Mightier Than the Sword

“Now, members of the jury, it is Mrs. Clifton’s response that is the subject of this action, and it is up to you to decide if Lady Virginia was libeled or if my client’s words were, as I contend, no more than fair comment. For example,” continued Trelford, still looking directly at the jury, “if one of you were to say to Jack the Ripper, ‘You’re a murderer,’ that unquestionably would be fair comment, but if Jack the Ripper were to say to any one of you sitting on the jury, ‘You’re a murderer,’ and if the allegation was then printed in a newspaper, that would undoubtedly be both libel and slander. This case, however, requires a finer judgement.

“So let us look at the relevant words again. ‘If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, then … you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to be a success.’ Now, what did Mrs. Clifton mean when she said those words? And is it possible that Lady Virginia overreacted to them? I suspect that, having only heard those words delivered by me, you will not feel able to reach a conclusion until you have heard all the evidence in this case, and seen both the plaintiff and the defendant in the witness box. With that in mind, my lady, I will call my first witness, Mrs. Emma Clifton.”

*   *   *

Harry had become used to the continual presence of the two guards in their bottle-green uniforms stationed outside the door of his cell. He did not know how much time had passed since that door had last been opened, but he had reached about halfway through chapter three, and a story that still made him laugh.

Yakov Bulgukov, the Mayor of Romanovskaya, faced a potentially dangerous problem when he decided to build a massive statue in honor of Stalin …

It was so cold Harry couldn’t stop himself from shivering. He tried to snatch a few moments of glorious sleep, but just as he was slipping into unconsciousness the cell door was suddenly flung open. For a moment he wasn’t sure if it was real or just part of his dream. But then the two guards removed the shackles from his arms and legs, pulled him off the mattress, and dragged him out of the cell.

When they reached the bottom of a long flight of stone steps, Harry made a determined effort to climb them, but his legs were so weak they gave way long before the three of them reached the top step. Still the guards kept propelling him forward along a dark corridor until he wanted to scream out in pain, but he refused to give them that satisfaction.

Every few steps he passed armed soldiers. Hadn’t they got anything better to do with their time, thought Harry, than guard a fifty-year-old man who was literally on his last legs? On and on until at last they reached an open door. He was pushed inside, landing unceremoniously on his knees.

Once he’d caught his breath, Harry tried to haul himself to his feet. Like a cornered animal, he looked around a room that must, in better times, have been a classroom: wooden benches, small chairs, and a raised platform at one end with a large table and three high-backed chairs behind it. The blackboard on the back wall gave away its original purpose.

He summoned up all his strength and managed to pull himself up onto one of the benches. He didn’t want them to think he was broken. He began to study the layout of the room more carefully. On the right of the stage were twelve chairs, in two straight lines of six. A man who wasn’t in uniform but wore a gray, ill-fitting suit that any self-respecting tramp would have rejected was placing a single sheet of paper on each of the chairs. Once he’d performed this task, he sat down on a wooden chair opposite what Harry assumed was the jury box. Harry took a closer look at the man and wondered if he was the clerk of the court, but he just sat there, clearly waiting for someone to appear.

Harry turned around to see more green uniforms wearing heavy greatcoats standing at the back of the room, as if waiting for the prisoner to try to escape. If only one of them had heard of Saint Martin, he might have taken pity and cut his coat in half to share it with the freezing man from another country.

As he sat there waiting, waiting for he knew not what, Harry’s thoughts turned to Emma, as they had done so often between stolen moments of sleep. Would she understand why he couldn’t sign the confession and allow them to hammer another nail into Babakov’s coffin? He wondered how her own trial was progressing, and felt guilty for not being by her side.

His thoughts were interrupted when a door on the far side of the room swung open and seven women and five men entered and sat in their allocated places, giving the distinct impression this wasn’t the first time they had performed the task.