Quincunx

  “Excuse me, please, Mr Gildersleeve,” I interrupted. He paused and stared at me as if in amazement that I should dare to halt him in the middle of his disquisition. “I don’t understand why this has to come up. I would really prefer it not to.”

  “You would prefer it not to,” he repeated monotonously. “Master Clothier, I think you fail to understand that we are dealing here with the law. Your likes and dislikes have no place in a court. Your status as an orphan has to be proven. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” I said meekly while Emma made a sympathetic face at me.

  “Now, with your permission,” said Mr Gildersleeve, “I will continue. Once we have established this, then we will ask the court to make you a ward, granting custody to Mr Porteous. Now what is important is to make it clear to the Master how happy you are here. You are, are you not, happy here?”

  “Yes, indeed. Happier than for a very long time.”

  “Excellent. Then I suggest you refer to Mr and Mrs Porteous as your uncle and aunt, in order to show the court how much you consider yourself to be one of the family. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do and I will.”

  “Then that is really all I have to say to you now, young gentleman. I will see you in court soon.”

  We shook hands and, to my relief, Mr Gildersleeve left with Mr Porteous.

  “Well, Johnnie,” cried Emma clapping her hands, “in a few days you will be my brother!”

  I smiled back at her but when I was left alone a little later I could not prevent a certain feeling of foreboding from overshadowing my mind. Events seemed to be moving very rapidly and with a logic that I felt was eluding my grasp.

  And so not long afterwards the day came that had been appointed for my appearance. Since it had been decided — and I fully concurred — that Emma alone should accompany me, a man-servant was assigned to attend us in order to carry me, if I should need help. I was helped into warm outdoor clothes and, with the assistance of Frank, whom I had not seen before, boarded a hackney-coach with Emma.

  We drove through streets which seemed alarmingly crowded and noisy after my period of seclusion, and passed districts that brought back painful memories: Holborn, Charing-cross, and then Westminster. We pulled up before a dingy little door in St. Margaret-street and by this undistinguished means entered an outlying building of the Palace of Westminster. Following Mr Gildersleeve’s directions, Emma made herself known to an usher and we were led by him through a series of dark passages and gloomy little courtyards with dripping walls covered in green slime. All around us were the sounds of demolition and construction, for at that time Sir John Soane’s handsome new edifice was building on the site of the warren of ancient galleries that had for so long accommodated the Court of Common Pleas and the Courts of the Exchequer.

  Eventually we gained a draughty lobby where we were met by Mr Gildersleeve who was unblushingly clad in the most extraordinary costume that ever a sane man wore outside a masquerade. It was a billowing black gown with gold and purple stripes, the most inconvenient sleeves imaginable — for they hung almost to the ground — and a flowing white cravat. On his head was a grey powdered wig, and on his legs and feet knee-breeches and shoes with huge gold buckles.

  We waited while Mr Gildersleeve held mysterious conversations with gentlemen similarly attired, which involved a great deal of head-shaking and narrowing of the eyes accompanied by the minutest possible of nods. After a few minutes an individual wearing an even more preposterous costume and carrying a kind of golden rolling-pin appeared and led us along a further and more bewildering sequence of ill-lit corridors, as if bent upon confusing us completely as to our whereabouts. At last, however, he ushered us into a small and must-smelling ante-room, and, while Emma and I waited here, Mr Gildersleeve went into what I took to be the further chamber.

  Some half an hour later, we were summoned by another usher and led through the same door as the solicitor. To my astonishment, I found myself in a huge building, with a hammer-beam roof high above us, like an enormous barn, so large that I could not see its opposite end in the gloom of a wintry afternoon. Emma whispered that this was Westminster-hall and I felt a thrill of excitement at the realization that I was to find Justice in this revered building where Charles himself had stood trial.

  In the corner nearest us were a number of benches and chairs facing a raised platform. Upon this a gentleman whom I understood to be the Master of the Rolls was seated on a high black wooden chair which looked most uncomfortable, and the individual with the golden rolling-pin now placed himself at a little desk before him and laid this object on its surface. The Master was wearing a costume in which it was so impossible to believe that he had knowingly attired himself, that it seemed that it was only by a polite conspiracy among his observers that no-one drew his attention to it. Its principal features were a capacious scarlet gown covered in embroidery executed in gold thread, and a huge wig enveloping his neck and shoulders that constantly threatened to obscure his features if he turned his head too quickly. His gravity clearly derived from the difficulty of keeping all of these garments in their proper place and it amazed me that he had any attention left to bestow upon the legal issues before him.

  Emma and I were directed to the front row of the ranks of heavy old chairs facing the Master. There were a number of individuals clad in a variety of strange costumes seated around us who were whispering or rummaging through papers or reading enormous tomes or taking notes or arriving or going out, and among them I saw a figure that was familiar to me: Mr Barbellion. Noticing me looking at him, he directed towards me a tiny bow of his head and I responded in as close an imitation as I could manage.

  As I gathered self-possession enough to look around me at the ancient pannelled walls and the high carved wooden chimney-piece in whose grate a vast coal-fire slumbered, I became aware that in the opposite corner at this end of the vast hall there was another and similar court-session taking place. (In fact, it was the Court of the King’s-Bench.) I saw the candles and could hear the murmur of voices, while people came and went in the gloom. It all reminded me of nothing so much as a huge school-room with different forms being conducted simultaneously.

  The Master and I were introduced to each other by Mr Gildersleeve and the old gentleman made much of seeing the Huffam heir at last.

  “Do you know,” he asked me, “that the suit began when my father was a very young man? In fact, he could not have been much older than you are now. What age are you?”

  I told him and he wrote it down, remarking apologetically: “You must call me ‘m’lud’, you know.” Then he went on: “I am very sorry not to see you in better health. Do you feel well enough to take part in these proceedings?”

  “Yes, m’lud. I have been ill, but I am recovered.”

  The Master exchanged a grave look with Mr Gildersleeve who made a kind of courteous moue as if to qualify what I had said.

  “Now,” the Master said, “you are to be entered upon oath. Do you understand what that means?”

  I assured him that I did and the formality was completed.

  Then Mr Gildersleeve rose, sweeping his robes about him, and said to me precisely as if we were complete strangers: “Will you tell the court who you believe yourself to be: when and where you believe yourself to have been born and who you believe your parents to have been.”

  “I am John Clothier, sir,” I began. I told him the date of my birth and that the place was Melthorpe. Then I went on: “I was brought up there by my mother and we lived under the name of Mellamphy which I thought was our real name, but much later my mother told me it was assumed. Her father, she told me, was Mr John Huffam of Charing-cross, London.”

  “And what name appears in the parish-register as that of your father?”

  “Peter Clothier, sir.”

  “All this, m’lud,” said Mr Gildersleeve, “can be confirmed both from documentary evidence and by a witness who is at hand now.”

  “Who is the witness???
? the Master asked.

  “Mrs Martin Fortisquince, m’lud. The lady is connected with the deponent and his late mother and was introduced to the deponent some three years ago by his mother.”

  The Master nodded and looked at Mr Barbellion who said: “M’lud, the party whom I have the honour to represent accepts without dispute that the deponent is Master John Clothier, formerly known as Master John Mellamphy. Indeed, we had ourselves assembled evidence to prove this, and I am grateful to my learned friend for doing something which appears to be in the interests of my clients rather than his.”

  At this he and Mr Gildersleeve bobbed at each other in what I can only call a kind of barbed bow. What Mr Barbellion had said confirmed my belief that the Mompessons needed me to remain alive, but I was puzzled by his suggestion that it was not in my interests that my identity be proved. Could this be an allusion to the danger I was in? It seemed to me strange that he should raise this issue.

  “Then it appears, Mr Gildersleeve,” said the Master, “that neither the documents nor the witness are required.”

  “M’lud, I am very pleased,” said Mr Gildersleeve, expressionlessly. He shuffled his papers as if to mark a transition and then said: “I now ask the deponent to describe the circumstances of his mother’s death.”

  This was a shock and I was only with difficulty able to stammer out the bare facts while Emma squeezed my hand in sympathy.

  “You recorded your mother’s death with the parish clerk?” Mr Gildersleeve asked. “Under what name?”

  I told him, wondering that once again I had been asked this question.

  Mr Gildersleeve turned to the Master: “M’lud, I ask the court to accept this evidence of the death of Mrs Peter Clothier, the daughter of Mr John Huffam.”

  The Master addressed Mr Barbellion: “Are you content?”

  “In this case, no, m’lud, I am not since so much hangs upon it.”

  “Very well,” said Mr Gildersleeve. “Let the first witness, Mr Limpenny, be called.”

  To my amazement the parish-clerk was brought in looking very much smarter than when I had seen him in déshabille at his breakfast-table. I turned to Emma in surprise but she did not look at me.

  In answer to Mr Gildersleeve’s questions the clerk confirmed what I had said, and once Mr Barbellion had cross-examined him without establishing anything more, he was released. Then the second witness was introduced, and this was Mrs Lillystone, the woman who had laid my mother out. The same ritual was gone through, and it was so extremely distressing to me to have to live through it again — this time under the gaze of strangers — that I covered my face with my hands.

  When the woman had withdrawn, Mr Barbellion said: “M’lud, my party will accept this evidence of the death of the holder of the Huffam entail and its consequent devolution upon the deponent, Master John Clothier.”

  “Very well,” said the Master, writing something down. “In that case, the story of the Huffam entail begins a new chapter. And let us hope that it will prove a happier one than any that has gone before.”

  Now Mr Gildersleeve gathered his robes behind him and said, raising his voice and dragging out his words like a parson intoning the service: “M’lud, I move that the court now order that the infant, weakened as he is by illness in mind and body, be made a ward and assigned to the tender solicitude of the lady and gentleman by whom he was lovingly tended when he came to them destitute and ill and whom he now knows and loves as his own family and has learned to call his uncle and aunt.”

  I deeply resented the reference to my illness having weakened my mind and wondered that legal gentlemen were allowed to insult those whom they were paid to defend.

  As Mr Gildersleeve sat down the Master said: “This appears eminently suitable. Mr Porteous is a most respectable gentleman, and, I am given to understand, a trusted officer of the distinguished banking-house of Quintard and Mimpriss.”

  At this, however, Mr Barbellion rose: “M’lud, my party opposes this motion in the strongest possible terms.”

  Emma’s hand tightened on my own.

  “I cannot say I am surprised, Mr Barbellion,” said the Master. “However, be good enough to tell me on what particular grounds you found your objection.”

  At that moment I noticed that Mr Gildersleeve turned and gave a signal to an usher who immediately left. Before Mr Barbellion, who had risen, could begin to speak, Mr Gildersleeve stood up and said: “M’lud, I ask your indulgence and that of m’learned friend for interrupting him, but I do so in order to ask leave of the court to permit Master Clothier to retire.”

  “I don’t see any necessity for it, Mr Gildersleeve,” replied the Master. “Pray continue, Mr Barbellion.”

  Mr Gildersleeve sat down and glanced angrily at Emma. Just as Mr Barbellion began to speak I noticed the usher return with Frank.

  “M’lud,” began Mr Barbellion, “under less extraordinary circumstances neither the party I represent nor I myself would seek to remove an infant from the custody of a family to whom it was attached by both affinity and sentiment.”

  At that moment Frank and the usher reached us but Emma waved them away. I was trying to follow what Mr Barbellion was saying for I was puzzled by his opening remarks. However, Mr Gildersleeve stood up again and Mr Barbellion stopped, stared at him in amazement, and then turned to the Master with his eyebrows raised as if dumbfoundered at the extraordinary effrontery of his colleague.

  “Beg pardon, m’lud,” Mr Gildersleeve boldly began, “but as I had the privilege of explaining to your honour before these further instructions began, the deponent has been grievously ill and his mental faculties are not fully restored. It is most desirable that he be permitted to leave the court now.”

  So that was what he had been saying to the Master! Altogether, I did not like the way things were going. And something that I had just heard was nagging at my memory. And how was I “attached by affinity” to the Porteouses?

  “This seems an entirely reasonable request,” said the Master. “Do you object, Mr Barbellion?”

  “To the contrary, m’lud. For as far as my party is concerned, the continued good health of the residuary entailee is crucial to their interests, and that is why the issue of his guardianship is so important.”

  “Very well, Mr Gildersleeve. Master Clothier may leave the court. But before he departs I wish to establish the infant’s own wishes.”

  He looked at me: “Tell me, Master Clothier, are you content to be legally entrusted to the guardianship of the family you are at present being looked after?”

  I said nothing for I needed time to think about what I had learned.

  “Well, young man,” said the Master after a few moments, “are you happy to have your uncle take custody of you and be given the authority over you, until your majority, of a father?”

  “He is not my uncle!” I cried. “And I do not wish it.”

  “Johnnie!” Emma hissed in my ear. “What can you be saying?”

  “M’lud,” said Mr Gildersleeve, merely raising one eyebrow with a smile of complicity for him and a frown in my direction.

  The Master nodded: “What objection can you have?” he asked me.

  “They mean me harm!” I cried. “I can’t tell why, but I don’t trust them.”

  Emma turned to me a face that I will never forget: cold and hard and burning with anger.

  “You have carried your point, Mr Gildersleeve,” the Master replied, nodding gravely. “This is most lamentable. The boy may withdraw.”

  Mr Gildersleeve nodded towards Frank and the usher and they immediately seized me by the arms, pinning them behind my back. Seeing what they were about I began to shout and struggle, but Frank laid his hand across my mouth as he picked me up, put me across his shoulder, and carried me swiftly towards the door while the usher followed, gripping my legs.

  In the middle of all this I heard a few phrases of Mr Barbellion’s address: “… highly unusual circumstances … the closeness of the blood relationship … a
potential conflict with other interests …”

  Just as we got to the door the beadle who was standing there opened it. The two men carrying me started to go through it but Frank, who was in front, stopped when he found that someone was already coming in. The usher who was behind him could not see what was happening and, in the belief that the delay was caused by my resisting, pushed hard against me and Frank with the result that there was an undignified mêlée and we all came to a stop. The newcomer who had caused the confusion was a young man and from over Frank’s shoulder I found myself face to face and on a level with him: it was Henry Bellringer!

  He stared in amazement and, unable to speak, I struggled as much as I could in the hope that he would recognise me, even though half of my face was concealed.

  “What the devil is going on?” he demanded.

  I heard Emma say behind me: “Hurry. What is the delay?”

  Henry looked at her and she quickly lowered her veil. “Why,” he said, “fancy seeing you here, Miss …”

  “Be quick, Frank,” she cut in.

  Obedient to her command, the man-servant stepped rudely towards the door so that Henry was forced to stand aside, pressing himself against the jamb to let us by.

  Just as we passed through the door I heard Mr Barbellion’s voice for the last time: “… exposes that individual — and, indeed, the other members of his family — to invidious suspicions in the event of a melancholy occurrence that we must all hope will not take place, but of whose likelihood we have seen evidence today.”

  This was all I heard, for a moment later we were in the ante-chamber and the beadle had closed the door behind us.

  The usher led us back the way we had come and I was bundled into the hackney-carriage which had been waiting for us, and held inside it by Frank on the journey home. When he removed his hand from my mouth I had nothing to say, and Emma, whose face had lost the expression I had seen so briefly in court, did not speak either except to sigh reproachfully: “John, John, after all we have done for you!”