’ He looked at the lawyers. ‘Johnston, I admire your work too; welcome. And you will be Mr Irvine, advocate. When the Dean appointed you to present McGill’s defence, he knew what he was doing. You and I must have a conversation later; this office is always in need of advocates with boldness and courage. Sit, please, all of you.’
He climbed into his own chair, then looked at his visitors.
‘Courage, I said, Mr Irvine, because while your gambit is bold and within the law, it was not without risk, not only to your own reputation but to your clients and even to those instructing you. Mr Johnson is a fine solicitor, but he relies on the goodwill of the Faculty, and of the courts, for his living. Mr Fleming is, as I said, a coming man in the new world . . . indeed he has arrived already . . . but he is also still part of the old. Deputy lord lieutenancies can be removed as quickly as they are conferred, and those elements of his business that rely on commissions from the state . . . how many saddles do you sell to the military annually, sir? . . . they would also be at risk if he offended the wrong people.’
Mathew frowned. Something was wrong, the man was amiable and yet his words carried a huge underlying threat.
Douglas looked at Irvine directly. His eyes seemed to grow slightly, and become hypnotically piercing.
‘I admire your defence, Innes, I really do, and in ordinary circumstances, I would yield to it. However,’ he paused, ‘this is not an ordinary case. The indictment alleges the murder of a baronet, a landowner, by a former employee, a man with a score to settle. There is an order in our society, gentlemen, and it must be preserved. The indictment demands that the panel be tried for his life.
‘And then there is your defence. It avers that the murder was committed not by the panel, but by the victim’s own brother, his twin no less, the chief witness against him. Is it convincing? Perhaps. But all trials are matters of whose word the jury believes, and so its success is not assured.’
He sighed. ‘Before we get that far, though, it is a matter of what I believe, as prosecutor; and frankly, I believe Sir Gavin. I cannot conceive of a man murdering his own twin, and I cannot concede to a defence that implies that he did. I cannot concede,’ he repeated, ‘and yet if I proceed to trial, your witnesses will take to the box and give their evidence. Even if your defence failed, as I believe it would, Sir Gavin’s name will still be blackened, and he will carry a weight around his neck as heavy as Mr Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner.’
Douglas looked around them all again, and as he did his eyes seemed to change. Suddenly it was as if they were slitted, those of a snake.
‘So this,’ he seemed to hiss, ‘is what I propose, Mr Irvine. If you proceed with your defence I will desert the indictment. But not simpliciter, sir, as you expect; no, I will desert it pro loco et tempore . . . that meaning “for the time being”, Mr Fleming. It will then be amended; while that happens, Mr McGill will remain in the Calton Jail but he will not be alone. The new indictment will aver that his son, Matthew McGill, provoked the incident deliberately, and thus is as guilty as his father. They will stand trial together, they will be convicted together, they will be sentenced together, and be sure, Mr Fleming, whether the boy is fifteen or not, he will be liable to hang on the same scaffold as his father.’
The Lord Advocate sighed again, and some of the menace left him. ‘It is possible that a benevolent sovereign might commute his sentence on my advice, rather than risk public outrage at the execution of one so young, but the very least he could expect would be transportation for life. Either way he would be lost to his mother, for ever, and to his loved ones, who include you, Mr Fleming. I know your whole story, and how the boy might have been yours.
‘Well, Mr Irvine, what is it to be? Do you withdraw your impeachment?’
The young advocate held his ground; his voice was cold and steady.
‘You must be aware, sir, surely,’ he replied, ‘that I must take instruction. The decision is not mine. May we confer alone?’
Douglas shook his head. ‘You may confer, but not alone. The decision is simple.’
‘Then I will make it,’ Mathew declared. ‘First, though, I will tell you some home truths, my Lord Advocate. You speak of the new world and the old. You may believe that you have the power to threaten me, and within this building you might. But beyond Edinburgh, you are impotent; you may speak for Scotland in Westminster, but very few listen to you. You barely know the people with whom I do business, and be assured they have no regard for you. You are a power in Edinburgh, no doubt, but do not try to flex your muscles beyond its boundaries, or you will find that I am much stronger than you.
‘I will give testimony in defence of my friend, regardless of the decision we make now, be sure of that. If I left that decision to his brave son, he would call your bluff, sir, he knows what happened, and so do I. However, I cannot do that. I gave my word to his father that I would not put him in danger, and I must keep it. The impeachment will be withdrawn, the plea will be “not guilty” and we will proceed to trial in the normal way. You have seen the mettle of Mr Irvine, so you will realise it may not be as easy as you think.’
The Lord Advocate rose, indicating that the meeting was over. ‘I have indeed,’ he replied, ‘but you may still be certain: I will hang your friend.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘HOW DID DAVID TAKE the news?’
‘Philosophically, Mr Fleming, is as good a reply as I can offer,’ Paul Johnston replied. The two were having breakfast in the Waterloo Hotel, on the morning of the trial. They were alone; on Mathew’s instructions Ewan Beattie had summoned the coach early in the morning and had taken a most unwilling young Matt on a trip into Haddingtonshire, with the town of North Berwick as their destination.
As he would not be giving evidence at the trial, Mathew wanted him as far from Edinburgh as possible while it ran its course, and as the youth had never seen the sea in his fifteen years, he had decided that it offered as much of a distraction as was possible.
‘We still have a chance, though?’
‘We are in the hands of Innes Irvine, and to an extent the judge. We are all agreed it would be too risky for the boy to have given evidence, and so all we have to rely on is our advocate’s skill in exposing the three Crown witnesses as liars. If that can be done, and David gives a good account of himself under cross-examination, then with you and the minister as character witnesses, the jury may hesitate to convict him. It is a fact that many jurors as individuals do not like to take a man’s life; that is why the Not Proven verdict is so popular in Scotland. That is, I believe, the best we can hope for.’
‘Then let us be about it.’
They left the hotel and walked, along North Bridge Street and up the High Street to Parliament House; the distance was a little more than half a mile, but neither man said another word. Mathew was deep in thought and it was evident that Johnston was gripped by anxiety.
Just as they passed St Giles Cathedral they were overtaken by a black, armoured cab, windowless, with a padlocked door in the side. It was drawn by two very large horses, because of its obvious weight. A man sat beside the driver and two more on a board at the rear, all four clad in warder uniforms.
‘God be with him,’ Johnston murmured as it passed.
They had barely entered Parliament Hall before Irvine was at their side. ‘They are starting already,’ he said, a little breathlessly. ‘Our trial was second on the list, but Bellhouse has changed the order. His macer told me he has a lunch engagement and was concerned that the other might run on too long.’
‘Then let us make His Lordship’s belly rumble,’ Mathew growled.
He took his seat on the public benches, which were almost empty, as the two lawyers made their way into the well of the court. A door opened to his left, and David McGill was led in; his ankles were in shackles, and each of his wrists was handcuffed to a warder. They walked him past the fifteen-man jury, and into the dock, a square structure with spikes at its four corners, then freed his hands.
‘Court!’
The cry boomed out; the court officials and lawyers all stood and Mathew followed suit. He turned and saw a short-jacketed, black-gaitered man, holding a ceremonial mace against his right shoulder, and leading a hook-nosed figure with a wig and a red robe, trimmed with ermine. As the small procession passed the statue of Duncan Forbes, Lord Culloden, Lord Bellhouse gave a brief nod in its direction.
The judge would be in his late sixties, Mathew estimated, as he watched him clamber stiffly on to the Bench, the highest seat in the hall. His cheekbones were prominent and his eyes were cold.
‘Be seated,’ the macer barked, and every person was, apart from David McGill.
Bellhouse looked down at the tiny figure who faced him on his right. ‘My Lord Advocate,’ he said in a high reedy voice, ‘you may proceed.’
James Douglas rose to his feet; a short journey, Mathew thought, stifling a smile that came upon him almost unawares and defied the solemnity of the situation.
‘Thank you, my Lord Justice Clerk. We are here today to try this man, David McGill, for the wicked murder of his former employer, Sir Gregor Cleland, master of Cleland Estate, Carluke, in the County of Lanark. The facts are clear and will be set out by witnesses, and so I need say no more at this time. Let them speak.’
Douglas called his first witness, Mr Leo McGuire, of the Royal College of Surgeons. He testified that he had examined the body of the victim and had determined that he had died from a pistol shot, the ball having lodged within his brain. As he spoke, he reached into his pocket and took out a small round pellet, which he brandished, dramatically.
‘I have it here, the fatal missile.’
The Lord Advocate smiled at the jury. ‘I have no further questions.’
As Innes Irvine rose to his feet, Mathew saw that he was trembling, but his voice was steady. ‘How do you know it was a pistol shot, sir?’ he asked.
McGuire blinked, and stared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I am sorry, I thought my question was clear. How could you tell it was a pistol shot? Were you shown the weapon that was used allegedly, in this alleged crime?’
‘No, sir, of course not.’
‘Then what you are telling the jury is not of your own knowledge, but is in fact hearsay.’
The surgeon gulped, as Irvine pressed on. ‘Sir Gregor died from a pellet in the brain, that is undeniable, given your expertise. But could that pellet not have been fired by a musket, from a distance? Might it even have come from a slingshot, such as David used to slay Goliath?’
‘Mr Irvine!’ Lord Bellhouse’s cry cracked like a whiplash across the court. ‘What is the purpose of this foolish questioning?’
‘The truth, my Lord,’ the young advocate replied. ‘A man is on trial for his life, a good man, an elder of the kirk. Surely the jury is entitled to hear facts, not opinions?’
This is good, Mathew thought. He is trying to muddy the water, to create doubt from the beginning.
‘It does not need to hear fanciful hypotheses,’ Bellhouse snapped, ‘nor a character reference for the panel. Sit down, sir. Mr McGuire, I thank you; you are excused. Lord Advocate, call your next witness.’
Douglas stood, with a small bow towards the judge. ‘Thank you, my Lord, for that intervention. I call Captain Thomas Prentice, of the Lanark militia.’
The man who stepped into the witness box was around Mathew’s age; he knew him, although not well, having met him on one or two occasions at functions connected to his own lieutenancy. Prentice was a professional soldier, but a soft one; he had never set a military foot outside Scotland, nor faced a disciplined enemy.
‘I was summoned to Cleland House, by an urgent messenger,’ he told the jury, ‘on the instructions of Mr, now Sir, Gavin Cleland. He showed me the body of his brother, and told me what had happened. But that was clear; he had been shot in the head, in a fatal spot.’
‘Did he tell you why he had removed the body from the scene of the murder?’ Douglas asked.
