A Plurality of Partners

Constance Atherton had pushed aside the rumpled sheets of the bed to prepare herself for the day in court. Now she luxuriated in the bath of the ensuite facilities that Ray had booked for them at the newly opened Waldorf Astoria Hotel in The Strand. She concentrated on washing away the traces of the brief sex she had allowed him to share with her. 

When it was finished Ray had showered, shaved and dressed himself before leaving their suite to join his British barrister friend, Frazer Kerr, at the Royal Courts of Justice five minutes’ walk away. Ray had forever been talking this up as the most important day of Frazer’s career. Constance only endured his enthusiasm because of the society and fashion gossip this event would generate for her to take back and share with her circle in Paris. Nothing had greater power than a first-hand, eye-witness account.

With one hand she let the focus of the warm water jets from the heavy chrome shower head she had taken from its bracket on the side of the deep bath tub play over her groin. She swished the water up and down, cleaning herself there increasingly vigorously. Eventually that had the inevitable effect of bringing an orgasm. She let her body slip under the water while her lithe, tanned legs splayed over the side of the tub, jerking, above the soapy foam. She looked up at the mirror set in the ceiling above the bath tub but could only see a hazy outline of herself because of the accumulated steam.

Sex with her husband Ray had long ceased to give her this kind of release. The harder he tried, the more she gripped and rippled him into a rapid climax. That had been her approach this morning. It allowed him to get the climax he wanted while she could conclude things as quickly and efficiently as possible. She retained an affection for him but he was too sexually unimaginative to deliver the kind of love and excitement she now craved. 

Knowing that she would soon be sharing a private balcony in the British Lord Chief Justice’s courtroom with a French diplomat and his wife, to watch this much-heralded royal trial, she wanted to be prepared for any opportunities that might present themselves with these strangers. 

Away from the strictures and confines of Boston society, her avant garde life at the pinnacle of exploration and experimentation in Paris had allowed her to blossom and grow secure behind the façade of her marriage to Ray and his architecture studies at the École des Beaux-Arts. 

She was no longer shackled by her maiden status as Constance Crowninshield Coolidge with family links to the ambitious Massachusetts Republican lawyer and politician, Calvin Coolidge. Calvin, currently Mayor of Northampton, was tipped as a Presidential hopeful. 

She had married Ray Atherton a year earlier in Paris, despite a promise to her parents and relatives, including her uncle Frank Crowninshield - the editor of Vanity Fair - to wait a while. This freed Constance to enjoy sex with what she was sure would be called, in the context of the trial she was about to watch, a ‘plurality of partners’. Casual infidelity with friends and social acquaintances was a la mode in Parisian society. Ray appeared to tolerate her appetites. He could do little to curb them. She had tried to encourage him to participate in her adventures and explorations, without success. From her point of view Ray, despite a dedication to his Beaux-Arts’ studies, was a one-trick pony as far as sex was concerned. She imagined Ray’s stuffy young friend, Frazer, singling her out in the court room and damning her as a sexual profligate. 

That thought reignited her. Greedily, she repeated the moves that had already given her the satisfaction of that last orgasm before climbing out of the bathtub. Then she dried down her body, powdered and scented it and slipped into her sheerest silk underwear. Dark stockings were clipped below a black lace basque that gathered up her small breasts sufficiently decorously to be fashionable while not being too ostentatious. She admired herself in the long mirror in the main room as she prepared to dress as splendidly and in the most accommodating outfit she had in her wardrobe. 

She debated calling for the Ladies’ Maid provided with the suite to help her finish dressing and dismissed the thought. It would be too much of a physical temptation and distraction in her current state.

The Robing Room

Richard Muir led Frazer up the stairs close to the back entrance of the High Court in Carey Street to the Robing Room reserved for Counsel. This was Frazer’s first visit to it because all the previous hearings of the Mylius’ case had been conducted in the private Chambers of various judges. While open court hearings were conducted by barristers and King’s Counsel wearing their robes and wigs, Chambers’ hearings – because they were not open to the public - were less formal. Dark working suits with a winged collar and court bands were all that was required. 

Frazer was carrying a blue cotton sack slung from cord over his shoulder. It had his initials embroidered on its side. Nellie had insisted on treble-checking its contents on his study table before she packed and handed it over to him earlier that morning in Smithfield. As he followed up the stairs behind Muir’s purposeful progress, Nellie’s questions to him earlier that morning buzzed in his ears.

“But why a sack, for heaven’s sake?” she asked as she counted in three starched white collarless shirts she had ironed the evening before.

“Traditional, Nellie. From times gone by when barristers went from town to town following the King’s Judges on their Assize circuit. Their robes, wig and everything else they needed was stuffed in and off they trekked.”

“It would be much tidier to pack all this into a small case and carry it by hand.”

“True. But traditions die hard.”

“I mean, why get a nice white wig and then make it grey and scruffy. Look at this,” she held up the freshly aged wig that Binks had dulled down for him. “It’s criminal.”

“It stops me looking like a complete novice, Nellie.”

“So why aren’t they sold that way if that’s what so important?” she said triumphantly.

They stared at each other and burst out laughing.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. It’s just a pity none of us will get to see you on this big day out.”

Frazer could understand Muir being preoccupied with the challenges of the day ahead of them. He was humming something tuneless but repetitive under his breath. It was probably a hymn or something. This was irritating and disconcerting. Frazer had not had a chance of seeing Muir preparing to go into a major court battle before. He had failed fully to appreciate that he would not be the only person who would feel the nervous anticipation of this event. After all, the King’s good name and immediate future depended on the outcome.

Binks had already prepared Muir’s locker with all the items needed, close to the entrance of their Robing Room. Muir waved Frazer further down the room, towards a run of open, unoccupied wooden cupboards, while he began his own ritual robing up. The sound of the tuneless humming increased. Then it stopped and he began to talk to Frazer, calling down through the passage made by the lockers. They were too early for other barristers to have arrived.

“Now, young Kerr, look around you. This robing room and others like it throughout the country is the cockpit of all egos. There is more subtle pushing and shoving that goes on here than in the boxing ring. Cases are won and lost by how you deal with your opponent in the apparent privacy of this room. Don’t relax your guard. Not for a minute.”

Frazer watched Muir pace down towards him, checking that his double cuffs had the cufflinks correctly positioned. Then he reached into a pocket in his waistcoat, drew out a small tin, shook it and popped a tiny, liquorish lozenge into his mouth to sweeten his breath.   

“Your opponent will sally up to you like this, all preoccupied and business-like, and deliver a broadside before you’ve realised he’s even fired a shot. It’ll be something apparently insignificant. Trying to hole your confidence below the waterline. It’ll be some trivia about what the Judge you are both about to face likes or doesn’t like. Some sly comment about a defect in your pleadings or an error on the indictment. Even misinformation about where your case is on the list or that it has been reassigned to another Judge in another court. So, what do you do? How do you react?”

“Listen and smile politely. That’s what I’d do. Don’t get too involved but I’d try not to give too much away.”

“Well, the reality is that you can only keep that up for so long. What you really want is to draw him out. Make him do most of the talking. That way you can get a measure of him. To see whether he’s all bluster or, actually, someone you may be able to trust.”

“What’s the secret for that?”

“One thing that sometimes works is to say that there’s something in your case that you’re ‘anxious’ about. A point of law, a concept. Something like that. Set a hare running. You don’t actually need to be worried about it but watch how he deals with your concerns. You’ll learn quite about his ability to deal with legal reasoning if nothing else. You’ll not need to say very much at all.”

“That’s a bit devious, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t a playground, Kerr. It’s your livelihood, your future. For heaven’s sake, I’m not saying be dishonest. Don’t misunderstand me. Just don’t be naïve. You’re young. You’ve got a fresh and open face. That makes you a target. Just keep the brain ticking away behind your smile, exercising a degree of caution. Experience only comes after some hard knocks. I’m trying to save you from a few of them.”   

Frazer, finishing his own dressing and mastering a difficult collar stud, grunted his appreciation. He sensed Muir was not finished.

“Bye the bye, I have taken a slight liberty. I hope you’ll not be offended.”

Frazer looked up and stared directly at him, wondering what was coming next. Muir returned his gaze, his face suddenly boyish, as if he was going to confess to a childish misdemeanour. 

“My brother Burleigh called me just before I left Chambers. He wants to come and see us in action. Isn’t that grand?”

“Marvellous. So, how’s he going to organise that?”

“He’s going to try to get himself allocated a space at the side of the court for his wheelchair. There’s been talk of having one or two spaces set aside. For those with disabilities.”

“Can Binks help him over and in?”

“No, no. He’s needed here. For the two of us. Liaison with the court and our venerable Law Officers. No. I suggested that he rang your Smithfield home to see whether the Governess for your Charge….I’ve forgotten their names….”

“You mean Miss Pauline Manners and young Bryony?”

“That’s them. To see whether they could perhaps come to court at short notice and escort Burleigh, look after him in court.”

“But why them?” Frazer tried to keep the astonishment out of his voice.

“Simple, really. I remembered – when we first met – that press picture of you protecting a Suffragette in a wheelchair from the police outside the Houses of Parliament.”

“And Miss Manners sprang to mind because she’s a Suffragette, too? You’ve never met her. Your brother’s never met her either.”

“No, but I didn’t think you’d mind,” said Muir as if what he thought was the only measure of appropriate conduct or good manners that mattered. 

Frazer resisted shaking his head at the presumption and arrogance Muir’s – and presumably now Burleigh’s - attempted appropriation of part of his own household. 

“Come on, Kerr. I’m sure Miss Manners and Bryony will jump at the chance of helping out. He’ll be their permit so they’ll get to see you, too. Trial of the century. Burleigh, when he’s on form, can be very persuasive. He’ll make certain they’re properly looked after, too.”

Frazer found it impossible to tell whether Muir had any sense of having overstepped the mark. His next comment settled it. It was arch. Muir was deliberately manipulating him.

“I’m glad we were able to arrange for your American friend Ray to sit in the well of the court, close to us, with part of the Director’s entourage.”

Frazer, whose recollection was that it was he had done most of the negotiations for that himself, began to realise that Muir’s nervous energy was the driver for this conversation. It was displacement activity, covering the tightening of Muir’s performance nerves. Frazer was glad he had been able to arrange for Constance Atherton’s place himself, directly with Superintendent Quinn. This was something Muir had no part of.

Muir had one more piece of advice to impart before they left the Robing Room to head down to the court itself to join the rest of the legal team. It was delivered as he checked Frazer, meticulously, straightening his wig and making him turn round in a full circle for inspection.

“Stay awake and alert. The Lord Chief, as you’ve observed, can be a bully. Sadly, this is a show trial in the worst possible sense now that Mylius definitely doesn’t have any legal representation. Alverstone won’t be able to resist the temptation to show off just how powerful he is to the Jury. Mylius is something of a tethered goat. The Lord Chief may want to show that it is not just the Defendant who gets a rough time.”

“Meaning?” Frazer was already slightly disconcerted by Muir’s stream of unexpected remarks. Now he noted his mentor’s admission for the first time that the forthcoming trial was far from being any kind of equal contest. 

“He’ll be looking for something to sacrifice on our side of the court.”

“But I’m not dealing with any of the oral arguments, only lugging in some of the authorities, marked up as needed by Sir Rufus, Sir John or you,” Frazer pointed out.

“That’s when Alverstone may pounce on you. Beware. Particularly when you’re handing over a case reference or the like. ‘Well, Mr Kerr, let’s save Sir Rufus some time. Give us the benefit of a quick summary of what it states yourself, why don’t you?’”

“He wouldn’t do that, would he?”

“You’d better believe he might. You’re jury fodder to him. A morsel to balance the scales of justice. If that happens, stand up as slowly as you can without it seeming impolite. While you’re doing that, make certain to take two deep breaths to steady yourself. Count them. Keep your eyes fixed on him and smile. Think of him sitting up there above you on his judicial throne wearing his full-bottomed wig. Only stark naked, as if on the toilet. That should break the ice for you. It almost doesn’t matter what you say after that. Sir Rufus or Sir John or I will redress the balance, if needed.”

Frazer immediately stopped worrying about how Pauline Manners and Bryony would react to Burleigh’s telephone request for help.  

The Royal Courts of Justice

Extra court staff to deal with the influx of public interested in the trial had been assigned. They were given firm orders that there were to be no exceptions to the rules set out in a briefing pamphlet handed to all of them. There had been a run-through, complete with additional police security, late on the Tuesday afternoon. It ran into the evening to ensure that everyone understood what was permitted, what passes and identification documents would be accepted and a clear chain of command for queries and questions that would inevitably arise. 

At the top, in command of overall security, was the unflappable presence of Superintendent Patrick Quinn of the Special Branch. 

When Burleigh Muir appeared at the rear Carey Street entrance to the court building in his wheelchair, it was Superintendent Quinn who was called to resolve the situation. He recognised immediately from photographs he had seen in his intelligence surveillance files who the two people were assisting Burleigh. Frazer Kerr’s charge Bryony and her governess, Miss Pauline Manners. 

It was Burleigh himself who was the problem. As he appeared so rarely in court, and then only in the Chancery Division, none of the regular court staff on duty recognised him. Although there was an intelligence file for his brother Richard, Burleigh had such a low profile that no one had thought to add him as a person who might be the subject of adverse attention from anarchists or troublemakers. However, on his way to the rear entrance of the court, Superintendent Quinn had one of his officers confirm Burleigh’s identity.

Before Pauline could stop her, Bryony stepped forward to engage herself with solving the problem. 

“Mr Burly wants to watch his brother in the big trial, Sir. We’re here to help him.”

“Would that brother be Mr Richard Muir, young lady?”

“Yeh.”

“And you can vouch for him?”

There was a pause. Bryony almost looked for guidance about what ‘vouch’ meant but noticed that the man speaking to her was nodding, to help her. Biting her lower lip in concentration, eyes wide in the hope that she had solved the problem, she nodded. 

“I think you’re in safe hands, Mr Muir. You should have let us know you wanted to attend,” Quinn chided Burleigh gently.

“I’m terribly sorry, Superintendent. It was a last-minute thing. These wonderful ladies have been so patient and helpful. Will they be able to sit close to me?”

“It’s all been arranged. One of my plain clothes officers will be close by. I’ll point him out to young Miss Bryony in case any of you need anything.” 

Quinn led the way, back through the vast lobby with its corridors for the individual courts running off at right angles, until they reached a queue. He led them past the line and nodded to man wearing a dark tweed suit standing at the doorway of Court 4. He turned to Bryony.

“This is PC Williams. He’s on plain clothes duty. Constable, let me introduce Miss Bryony Adams. She’s in charge of this party. She knows to ask you for help if she they need it.” Then Quinn slipped away.

PC Williams drew them all into the courtroom, making certain that Burleigh had space to navigate his wheelchair and that Pauline could guide it in. He took them over to the right hand side where there was a space and two chairs that had just been reserved and marked out for them against the wall.

To say that Court 4 was crowded was an understatement. Space in the courtroom was filled to bursting and overflowed so that there were queues of people waiting to take the place of anyone who left their places.

The press were packed into the benches behind those reserved for the barristers. What their subsequent reports did not state was that this was one of the worst areas for sound in the entire courtroom. Its acoustics were appalling and made taking a rapid accurate shorthand note of what was happening a challenging and sometimes creative venture. Counsel and the Defendant, unless they turned specifically to address them, spoke with their backs to the assembled press and public. Burleigh, Pauline and Bryony had an advantage in being at the side of the court where the acoustics were clearer.

One American news agency, which had arrived with a stenographer complete with a court transcription device, was being refused entry. The newcomers could see this annoyed everyone in the press benches. There was loud muttering that an additional rapid record could help everyone, including the official court Pitman’s shorthand writers. Those comments went unheeded.   

PC Williams pointed up above where they were sitting.

“You’re sitting directly under the Lord Chief Justice’s Private Gallery. Mrs Winston Churchill’s just come in to sit up there with other Ladies from the Court. That caused a bit of a stir before you arrived. Mr Churchill’s already sitting down there at the front on the Solicitors’ Bench in front of Sir Rufus Isaacs KC. Where he’s sitting he’s just been joined by Sir Charles Matthews, he’s the Director of Public Prosecutions and then there’s King’s Private Secretary, Sir Arthur Bigge.”

“You’re doing very well, officer,” observed Burleigh. “It’s a bit like having to do the radio commentary for the boat race or a football match. I’ve just seen my brother Richard come in with his protégé, young Frazer Kerr. They’ll be sitting in the row immediately behind Sir Rufus and Sir John Simon.”

“Do you want me to help you up so that you can stand on that chair, Miss Bryony? Not for long, mind you, but you’ll be able to see out over the heads of everyone else to where Mr Richard Muir and Mr Kerr have just settled themselves in.”

Bryony nodded vigorously and, for five minutes before she sat back down ahead of what she anticipated would be Pauline’s instruction to do so anyway, she had her best view of what was going on towards the front of the court. As well as locating Frazer she saw, from the other set of seats at the front of the court, the young man she was certain was Edward Mylius. The Defendant.

The man she saw was smaller than she had imagined him to be and was young looking, almost boyish. He had dark hair parted in the middle was wearing a surprisingly stylish black suit of the kind she had not seen in London. He did not seem to be nervous. In fact, she thought, he looked rather handsome and brave.

He was talking to another man beside him. PC Williams explained that was another plain clothes officer like himself. 

“He’s there for the Defendant’s security, Miss. There’s another colleague at the other end of that row. It’s more polite than having him surrounded by uniformed prison guards.”

“No. That wouldn’t look so good, would it?” said Pauline, dryly. “It might give the public the impression that there is a dangerous criminal there on trial.”

Burleigh chuckled. “I think I agree with you, Miss Manners. Sledgehammers and nuts, eh?”

PC Williams moved away to avoid hearing more of what he realised was likely to be critical comment. He and his colleagues had no time for this anarchist and troublemaker. If he had his way, this kind of criminal should be locked away for a long time and given hard labour.

As he moved there were three loud knocks that rang through the court and the Lord Chief Justice appeared theatrically through the heavy dark green velvet curtains. Bryony looked up at the seat like a throne where he would sit when the court official stopped shouting “Silence in Court. Be Upstanding for the Lord Chief Justice of England, Baron Alverstone.”

Lord Alverstone bowed low to the lawyers, the defendant and the public below him. Then he shuffled his way into his seat, pulling his red and white robes around him as if he was cold. Bryony thought he looked like nothing more than a very sad bulldog as he adjusted his long, full-bottomed wig and stared pugnaciously out across the court.

The Clerk of the Court established that Edward Frederick Mylius was present. Then the twelve men of the Special July filed into their Jury Box sitting sideways at the front of the court where Bryony, Pauline and Burleigh had a good view of them.  They arranged themselves into three rows of four and settled themselves in to look up at the Lord Chief Justice, waiting to be sworn in.

Burleigh leaned across to Pauline and Bryony. “In total, eighteen of them were called up for service, nine from Hampstead and nine from Clapham. One pool from each side of the Thames. Then they draw lots to get the numbers down to the twelve men you see now. They’ve all got to be property owners. That’s what makes them ‘special’.”

“Taking away any danger of women serving on the jury,” hissed Pauline. If this unexpected outing was to mean anything then she wanted Bryony to understand the inequalities from the outset. 

Then the Lord Chief Justice took over. Bryony was surprised at how firm his voice was. It travelled clearly to where they were sitting.

“Members of the jury. Before you are sworn I have to tell the court that the defendant before you, Mr Edward Frederick Mylius, has certain rights under the Criminal Appeal Act. For that reason, I order that an official shorthand note shall be taken of the proceedings. And you, Mr Mylius? Do you object to any of the jurors empanelled before us? If you do, I shall order that juror to leave the box and another will be substituted from those eighteen men originally called for service.”

Mylius stood up. Then he adjusted his stance to face sideways on to the Judge, turning so that he could more effectively address the jury to his right side. His voice, less trained but still firm, was easy for Bryony to hear.

“I desire to make application for the immediate restoration of my letters, the seizure of which on December 26 was in gross violation of the law.”

The Lord Chief Justice looked down at him severely. “This does not arise now. It is not a matter for my consideration. I cannot make any order now.”

“Then, before the jury are sworn, I wish to ask if the King is present.”

“What do you say?”

“I wish to ask if the prosecutor is present here and I demand his presence. On the grounds, first, that every accused person has a right to be confronted with his accuser in Court. Secondly, that no action for libel is usually taken without the prosecutor being in Court, where the jury can see him. And thirdly, that there is no proof that the prosecutor is at present alive.”

That drew a gasp from everyone in court. Bryony could hear people asking each other whether the King had just died.

The Lord Chief Justice raised his right hand to silence the buzzing below him. “This has already been the subject of an application before me. You are perfectly well aware, Mr Mylius, that the King cannot be summoned here. The King is not present.”

“I wish to take exception to your Lordship’s ruling.”

The Lord Chief Justice’s face made it clear the defendant had taken things almost beyond the brink of what he would permit. He nodded to the Usher standing in front of the jury, indicating for him to get on with the process, and the jurors’ names were read out. Then he looked down at Mylius.

“You have heard the names of the jury called. Do you object to anyone?”

“I wish to ask each juryman whether he is able to render a fair and impartial verdict upon the evidence.”

The Lord Chief Justice waved his hand in the air as if swotting away a fly. “That is not a proper question. Swear in the jury, Usher.”

Another movement caught Bryony’s attention. High above where the jury sat, in a small gallery looking down on them and the Lord Chief Justice, Bryony saw a face she thought she recognised. It looked like Constance Atherton, the wife of Frazer’s American friend Ray. She had seen a picture of her in one of Pauline’s magazines. She remembered that Frazer had been particularly pleased to be able to get both Ray into court with him and for his wife to be able to see the proceedings as well. There were two other faces in the gallery with Constance. A man on one side of Constance and a woman on the other. She had no idea who they were.

Then Bryony heard a voice she presumed was Burleigh’s brother, from the way the man beside her stiffened and leaned forward in his wheelchair to catch what was being said.

Richard Muir formally began to recite the indictment for the jurors. His baritone voice carried clearly through the court.

“This information charges that the defendant, Edward Frederick Mylius, published a libel of and concerning his Majesty the King on November 29, 1910. A second count charges a second publication of the same libel on December 18 and a third count charges the publication of another libel on December 19. The defendant, by his plea, admits posting the alleged libels at Notting Hill Post Office, and that the alleged libels were true and that their publication was for the public interest.”

The trial was under way at last.