Henry Northcote

The solicitor drew from an inner pocket of his coat a bundle of papers tied with red tape. He placed them on the table at the side of his plate.

“At the eleventh hour,” he said, speaking coolly and distinctly, “I am going to ask you to undertake the defence in a trial for murder.”

Northcote was conscious of no more than a slight sharp throb of the pulses as he met the shrewd, even cunning, eyes of the man who sat opposite.

“Yes, that’s a chance for Henry Northcote,” were his first words, uttered under the breath.

“The fee is not much,” said the solicitor, with the precision of the man of affairs entering his fat voice. “You will not be briefed at more than twenty guineas.”

“To-night I think I would sell my soul for half that sum,” said the young man, with an excited laugh.

“Is not that a somewhat damaging admission for you to make?” said the solicitor.

“I agree, I agree,” said the young man; “but the truth is never discreet.”

“There’s no money in this case,” said the solicitor, “and I’m afraid there is no kudos. It is one of those disagreeable cases which are not only irreclaimably sordid, but also as dead as mutton. In order to obtain a small sum of money, a woman of the ‘unfortunate’ class has poisoned a man with whom she lived. She is one of those cold-blooded persons who are born for the gallows. There is enough evidence to hang her ten times. We shall be forced to submit to the inevitable.”

“You disappoint me,” said Northcote. “I was thinking of a real fighting case.”

The solicitor smiled, with a faint suggestion of patronage.

“I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said the young man, quickly. “Had there been any life in the case you would not have carried it to one so obscure. Even as it is, I ought to be grateful to you—and I am grateful indeed—for putting it in my way.”

“The circumstances of this case are somewhat peculiar,” said the solicitor. “We are under rather severe pressure in the matter of time. The case will be called on the day after to-morrow at the Central Criminal Court.”

“That hardly explains away your kindness towards myself. Even at this short notice you could have got plenty of men to have consented to a verdict.”

“I am aware of it, but then it is not quite the method of Whitcomb and Whitcomb. We like ‘Thorough’ to be our motto. If we accept a client, we feel we owe it to ourselves to leave no stone unturned, irrespective of position or emolument.”

“But I understand this case is too dead to be fought?”

“Ah, we are now about to approach the first of the ‘peculiar’ circumstances. At five o’clock this evening Tobin himself was holding this brief, but at that hour his bicycle had the misfortune to collide with a motor-car, and the poor fellow now lies in hospital with a compound fracture of the right thigh.”

“Poor fellow, poor fellow!”

“I think you and I are agreed that Tobin is without a rival in a case of this nature.”

“You must forgive me if I express surprise that Tobin should have accepted the brief.”

“That is easily explained. Tobin is the generous-hearted Irishman who is never weary of affirming that Whitcomb and Whitcomb gave him his start. He never refuses us, and I am afraid we, in the interests of a client, trade occasionally on his good nature.”

“Then the practitioners of law are sometimes more disinterested than they seem.”

“My dear fellow, among a considerable body of men must there not be a leaven of human nature? And my own experience is that human nature is so much more disinterested than the young and cynical like to consider it.”

“That is well said,” replied Northcote, feeling the rebuke to be merited.

“And so you see,” said the solicitor, “in regard to this wretched woman whom we had undertaken to defend, we were in the position of being able to brief a first-rate man for a third-rate fee.”

“Yet a third-rate man would have served your purpose equally well, if one is allowed to hazard the remark.”

“No; for this reason: the woman has long been of intemperate habits. Prior to the commission of the crime she was known to be drinking heavily, and Tobin, who is a real fighting man, if ever there was one, had decided to take the line of insanity.”

“As the only possible means of saving her neck?”

“There is no other. And even in the hands of such a man as Tobin, the chance is remote. He has his witnesses to call, of course, in support of his plea, but they cannot be considered as entirely satisfactory. And, unfortunately, their evidence will be rebutted by that of the prison doctors, who are against us.”

“Then, after all,” said the young man, with a sunken eagerness appearing in his eyes, “there will be opportunities for advocacy.”

“Pretty considerable opportunities, if we are to save her neck.”

“Then forgive me if again I put the question, Why did you come to a tyro with a case of this nature?”

“How can you ask,” said the solicitor, with an arch smile, “when the tyro happens to be one Henry Northcote?”

“Upon your own admission that is a name that has no particular significance for you.”

“Nay, you go too fast, my friend. It must be left to the future to place the name of Henry Northcote, but let me confess that in the meantime the bearer of it has not wholly escaped my vigilance.”

“In your capacity as a connoisseur in young men of promise?”

“Precisely.”

“Upon what data have you built, when you have never seen him in open court?”

“My dear fellow, you are as curious as a woman.”

“Every comprehensive mind is partly feminine.”

“No mind can be in any sense feminine. It is a contradiction in terms.”

“Well, well! From what data have you derived the courage to entrust an untried man with the defence in a trial for murder?”

“To be perfectly frank, it was Tobin who found the courage for me.”

“Tobin!”

“No less.”

“Why, Tobin doesn’t know me from Adam.”

“Not so fast, my friend; don’t come to conclusions so abruptly. Tobin has his eyes about him.”

“Well, yes, that is an attribute that is common to all who become first-rate in anything.”

“Let me tell you exactly what occurred. I was on the point of leaving Chancery Lane about six, and beginning to think about my dinner, when I received poor Tobin’s telegram to say he was tucked up in hospital with a broken thigh, and would I come to him at once. Of course I went; and there the poor fellow was in a devilish uncomfortable attitude, as white as the sheets, face drawn with pain, but himself as cool as ice.

“‘We shall have to apply for a postponement,’ were his first words.

“‘In any case, old boy,’ said I, ‘I shall relieve you of further responsibility.’

“‘Not much!’ said he. ‘Get a postponement until next sessions; I am going to save the poor beggar’s neck.’

“‘Why, old boy,’ I said, fixing him up with a cigarette, ‘you will be lying here in your little bed until next sessions.’

“‘Not for me,’ he said; ‘not for Michael. I shall be in court on two sticks a-saving the poor beggar’s neck.’

“‘Now, look here, old son,’ said I, ‘just let the whole thing go, and we’ll put up somebody else.’

“‘If you do,’ said he, ‘as sure as a gun she’s a gonner.’

“‘I am afraid I agree,’ said I; ‘but if our fair client is not a fit subject for the rope, upon my soul there’s no need to hang anybody.’

“Well, the next thing I saw was that his eyes were full of tears.

“‘Oh, damn it all!’ he said, ‘I can’t stand this hanging of women.’

“‘She’s an out-and-outer,’ said I.

“‘That doesn’t alter her sex,’ said the Irishman.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘who can you suggest to put up in your stead with your plea of insanity? The difficulty is the brief is only marked twenty guineas, and you can’t get much for that money with you fellows.’

“‘You can’t,’ said he; ‘besides, this is a case for Michael. Unless it is handled in a certain way she is certain to hang. Apply for a postponement.’

“‘Why, you old sentimentalist, I don’t think we could get one,’ said I, having pretty well made up my mind that we could not.

“‘Who is the judge?’ said he.

“‘Bow-wow Brudenell,’ said I, ‘the most pedantic and cantankerous old man on the bench. And Weekes is leading for the Crown. There will not be much in the way of accommodation in that quarter.’

“‘Oh, come, old Bow-wow is not such a bad old sportsman,’ said the Irishman. ‘Tell him just how it is; tell him I’m suddenly laid by the wing, and it will be all right.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘even if we get a postponement, we shall be none the better for it. It can’t be extended indefinitely; and I am afraid, old boy, this is going to be a long business of yours. I think I shall hand the brief over to Harris.’

“At first I was afraid the wild Irishman was going to jump out of his plaster of Paris.

“‘Harris!’ said he. ‘My aunt! I wouldn’t brief Harris to defend a fox-terrier for worrying a tortoise-shell kitten.’

“‘I’ll admit,’ said I, ‘that Christopher is not a genius, but at least he will get our unfortunate client hanged like a Christian and a gentleman.’

“I spent nearly an hour arguing the point with the poor old fellow. ‘I don’t hold with dumb animals performing on the stage, and I don’t hold with the hanging of women,’ he kept saying, in that odd way of his which one doesn’t know exactly how to take.

“‘Look here, old son,’ I said at last, growing impatient, ‘this will have to be fixed up with Harris to-night; and if I can’t get Harris, I shall get Westby.’

“‘She can hand in her checks if you get either,’ said he. ‘She’ll be hanged by the neck without even a run for her money.’

“‘Well, you can’t get “silk” for twenty guineas,’ said I; ‘and you can’t get a really useful junior.’

“Now, here follows another of the ‘peculiar’ circumstances. Suddenly the wild Irishman lifted himself in his bed, and again there was that odd look in his eyes.

“‘I’ll tell you who you can get,’ said he; ‘he’s come to me in a flash. Get that fellow Northcote.’

“‘Northcote?’ said I; ‘never heard of him.’

“‘Never mind, get him,’ said the wild Irishman. ‘He’s young, and they say he’s mad, but he might bring us luck.’

“‘For a chap with as brilliant a set of brains as are to be found in London,’ said I, ‘you do come out with some of the oddest suggestions. How did you come to think of this fellow Northcote, when you won’t allow Harris and Westby to be good enough?’

“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘he’s one of my inspirations,’

“‘Inspiration my foot!’ said I. ‘I’m off to Christopher Harris.’

“Well, as I was about to go, poor Tobin raised himself again, and those queer eyes came at me in a way I don’t like.

“‘Look here, Whitcomb,’ he said; ‘you were a pal to me when I had hardly a boot to my foot, but if you go to Harris I’ll never speak to you again.’

“‘Lie down, you damned Celt, and go to sleep,’ I said, ‘and I’ll come and talk to you another day.’

“‘I won’t lie down until you promise to go to Northcote at No. 3 Shepherd’s Inn.’

“‘King’s Bench Walk,’ I assured him, ‘will be far better. If I can’t have a reckless fellow like you, I mean to play for safety.’

“‘All the safety in the world,’ said he, ‘won’t save the poor beggar’s neck.’

“‘That’s all very well,’ said I, ‘but an inexperienced man might come a dreadful cropper in a case of this kind. I believe myself in a moderate amount of speculation, but not in a capital charge.’

“‘It’s her only chance,’ said the Irishman.

“‘I am afraid,’ said I, ‘her attorneys are not willing to provide her with it at the risk of decency.’

“‘There’s your Saxon,’ said he. ‘Even when they hang a woman, they insist on decency. Praise be to the saints, we haven’t got any decency in our dirty old island.’

“‘No,’ said I; ‘but you’ve got a good deal of superstition. Whatever put this fellow Northcote into your wild head? I never remember to have heard of him in court.’

“‘I don’t care what you’ve heard of him,’ said the Irishman, ‘this is where he gets his chance. He’ll bring us luck.’

“‘Luck!’ said I. ‘A lawyer’s luck is based on common sense and the capacity to see into the future.’

“‘We crack-brained Celts possess that capacity,’ said Tobin. ‘You can come and tell me on Monday whether I’ve been wrong.’

“‘Is Northcote an Irishman, too?’ I asked, feeling myself beginning to waver; and I don’t mind confessing that I have never been able to withstand Michael Tobin from the first hour I met him.

“‘I’ve only seen the man twice,’ said he; ‘but if he doesn’t carry a drop of the Celt under his waistcoat, Cork was not my birthplace.’

“‘Have you seen him in court?’

“‘Not I. The first time I saw him he was addressing a few well-chosen remarks, quoting the pagan philosophers, to a select gathering of the unemployed in Hyde Park. M’Murdo was with me. “My hat,” said he, “that’s a fellow called Northcote; he’s at the bar. A nice place for a barrister, isn’t it?” “Personally,” said I, “I don’t care a curse about the place, but I’d give ten years of my life to have his voice.” There the thing was booming like an organ, and we stayed half an hour listening to rhetoric that might have come out of Burke.’

“‘And the second time?’

“‘I have only the haziest recollection of the occasion. Where it was I can’t recall, but the mob orator was paraphrasing “Hamlet” to gain facility of expression. But I remember thinking, “My son, you will be bursting upon an astonished world one of these fine afternoons, and then we shall all be complaining about your luck for being born so gifted.”’

“And so, my dear Northcote, to round up a long story, thus it was I came to stand in your chambers, dinnerless, at a quarter-past ten of a winter’s night.”

As is not uncommon with those who possess mental energy, the solicitor, under the stimulus of wine and events, had an immense volubility. During this recital the claret had circulated freely between his companion and himself. Both their faces were flushed, and, moreover, the emotions which had been excited in the young advocate had filled him with a kind of vertigo.

“After all,” said he, resting his forehead on his hand and staring into vacancy, “it is most probably Tobin who is the genie.”

“Set a thief to catch a thief,” laughed the solicitor. “Michael Tobin and yourself are well matched—a pair of deuced odd fellows.”

“In any case,” persisted Northcote, “if a genie you are, you would say you are a genie in spite of yourself.”

“I say nothing at all when it comes to genies,” said the solicitor with emphasis. “I don’t know anything about them; they are not in my line. They don’t trouble the common lawyer in the pursuit of his bread. What does trouble him is time, for time is money.”

The solicitor took out his watch, a thing of value.

“Twenty past eleven,” he said. “There’s a fortune awaiting the fellow who invents an automatic brake to slip on old Father Time. I’ve got to get out to Norbiton to-night,—I promised my little girl, and she will be sitting up. But before I go I wish you would cast your eyes over your brief, and tell me precisely what you think about it.”

The solicitor handed to Northcote the document tied with red tape, and called again for the waiter.

“You’ll have a liqueur?—they’ve got some white curaçao that might be worse. And perhaps some coffee might help us at this stage. Fortunately, this is the one place in London where they know how it’s made. And, Alphonse, you might bring some of those fireworks that you call cigars.”