“Bring forth the frock that we may see it now,” cried Mr. Edgington.
There was an awkward pause. And then a small voice was heard from behind the attorney for the prosecution. “It is. . unavailable.”
Mr. Edgington whirled about angrily. “Unavailable? What does that mean?”
“It has disappeared, sir,” came the voice again. “Probably stolen.”
Mother Jeffers said naught, yet the look of withering contempt that she showed her interrogator was far more eloquent. It was, in any case, far too much for Mr. Edgington. He turned away in disgust.
“I have done with her,” said he as he strode back to his seat.
Thus did the prosecution of Mrs. Jeffers come crashing down. I mean no disrespect to Mr. Edgington, for he was in his prime as good as any barrister at the bar, but his failure in this instance proved once again the importance of proper preparation. There was but one more chance for him to win back the jury, and that would come on the morrow with his final speech in summary of the case for the prosecution.
In just such a way did the support of public opinion begin to ebb from Elizabeth Hooker. It was physically perceptible how the talk upon the street in front of Old Bailey quietened down as word came out to them of developments inside the vast court building. The crowd began to shrink. By the morning of the third day of the trial, there were few there before the great doors. Where over a hundred had gathered on the first day, there were now less than ten.
Inside, Mr. Edgington attempted to do with oratory what he had failed to do during the previous two days of questioning. In truth, all that he managed to accomplish was to retell the pitiful tale of abduction and incarceration which Elizabeth had recounted a couple of days before. He left nothing out; in fact, he added a few flourishes of his own, all intended to wring sympathy from the twelve stolid faces in the jury box. His performance was indeed impressive, yet it was, in spite of all, a performance. When he raised a hand to brush away the tears, his fingers remained dry. Yet had he told the same tale to them at the beginning and then polled the members of the jury, he would have had an immediate conviction.
Mr. William Ogden, on the other hand, said little in defense of his client. Rather, his device was to attack her accuser-and attack and attack yet again.
“Gentlemen, behold a liar,” said he to the jurymen, waving his hand in the direction of Elizabeth Hooker, who sat in the front row. “I do not believe that I have encountered such a complete liar in all my years at the bar.” (Which, indeed, at the time were not so many.) He went on to cite the many statements made by Elizabeth and the ways that they had been contradicted by others who had appeared as witnesses-Kathleen Quigley, Virginia Jeffers, Sally Ward, Joan Simonson, and, of course, the most forceful contradiction of all, from Mother Jeffers. Nor did Mr. Ogden hesitate to remind them of what was the most embarrassing moment of all for Louis Edgington: the discovery that the frock in Virginia Jeffers’s wardrobe claimed by Elizabeth as her own had vanished.
All in all, it was a most instructive trial for one such as myself who hoped to make a career in the law. So far as I could see, William Ogden had not made a single mistake, whereas Louis Edgington had made many; and, as Sir John had put it to me, one can learn as much from another’s mistakes as from his greatest triumphs. Sir Hubert Timmons must have thought as highly as I did regarding Mr. Ogden’s ability to pull a case together in a short time, for he commented upon it and praised him for it in his summing-up to the jury. He stopped short of directing a verdict, yet it was clear that he felt that Mr. Ogden had made the case for acquittal. And it was acquittal voted by the jury. The only surprise was that their verdict was returned in less than fifteen minutes’ time.
My account of the trial here, while no doubt accurate enough, was pieced together from the memories of William Ogden (whom I came to know quite well in later life), my own sketchy recollections, and other, incidental research. As I mentioned earlier, ’twas the death of Mr. Marsden that prevented me from spending more time at the Old Bailey during the trial. It meant that I would serve as Sir John’s court clerk for an indeterminate length of time (which, in the event, proved a very long time indeed). It also meant that I, along with all the rest at Bow Street, would attend Mr. Marsden’s funeral at nearby St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. Following the graveside service, as the Runners hurried off along their separate ways, Sir John took me aside and asked if I might return with him to Bow Street.
“Certainly,” said I. “Was there something special. .?”
“As it happens, there is,” said he. “I know you wish to get on to the Old Bailey-but this shouldn’t take long.” Saying no more about it, he started off at a brisk pace through the field of gravestones, swinging his walking stick in wide arcs before him. ’Twas all I could do to keep up.
There was a single letter upon Sir John’s desk. For whom it was intended I could only guess, for it was placed so that the address and addressee were invisible to me. Nevertheless, I could plainly see that the seal that it bore was that of Sir John’s himself. Perhaps, I thought, it is a letter he wishes me to deliver. However, I soon found out that in this case Sir John was the deliverer.
“This is the usual time for attending to such matters,” said he.
“If you will pardon me, sir,” said I, “what sort of matters do you mean?”
“Oh, the reading of wills, that sort of thing.” He felt around the top of the desk until his fingers touched the letter. When they did, he pushed it across the desk toward me. “Open it,” said he. “I know the contents. I am in fact witness to them. That scrawl below Mr. Marsden’s signature is mine, as you, I’m sure, will recognize.”
And, below that familiar scrawl, was this note: “Witnessed and signed to on this date, the 25th day of April, 1774.”
“Less than a week ago,” said I.
“Yes, Mr. Marsden knew that he had not long to live, and he came to me and asked if I might help him a bit in the wording of the will and then witness his signature. I agreed, of course, and what you have before you is the result of that unequal collaboration. ‘Unequal,’ I say, because all the thoughts and intentions expressed here are his own. Read it, if you will, Jeremy, and read it aloud.”
“All right, sir,” said I. After clearing my throat, I began: “I, Jonathan Partridge Marsden, being of sound mind, et cetera-”
“That ‘et cetera’ was mine,” said Sir John, interrupting. “Neither of us could think what it was followed ‘sound mind.’ That’s the important phrase, anyway. But continue, lad. I shouldn’t interject in such a way. Forgive me.”
“As you say.” After again clearing my throat, “. . sound mind, et cetera, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.”
We went on in just such a way-I reading ahead, and he interrupting after every sentence or two (it seemed) with comments of his own and explanations. (Just as if any were needed.) The burden of it was that after Mr. Marsden’s possessions had been sold by his landlord, all the rest in money and coin was to go to me. His approximate wealth he estimated at a little more than thirty pounds-and most of it was mine. This did quite astonish me.
“It should have been more, I know,” Mr. Marsden had written, “but I was never very good at holding on to money, and I’ve enjoyed myself a fair amount. I have left twenty pounds in the hands of Sir John. There should be ten more coming from the sale of furniture, clothing, et cetera. It is the custom, I am told, to split the proceeds of the sale with him who does the selling-in this case, my landlord. He has been made aware of my wishes and has agreed to them.”