Edward, Powerscourt thought, was looking even younger than usual in his wing collar and ill-fitting wig, as he brought Powerscourt past the afternoon crowds and into the court. He parked him with the instructing solicitors one row behind the gladiatorial seats occupied by Kirk and himself, facing the jury with the judge on their right.
Kirk began in solemn fashion. He had outlined the nature of the prosecution’s case the day before. Now he intended to run the general headlines past Puncknowle at the beginning of the cross-examination to try to establish fixed points of suspicion in the minds of the jury. Edward was partly responsible for this strategy. He and Kirk both believed that the technical aspects of accounting practice and revaluation of assets, so crucial to their case, might pass right over the heads of the jury. Better, they had decided, to keep making the more intelligible points over and over again.
Maxwell Kirk was not an emotional barrister. Not for him the histrionics, the dramatic gestures of a thespian advocate like the great Marshall Hall. But after a quarter of an hour it seemed as though something was beginning to go seriously wrong. His voice grew lower. He began to shake slightly. He was sweating profusely. The defence barristers were exchanging notes with their solicitors, Charles Augustus Pugh, shining out as the best-dressed man in the court, if not in London, with an Italian suit in light grey of exquisite cut, and a pale blue silk shirt. Edward turned round and looked in desperation at Powerscourt. The spectators in the public gallery began to mutter to themselves. Was the man drunk? Was he having a stroke or a heart attack before their very eyes? With a loud bang of his gavel Mr Justice Webster brought the uncertainty to an end.
‘Silence!’ he said, looking sternly at the public gallery. ‘This court is adjourned for fifteen minutes. If Mr Kirk is unable to carry on, his junior will continue in his place.’
With that the judge swept away to his room. Two porters helped Maxwell Kirk out of the court into a waiting room at the side. One of them left to find a doctor. The spectators did not want to leave in case they lost their places and had to go to the back of the queue. The prosecution team were looking up something in a battered law book. Edward had turned deathly pale. This was his worst nightmare come true. He was busy talking to the clerk when Powerscourt summoned one of the runners who were lurking around the courts ready to take urgent messages.
‘Do you know Mr Kirk’s chambers in Queen’s Inn?’ The young man nodded. ‘Run as fast as you can to the top floor. Find a stenographer called Sarah Henderson. Tell her Edward has to speak in court. She must come at once. My name is Powerscourt.’ The young man sped off. Powerscourt heard the clerk talking to Edward and the senior solicitor. ‘Until we know precisely what has happened to Mr Kirk, Mr Edward has to carry on. We simply cannot ask for an adjournment. It would not be granted. Barristers present in court for one side or the other are supposed to be able to continue if their colleague falls ill or breaks down. If Mr Edward does not continue, then the case will fall by default. Puncknowle will walk free. He cannot be tried on the same charge twice. All of these villains may be free men before the end of the day. And Kirk’s chambers will never receive a brief from the Treasury Solicitor again.’
Powerscourt felt that encouragement would work better than threats. At that moment, Edward looked, if anything, more ill than the unfortunate Kirk had done just before the adjournment. Powerscourt checked his watch. There were six minutes to go.
‘Edward,’ he said, holding the young man firmly by the elbow, ‘you wrote most of those questions for Mr Kirk, didn’t you?’
‘I wrote all of them,’ said Edward miserably.
‘Well, all you have to do is to say them yourself. You can do it. Think of all the people willing you to success, all the people in your chambers, your grandparents, Lady Lucy and Thomas and Olivia and the twins, they all know you can do it. Think of Sarah – she’s on her way. Think of Sarah’s mother, wanting you to do well.’
‘I’ve never spoken in court before, Lord Powerscourt, never.’
‘Remember this, Edward. There was a time when Napoleon fought his first battle, there was a time when W.G. Grace played his first innings, there was a time when Casanova made his first conquest. Sarah and I will be silently cheering you on when it starts, Edward. You’ll be fine, absolutely fine.’
This oration brought some colour back to Edward’s cheeks. Powerscourt saw he was digging his nails into the palm of his left hand. There was a rustle in court to announce the return of Mr Justice Webster. Edward took a drink of water and picked up his notes. To his right Powerscourt sensed a hint of perfume and the swish of a skirt as Sarah squeezed in beside him. She coughed discreetly and beamed a smile of intense, passionate devotion into the well of the court. Powerscourt thought that statues of the dead cast in bronze or marble might come back to life for such a smile. Edward turned round and smiled back. Sarah was so nervous she seized Powerscourt’s hand and held it as if they were going down together in a sinking ship.
One person had been able to enjoy the confusion and wonder how to turn it to his advantage. Jeremiah Puncknowle, still standing in the dock, felt glad that the sombre and serious figure of Maxwell Kirk had been removed from the scene. He patted his ample stomach and rolled his bright little eyes as he contemplated the callow youth being sent out to question him. How young the fellow seemed! How innocent! How helpless! Jeremiah felt rather like the wolf who has not eaten for some days when he finds a herd of succulent sheep. Powerscourt remembered that Puncknowle had reneged on his promise in Paradise. He had never been in touch about a possible threat to Powerscourt from any of his co-defendants in this case.
Mr Justice Webster glowered at the whisperers at the back of his court. ‘The case for the prosecution will resume. Mr Hastings!’
So that was Edward’s surname, Powerscourt thought. Hastings, a perfectly respectable name. He wondered if Sarah knew. For a terrible moment he thought Edward was not going to stand up. He seemed to be rooted to his chair. Very slowly, like a tree falling in reverse, he attained the upright position and turned to face the jury. Powerscourt wondered if Edward had dreamt of this moment, a great ordeal in court which would cure him of his stammer for ever. There was a long and terrible pause before he spoke. The judge was staring at him. Puncknowle was smiling at him as if welcoming him into armed combat in some dreadful arena from long ago. The earnest gentlemen of the jury were mesmerized. The clerk had his head in his hands. Powerscourt closed his eyes.
‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ Edward began, slightly hesitant, but fluent, ‘you were hearing before the adjournment about the strange accounting practices of the defendant’s companies. Mr P-P-Puncknowle.’ He turned to face the dock, struggling through the p’s but reaching the other side.
‘Objection, my lord,’ said Sir Isaac Redhead. ‘This youngster has neither the years nor the qualifications to continue this important trial which could result in my client being falsely incarcerated for the rest of his days. The defence submits that the case be dismissed now.’
‘Mr Hastings?’ said the judge.
‘I have been published, my lord, as a practising barrister of my Inn as Sir Isaac has of his. I do not believe age has anything to do with it. Mr Edmund F-F-F-Flanagan, my lord, conducted a defence in a murder case at the Old B-Bailey, my lord, in the year 1838, I believe, and he was only twenty-one.’