The Convict's Daughter Page 11

  Only Holroyd was off his game. Since arriving in New South Wales several years ago he had been making money but his heart was not in it. He had had a short stint at Kororareka in New Zealand en route to New South Wales, thinking he would make a name for himself in banking, there, but the place had been hateful. Holroyd had been mortified by the savagery he had seen unleashed upon the native women. On one occasion, the conduct of a ship of American and Scottish whalers had so horrified him that it had caused him to withdraw into a place within himself that even his wife had since been unable to reach. Holroyd was no stranger to violence or, indeed, to the squandering of life. He had certainly expressed himself most effectively on the matter of slavery in Sudan, but there was something about the behaviour of the whalers in that cloud-heavy part of the new world that continued to gnaw at him. The carnage they had wreaked looked to Holroyd as if some cruel child had taken paradise and sliced at it with a whip until it was shredded to pieces. Five years later and Arthur Todd Holroyd was still unable to shake off his disgust for humanity.

  Still, here he was, set up in the tight little town of Sydney, intent upon building his legal practice and furthering his prospects and, who knows, if all went well in the forthcoming elections he might even run for a seat in the not-so-distant future. From his point of view, the Kinchela case looked clear enough. An easy win, in fact. Holroyd was reasonably familiar with the 1557 Act concerned with taking away ‘maydens that be inheritors’, otherwise known as Phillip and Mary, from which all laws pertaining to the crime of abduction had since derived. Even though such cases were no longer common in England, he had sat in on several trials. As he listened to his client recount the events associated with these recent charges, our man from Khartoum felt quite certain that the entire episode was little more than a comedy of errors. Indeed, he was confident he could restore not only common sense to the court but also his client’s reputation.

  Only, Holroyd did not know Sydney. He had been here less than four years and much of that time he had been so busy setting up his practice that he had not soaked up the tepid stench of the place nor scratched beneath its sandstone edifices. He had been relieved that the town was more settled than Kororareka. He was also curious about the native fauna. But other than that he was yet to engage. To him the town felt like an amateur, toy-kit London, with overweening pretensions and none of the grandeur of his hometown. The gaudy carriages inhabited by coarse businessmen and overdressed women were an anathema to his high-minded sensibilities and he found the meanness of even the better families intolerable. Holroyd could not take the place seriously. But, as others might have warned him had he condescended to seek their advice, such an attitude was likely to bring trouble. And probably sooner rather than later.

  In the half-finished judicial chambers of the new courtroom, 37-year-old William Montagu Manning was finishing a pot of tea before putting on his robes for the day’s hearings. He was quite a different fish from Holroyd and had quickly invested in his adopted home, partially because portions of the harbour reminded him of the coasts of his Devon childhood. He had been in the colony just over ten years and already had fingers in numerous pies. Quick as he could, Manning had bought up and brought in. He had land along the Lachlan and a good quantity of shares in a shipping venture. All the while Manning had also been working his way up the ladder of the local legal fraternity. He had been delighted to relieve the Chief Justice, Alfred Stephen, of his duties on the Supreme Court bench when the judge felt the need to do a stint of reading abroad. Not only was the invitation an excellent opportunity to demonstrate his legal intellect, but, as Manning’s wife had recently died, it also afforded him a pleasant and productive distraction.

  And so here they all were. The tenacious and terrifying radical, Robert Lowe, opposing the exotic and erudite world-traveller, Arthur Todd Holroyd, presided over by William Montagu Manning, the affluent and ambitious conservative with a taste for guns and hunting. Supporting Lowe, although somewhat reluctantly, was the tall and handsome native-born lawyer, Bob Nichols. He was keen to strengthen his alliances and have a tilt at representing the Northumberland Boroughs in the forthcoming election because, even with his brother Charlie at the helm of Bell’s Sporting Life, it was obvious to him that elected representation was the only way forward for the native-born of New South Wales.

  Reporters from the various local papers were also in attendance. Well before the session started a few could be seen loitering about the court steps just out of the June drizzle, as they waited for the protagonists to arrive and looking, Kinchela thought as his gig pulled up, like a bunch of dogs waiting to be tossed a carcass. You could tell who, or rather what they were, by their dishevelled attire. Kinchela knew one of Charlie’s mates from Bell’s. They had drunk together down at Shaw’s Racecourse and the two had a word together before the defendant stepped across the threshold into the courtroom.

  Kinchela had equipped himself with a cane and was pleased to have it with him for it contained a secret compartment that promised some consolation during the long day that lay ahead. As his father had shown him years ago, the gold-plated lion’s head that served as the hand grasp unscrewed to reveal, inside the wooden stick, a long, thin, cylindrical tube that could be filled with spirits. That morning Kinchela had poured a good drop of whiskey into it and the thought of it by his side armed him against what he knew would be a frosty courtroom. And so Kinchela entered the court and took his seat next to Holroyd, crossing his legs and tilting his chin at a slightly defiant angle as he thrummed the lion’s head clasp of the cane with his fingers. He would show courage today, he thought, come what may.

  There was something of a stir outside as the Gills drew up in their highly respectable carriage. Martin Gill was dressed in a tailored suit that sat unevenly upon his small frame despite its well-considered cut. ‘Mr Kemp,’ Gill said crisply as he tipped his top hat at the Herald court reporter he had visited in his office earlier in the week. Then Martin Gill took his wife’s arm and assisted her from the carriage. Margaret appeared stone-faced in a suitably matronly dress of deep mauve. The couple stepped from their carriage and various reporters scurried about them. Of the young girl in question they got no more than a snatched glimpse of her mustard-coloured gloves and the sweep of a heavy dark dress as she alighted from the coach and made her way up the steps of the court, face perfectly obscured by her parasol.

  Mary Ann stepped into the packed courtroom and then stopped in shock. Despite the fact that much of the interior was still unfinished, the public seating was filled to capacity in both the court and the gallery, and the room itself was bustling with a throng of people jostling against one another for seats and standing room. There were a number of knock-about Cabbagers who must have come for the entertainment, as well as several shopkeepers on familiar terms with her father. In the front row of the stalls there was also a collection of middle-aged women including Mrs Kelly who had a large bag on her lap from which she was eating her breakfast. Mary Ann spied her grandparents sitting quietly amidst the commotion. They shouldn’t be here, she thought glumly, before she cast a hasty glance back to the gallery where she spotted several workers from the hotel, including one bumptious-looking boy who had been sacked by her father two weeks earlier. Was that Rebecca sitting with the boy, she wondered? Mary Ann could not quite tell but the court seemed to be buzzing like a nest of angry wasps.

  The young woman followed her mother’s cue and took her seat directly behind her father, who was sitting at the edge of the table occupied by Robert Lowe and Bob Nichols. Her legs trembled but she took pains to fold her hands in her lap and focus on those loathsome mustard gloves. Kinchela was nearby, Mary Ann sensed, but she did not dare to look his way in case their eyes met. Instead she stole a furtive glance at her father’s legal team. Lowe was looking pleased with himself, deep in conversation with Mr Nichols. A little further off, sat Kinchela’s counsel. He had rather commanding eyebrows, she thought, and looked as though he was cleaning something from his
boot as he cast a casual eye over his papers.

  The mood in the makeshift court seemed to swirl and pulse, with the crowd chattering among themselves as they occasionally pointed at both the parties. At last a court recorder made the call for the court to rise. Manning appeared, looking confident in his robes and taking his seat with obvious pleasure as the jury processed into their box.

  And so we begin, Kinchela thought to himself, as he contemplated the rather ramshackle stage upon which this next act of his life was about to play. Although winter had made its presence felt outside the courtroom, the crush of all the people inside had already created considerable warmth and the air around him felt hot and heavy. Kinchela wondered how long it would be before the reporters tired of it all. And the girl, he wondered, how would she cope with all this? She had seemed such a lively thing during their encounters but there was no telling what had happened to her over the past weeks. He thought with some discomfort about her father and what she had said about him. The look in the man’s eyes that morning at the racecourse. Those damn pistols and, most offensive of all, the way he had spat at his boot outside the court. No doubt he would have raised hell for Mary Ann, Kinchela realised, and was no doubt intent upon doing the same to him now.

  Manning reminded the jurors that Kinchela was facing two charges of abduction according to the ancient legislation of 1557, which had been revised in 1828. One charge was concerned with the fact that the defendant had allegedly taken the girl from her parents without their consent, and the other that he had done this to a girl under the age of sixteen. No sooner had Manning finished than he gestured for Lowe to commence his opening address.

  It was an extraordinary piece of work with more than a touch of melodrama to it. A number of jurors—among them several soap and candle merchants—nodded vigorously as Gill’s lawyer described the cruel injury that had been inflicted upon familial fondness. Lowe roved and roamed, recounting the duties of fathers and the delights of daughters, his voice sometimes a whisper and other times lifting to a feverish pitch before Manning signalled for him to tone it down. All the while Sydney’s wily Weathercock outlined the events associated with the case, how ‘an intimacy had sprung up’ between Mr Gill’s daughter and the defendant while the latter had been staying in their hotel for several months. Clearly, several months too long, he added drolly, provoking a titter from the upstairs gallery. Calmly Lowe explained to the court what he assumed many already understood: that ‘a woman’s consent could not be proffered as defence’ within the existing statutes. ‘This did not have to be a situation in which any fraud or force was used,’ Lowe explained, striving not to sound condescending. On the contrary. According to the law, it was ‘enough for the man in question to have used no more than the ordinary blandishments of love to entice the girl away’. The point was ‘not what the woman wanted,’ he continued, ‘and certainly not what motivated the man in question, but rather,’ he said, taking several steps towards Martin and Margaret Gill, ‘the rights of the parents. Like the good men of the jury,’ Lowe continued, making a grandiose gesture towards his clients, ‘these poor parents have responsibilities to their family and the colony. They also have valuable property—in the form of a daughter—and it is only reasonable for them to expect that the law should protect this.’

  Martin Gill nodded energetically. Lowe then walked to the jury box and leant with one elbow against it as he cast a glance at the defendant. ‘If such rights are not protected,’ he continued, ‘the colony might be caught forever where it is now, or even worse—go backwards,’ he suggested. ‘There are too many who show too little respect for honest men and decent laws,’ the prosecutor insisted, before adding with a shrug, ‘but, it is for the jury to decide and to do that they must listen carefully to the evidence and assess their decision according to the law. They must put aside all out-of-court rumours that have circulated about this case,’ Lowe continued, ‘and also strive to set aside their own sensibilities as fathers. Indeed, it is vital that they do so,’ Lowe explained in a kindly tone, ‘for only then can the court declare that they have honoured the great principle of British justice, the principle so dear to us all—the right to a fair trial.’ There was a round of applause as Lowe returned to his seat dabbing the sweat from his brow and nodding modestly.

  One by one the witnesses were called. The heavy-set Henry Webb said what needed to be said with both hands clasped upon the brim of his hat, every now and again casting a cautious eye at his wife who was vigilantly observing proceedings from the second row of seats. ‘Yes sir,’ Webb told Lowe. ‘Kinchela did come back to my establishment that night,’ he said earnestly. ‘I told him straight up I didn’t think it right, bringing the girl to my abode that way,’ he gestured to where Mary Ann sat, with her bonnet lowered to shield herself. ‘Go on,’ Lowe gestured. ‘Kinchela said I was not to fear, and that he intended to marry the girl in the morning at Parramatta.’

  Holroyd stood up and asked Henry Webb to confirm that he was the manager of the Sportsman’s Arms. ‘A most appropriate location for this sporting affair, wouldn’t you say, Mr Webb?’ the counsel asked, clearly pleased with his wit, although the joke fell flat when the witness squinted and gave him a confused look. Holroyd coughed and turned to the jury referring to them as ‘learned’ men but in such a tone that several less-educated men shifted uncomfortably and wondered if they were being mocked for only signing the jury roll with an ‘x’.

  Eventually Holroyd began in earnest. ‘Mr Webb,’ he asked, ‘did you actually see Mr Kinchela with Miss Gill?’ Webb turned to his wife for guidance. ‘I am not sure I understand you, sir,’ he followed. ‘Well,’ Holroyd continued, ‘Kinchela came to you after Miss Gill had left with her father, correct?’ Webb nodded slowly. ‘But was Kinchela there when Miss Gill came a-looking for him?’ Webb blinked several times. ‘I believe,’ he paused, looking a little uncertain, ‘that our servant girl mentioned a conversation in one of the private rooms upstairs between him and the girl, at least that is what my wife told me.’ ‘That may be, Mr Webb,’ Holroyd quickly intervened, ‘but you cannot refer to conversations with your wife in this matter. I am asking you and you alone—what did you see?’ Holroyd waved an index finger at the witness. ‘Mr Webb, you say you saw Miss Gill arrive and then leave with her father and that you also saw Mr Kinchela arrive, much later. So please, will you be kind enough to clarify for the court—did you yourself actually ever see the defendant with Miss Gill?’ The court hushed as Henry Webb cast about for an answer. ‘My wife . . .’ he started but then trailed off as Holroyd shook his head, ‘Well then,’ he said as he looked about in desperation, ‘I don’t know how to go on.’ Several jury members looked sympathetically at the witness and one man even tutted at Holroyd’s condescending manner.

  ‘Yes, Mr Webb,’ Kinchela’s counsel continued obliviously, ‘but your wife is not in the witness box. It is your evidence we must hear, so please, tell us, did you or did you not see Kinchela with Miss Gill during the time that they were at your inn?’ The man looked about the court desperately before finally shaking his head. ‘No indeed, Mr Webb,’ Holroyd said triumphantly. ‘You also mentioned’, he continued, ‘that you and Kinchela shared some spirits in the early morning?’. Webb agreed more confidently. ‘Is it not possible that you might not be able to recall the contents of your conversation?’ Holroyd asked but allowed the question to fall unanswered, before giving a little cough and starting again. ‘I feel compelled to ask, Mr Webb, what a creature of Miss Gill’s age might have been doing in a place such as yours—let alone in Mrs Kelly’s establishment,’ he paused for effect before adding, ‘something that surely makes us all shudder to imagine.’ A murmur rippled through the court as Martin Gill shifted tetchily in his seat and cast a sour look at Kinchela.

  ‘You may also recall, Mr Webb,’ Holroyd continued, clearly intent upon using the witness to advance his own opinions, ‘that after Miss Gill was retrieved by her father, she dared to leave her home a second time the following morni
ng, and that she did so, she insists, at my client’s request. But again,’ Holroyd persisted, ‘I must ask, is there any proof other than Miss Gill’s word that the defendant intended to meet her at the place she said they were to meet?’ Holroyd didn’t wait for the witness to answer but walked to the jury box and locked eyes with the foreman. ‘The answer, my friends, is no. No. In all likelihood there was no rendezvous, no licence, and, as this and other witnesses shall reveal, there is absolutely no evidence that this entire episode was anything but a fabrication of a young girl’s fancy, which has been tortured into an abduction by a father who wishes to save her shame and who may also be intent,’ Holroyd finished curtly, ‘upon some other more nefarious motivation consistent with his past.’