32. Prosecution & Defense
Prosecution but for the trial proper, Mr. Justice Holroyd, resplendent in robes and full-bottomed wig, took his seat upon the bench.
He was known for his fairness but also for a sharp, penetrating intelligence that many a defendant had rued too late.
The audience overflowed with gentlemen of the first stare in gleaming Hessians and faultless cravats, alongside curious commoners straining for a glimpse over the forest of beaver hats.
Among them sat a contingent of animal advocates from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals: Mr. Wilberforce, Baronet Buxton, and ‘Humanity Dick’ Martin—all grim in solidarity.
To Lucinda’s left sat Lady Marlstone, ever ready with her barley-sugar twists.
On her right, the Admiral and the imposing Dutch count, the scent of his expensive cologne filling the air.
At the prosecutor’s table, headed by Lord Creswell, Lord Alex Sinclair and Miles sat side by side, papers arrayed neatly before them.
A stir arose from the far end of the courtroom.
Two figures were led in, each flanked by an officer.
Lilith Bittermann’s sharp eyes cut across the court, and Lucinda fancied she felt the gaze pass through her like sleet.
Rudi followed, his great shoulders hunched against the scrutiny.
It was not shame that hung about him—it was loathing.
Shackled and disheveled from their time at Newgate, the Bittermann siblings stood in the dock, their transformation from feared creditors to common felons now complete.
Rudi scowled, his lip split from an earlier scuffle, while Lilith held her spine straight, her hands clasped before her. She met the gaze of the courtroom with icy contempt, as though defying them to take pleasure in her downfall.
At the front, beneath the large arched windows, sat Justice Holroyd, his expression unreadable beneath the heavy white wig. The recorder cleared his throat and solemnly read the charges: fraud, blackmail, extortion, conspiracy to commit violence.
For the first time in a long time, Lilith and Rudi Bittermann were no longer dictating terms.
The prosecution began. Creswell rose, his voice clear, confident, and resonant in the old court.
Having received an affirming nod from Justice Holroyd, he launched into his opening remarks, painting a vivid picture of the evidence he intended to present.
His words, eloquent and damning, seemed to fill every corner of the courtroom, leaving no doubt that he considered the matter as good as decided.
Then came the defense. Mr. Silas Pettigrew-Hill—a man who, on any other occasion, might have mustered a respectable showing—made a lamentable spectacle of himself.
Even the most charitable observers wondered how such a man had ever been entrusted with a case of this magnitude.
In truth, he was not without ability. A middling talent, perhaps, but one that had, on occasion, secured unlikely victories.
Yet what truly commended him to the Bittermanns was not his legal prowess, but the fact that he was, in every sense that mattered, theirs.
A combination of debts, indiscretions, and that fatal weakness for high-stakes wagering had long since placed him firmly under their thumb.
They did not employ him for brilliance; they employed him because he dared not refuse.
And today, under the pitiless gaze of the court, the strain of that servitude had reduced him to a stumbling, stammering shadow of a barrister.
Miles was summoned first to the stand. Having sworn his oath, he took his seat before the twelve good men of the jury with the assurance of one who had thoroughly prepared his testimony.
Creswell guided him carefully through the events: the disappearance of his dog in Hyde Park, the sudden appearance of a ransom note, and the elaborate masquerade that led him into the Bittermanns’ den.
“Your Lordship,” Creswell said, addressing Justice Holroyd with a deferential bow, “I present the ransom note demanding payment for the return of Mr. Sinclair’s greyhound.”
A clerk accepted the folded note and presented it to the judge. Justice Holroyd peered at, lips pursed.
“Now, Mr. Sinclair—” Creswell continued, but Justice Holroyd raised a hand.
“Just a moment,” interrupted the Judge, “this demand suggests you had long-standing debts to the accused, sir,” he said, fixing Miles with a penetrating gaze.
Miles opened his mouth to protest, but Creswell quickly interjected. “My Lord, if it pleases the court, further testimony shall reveal that the debts were fictitious—a means of entrapment, not a legitimate obligation.”
Unappreciative of Creswell’s flair for words, Justice Holroyd merely inclined his head, his quill poised above his notes. “Proceed.”
The witness was prompted to continue with the details of his masquerade to gain access to the Bittermann’s lair in pursuit of his greyhound.
“Now, Mr. Sinclair,” said Creswell, “while you were in the depths of Sixes & Sevens, is this the bottle you stumbled across?” He placed the vessel, with suitable ceremony, upon the clerk’s table, the label averted.
“It might be. The bottle that I was drawn to had been altered.”
“Oh?” Creswell inquired with lifted brows. “In what way, pray?”
“The original label had been crossed out in red pencil. Scrawled across it were the words: ‘Patrons Only.’ ”
A ripple of interest swept through the gallery.
Lord Creswell spun the bottle around to reveal the altered label to the court. “Like this, sir?”
Fans paused mid-flutter. Many gentlemen exchanged glances.
“ ‘Patrons Only,’ ” the court recorder repeated, pensively, making notes.
“Yes that’s the bottle,” replied Miles with authority.
“Would it surprise you Mr. Sinclair that on the day of arrest, the constable on the scene investigated the cellars at the Sixes & Sevens and found another bottle with the same altered label?” While posing his question, Creswell drew forth a bag to produce another bottle perfectly matching the other and placed it side by side on the clerk’s table.
“No, sir, it would not surprise me. I pulled the bottle from a large rack of similarly re-labeled wine.”
With a dramatic flourish, Creswell continued, “What a striking inscription! Gentlemen of the jury can you see the alteration? One cannot help but realize the obvious implications of such a designation! This label signifies exclusivity, a deliberate effort to restrict access to a select few. This stock was not meant for casual consumption, it was reserved for the Bittermann’s guests.
It does not whisper but shouts of premeditation.
Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. No further questions—for now. ”
With a graceful turn, Creswell resumed his seat beside Lord Sinclair.
“What the deuce are you about?” Alex muttered under his breath. “Why didn’t you mention the handwriting?”
“Patience, my dear fellow,” Creswell murmured, idly brushing a speck from his immaculate sleeve. “I know what I am doing.”
“Yes, and it looks suspiciously like sabotage!”
“You engaged me for my expertise, not my haste. Let me show you how one discomfits an unprepared counsel.”
Meanwhile, the examination-in-chief completed, the judge called forth Mr. Pettigrew-Hill to cross-examine the witness.
“Thank you, My Lord,” he said, shuffling his papers, and attempted to sow doubt into the previous testimony.
“Mr. Sinclair,” he began uncertainly, “I—I should like to clarify…you are not, I presume, in a position to ascertain the…uh…meaning of this label, are you?”
Miles tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Could it not be that you were mistaken—about the label? Easy to do when under great emotional stress. Dim light. Wine fumes. You might have read it wrong.”
“I was under a strain due to the circumstances, sir, but whatever haze of misunderstanding led me to grab the bottle it stands before the court now for all to read clearly.”
Justice Holroyd raised a hand, his tone dry. “Mr. Pettigrew-Hill, if you would be so good as to pose a question to the witness rather than make conjectures.”
“Of course, My Lord!” he replied, gulping. “Mr. Sinclair, the bottle was discovered—by your earlier testimony—in the cellar, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Not in Miss Bittermann’s private chambers, nor even on her person?”
“Two places I should be most happy never to behold, sir,” returned Miles, with lethal dryness.
There was a burst of laughter from the gallery, which prompted Lilith’s steely faced composure to crack. She cast a murderous look at Miles. The gallery’s mirth was swiftly quelled by the judge’s stern rap of the gavel.
Unperturbed, Pettigrew-Hill raised his voice over the din.
“The cellar, sir, as you have said, is a space open to all and sundry—servants, tradesmen, delivery boys, milkmaids, coal porters, delivery men of countless household wares. Would it not be the simplest thing for the accused to profess ignorance? I suggest that you, sir, planted the bottle there yourself! Did you not contrive entrance by masquerading as a wine porter? This could be a ruse of your own making, to incriminate honest folk to whom you owe thousands of pounds.”
“One moment, sir,” interrupted the court recorder, referencing his notes. “It was previously established the plaintiff confiscated one bottle, but the arresting constable appropriated another from an entire rack of similar bottles.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You imagine Mr. Sinclair brought with him an entire vintage of wine, all relabeled to plant on the premises?”
“He might have, sir.”
The recorder rolled his eyes. “Did you indeed, Mr. Sinclair?”
“I did not, Your Honor!”
“Very well, Mr. Pettigrew-Hill, continue.”
Like a rug from beneath him, the defense barrister’s effort to sow doubt had been quashed. He fell back to an even weaker line of reasoning. “Well, sir, what proof have you that Miss Bittermann’s hand ever came in contact with these bottles?”
“Because of the ransom note,” replied Miles, serenely.
Mr. Pettigrew-Hill blinked, and visibly wilted. “The note. Yes, well…that too could have been written by anyone. You cannot expect the court to accept such a document at face value. It could be forged, could it not?”
Miles coolly parried. “Sir, my greyhound did disappear, I can produce eyewitnesses if you require proof. The ransom note was delivered soon thereafter, before the same witnesses. Who, besides the abductors, could have forged the ransom demand?”
“Yes, well…I, uh…” Pettigrew-Hill subsided into his seat, dabbing at his damp forehead with a limp handkerchief.
Justice Holroyd and indeed, the entire court, seemed unimpressed.
Creswell came to his feet quickly. “Re-examination, My Lord?” A hand gesture was all he received before pouncing on Miles.
“Mr. Sinclair, you stated the ransom note confirmed your certainty regarding Miss Bittermann’s involvement. Is it simply the color of the pencil that convinces you?”
“No, my lord. The handwriting is identical. The word ONly betrays the same irregular hand. Since Miss Bittermann possesses all the genius and her brother all the brute force, I am convinced she orchestrated both the kidnapping and the altered wine label.”
“Clerk,” the Judge intoned, “let me examine both exhibits if you please.”
Both items were handed to Justice Holroyd, who scrutinized them.
“They are indeed by the same hand,” he declared. A murmur ran through the court. “Let the jury inspect the exhibits,” he declared, his tone heavy with foreboding.
“Thank you, Your Lordship,” Creswell said. “We’re so pleased the court agrees with the prosecution. I have no further questions for this witness.”
Pettigrew-Hill sagged back into his seat, mopping his brow. The audience chuckled at the defense barrister’s gentle public evisceration.
The Bittermanns’ doom was looking inevitable.