The Crimson Rooms (8 page)

Leah Marchant was told to identify herself and it was established that she was Leah Joan Marchant, born May 4, 1896, aged twenty-eight, address 9 Caractacus Court, Haggerston.

“Leah Joan Marchant, you are charged with the offense of child abduction; namely that on Monday, May 19, 1924, you unlawfully and without reasonable excuse snatched a baby, Charles Marchant, aged sixteen months, who had been left in his perambulator by his foster carer outside a butcher’s shop. . . . And you are represented, Mrs. Marchant, by, ah. . . ?”

The usher handed up a slip of paper on which was written my name:
Miss E. Gifford, Breen & Balcombe
. As I rose to my feet, my knees shook under the mercifully heavy fabric of my skirt. This was, after all, only the third time I’d addressed a bench, the first being to request the extension of a liquor license in a church hall, the second, under the eagle eye of Mr. Breen, to ask for an adjournment for prosecution papers to be served in a case of stealing a loaf of bread. The court went very still when I said in a voice that sounded surprisingly confident but unquestionably feminine: “I appear for Mrs. Marchant, Your Worship.”

There was a murmur of surprise and I was aware that the court doors had creaked open to admit another observer. The clerk’s myopic eyes crinkled into an unconvincing smile. “So, you are Miss Gifford and you represent the defendant. Are we now ready for a plea to be taken, Miss Gifford?”

“Not yet,” I said. “The case is a complex one, as you are probably aware, because it involves Mrs. Marchant’s own child. Might my client be seated?”

The magistrate, a trim, precisely spoken individual with very white teeth, gave me a long stare. “Remind me again in what capacity you are appearing in court, Miss er . . .”

“My name is Miss Gifford. I am Mrs. Marchant’s legal representative.”

“Working for which firm?”

“Breen and Balcombe.”

“Ah, Breen. Now all becomes clear. And where is Mr. Breen today?”

“Is this relevant, Your Worship? I am here to represent . . .”

“Are you
qualified
, Miss, er . . .”

The clerk jumped up and held a whispered conversation with the magistrate. There followed a guffaw of laughter, raised eyebrows, then a deep sigh from the bench. “Well, madam lawyer, do proceed and tell us on what grounds you are asking for an adjournment.”

“As I’ve said, this is not a straightforward case, Your Worship. The defendant is accused of taking her own child. I am asking for one week’s adjournment so that all the facts can be made known to the defense.”

“And what will you do with all these facts, when they are known?”

“They may affect the plea, Your Worship.”

“I see. Or is it that Mr. Breen, who clearly believes this court is so lowly that it can be used as the playground in which ladies may conduct a flirtation with the law, is just a little too busy to appear before us in person today, so is adopting one of his notorious stalling tactics?”

“Your Worship, this is an unusual case. There is no question that my client attempted to take her baby but her motives, her understanding of what she was doing, must be fully explored before we can enter a plea.”

Another whispered conversation ensued. “Very well,” said the magistrate as if humoring a spoiled child, “I’ll adjourn the case for one week, after which pleas will be taken. I presume, Miss Gifford, you don’t intend asking for bail today because I warn you that you’d be wasting your time.”

By now the palms of my hands were ice-cold, my forehead hot. The audience in the public gallery was tittering. “With respect, Your Worship . . .”

“No, with respect to you, Miss Gifford, I have given you quite enough of my time. There is no question of bail. You tell your Mr. Breen that if he wants bail for his clients, he should come to court himself.”

“Your Worship, you cannot refuse bail on the grounds that you don’t approve of the person representing the defendant. That is unlawful, should . . .”

The clerk rose to his feet and said smoothly: “Your Worship, police bail was refused on the grounds that the woman, in her desperate state, was likely to attempt to take the child again.”

“Quite so. I’ll remand the prisoner in custody for . . .”

“At least let me speak for my client,” I cried.

“When have I ever been able to prevent a woman from speaking, if she has a mind to?” asked the magistrate, quirking an eyebrow at the spectators in the public gallery, who roared with laughter.

“I should like it to be put on the court record that my client was not given a fair hearing today, but that comments prejudicial to her case were made in open court such as:
I presume you’re not asking for bail because you’d be wasting your time . . .”

There was now silence in the courtroom as the magistrate twiddled his thumbs. I glanced at Leah Marchant, who had thrown back her head and was looking at the cracks in the ceiling as if utterly disassociated from the proceedings.

“Ah,” said the magistrate at last, “I’m glad that your determination to teach us how to do our job extends not only to me but to the learned justices’ clerk who has, let me see, is it thirty years’ experience in his current position? What a relief that a young lady has joined the ranks of advocates so that we may all learn how to proceed. You may take the prisoner down.” And he snapped his fingers at the jailer.

Gathering my papers and briefcase, I headed for the door, which the usher made an elaborate play of opening for me, then bowing from the waist. In the foyer a group of lawyers went quiet and fixed me with cold stares before resuming their conversation. I went down to the cells to see Leah but was told she didn’t want to speak to me.

All this time I had been biting back tears. I thought at last I could escape this scene of humiliation, but as I ran down the courthouse steps, I heard someone call my name and then a hand fell lightly on my arm. Startled, I glimpsed long fingers, shapely nails, a starched cuff under a pinstriped sleeve. “Miss Gifford,” a cultivated voice murmured in my ear, “admirably done. We absolutely cannot allow behavior of that kind by these little magisterial despots.”

A stranger’s face was inclined very close to mine, amused eyes, youthful lips under a glossy mustache, deep forehead, a scent of cologne. “One tip, if I might be so bold. Your worst crime is not that you’re a lady—though that’s bad enough, as I’m sure you’re aware—but that you interrupted the magistrate. My advice: never interrupt a magistrate or judge, whatever nonsense they speak. Makes them mad. Hear them out, agree, ignore. That’s the trick.”

I withdrew my arm: “Thank you, but I don’t believe I asked for advice,” and I marched away thinking that to be patronized by a smooth-tongued barrister was the final straw.

I arrived in Sloane Square
with ten minutes to spare; Meredith, on the other hand, was nearly quarter of an hour late, which at least gave me the opportunity to gather my wits. It seemed to me, after the utter debacle of the Marchant hearing, that I had no choice but to offer my resignation. It was one thing to harbor an ambition to be a lawyer, quite another to see clients suffer as a result.

Having made this self-sacrificial and momentous decision, I wanted to act on it at once and grew irritated by Meredith’s lateness. Punctuality was one of the absolutes by which we lived in Clivedon Hall Gardens. When she appeared at last, decked out in a lilac frock with a three-layered frilled skirt and matching hat, she apologized profusely, saying she’d got herself all mixed up with the omnibuses. Seizing my hands as if we were sisters or best friends, she kissed me on both cheeks. This collision of flesh, the waft of perfume, her “Oh, it is such a joy to see you,” threw me off balance after the hostility of the courtroom, and for the second time in an hour I felt tears pricking.

As we entered the store, she bestowed a dazzling smile on the doorman, who snapped to attention.

“Where is Edmund?” I asked.

“Your grandmother is keeping him company. They have found a shared interest in collecting things: your brother’s stamp collection, her albums of theater programs, Edmund’s foreign coins, the few I allowed him to bring, her box of buttons, out they have all come.”

“Grandmother will enjoy that.”

Meredith paused beside a counter of white fluff, glanced winsomely at a shop assistant, and flung a stole around her neck. “What do you think? Do you like it?” She drew up her shoulders and snuggled her face into the fur, which settled so fetchingly against her pale skin and auburn hair that other customers paused to watch. “You try it, go on, Evelyn.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Well, how about this pink scarf? I should like to buy you something. I should like to see you in a
color
.”

“I have plenty of clothes, thank you.” But the next moment I was maneuvered in front of a mirror and faced with a reflection of myself unexpectedly transformed by a wisp of pink chiffon. My jaw and complexion were softened and the harsh lines of my jacket broken by the drift of silk.

“You see. I knew it would suit you. Those wonderful bones need something delicate to show them at their best. Oh, do say you’ll wear it.”

“But it’s so expensive. I wear dark clothes for work, as you see, so it would be wasted. We should go upstairs, I have very little time and we may not get a table.” I put the scarf firmly aside; it was so frivolous, so costly, nearly half a week’s housekeeping, and yet so lovely that I yearned to touch it again.

In the restaurant Meredith made circumstances adapt to her requirements with startling ease. Although there was no empty table, she persuaded the waitress to look about for a couple of ladies who might be leaving soon. “We don’t want a nasty tucked-away table—we want one with a view,” she said, and in a few minutes we were facing each other across a fresh cloth. “Now we have the best table,” said Meredith, “don’t you think? We can see everyone. But tell me what you’ve been doing this morning. I want to know every last detail.”

“I represented a defendant who was remanded in custody.”

“But how marvelous. You mean you actually stood up in a court full of people? I wish I’d been there.”

“I’m very glad you weren’t.”

“Why so?”

“I’m not well received in court, as a woman.”

“Well, of course not. How would you expect it to be otherwise? Back home in Canada the argument is largely won but there are still those who refuse to regard women as
persons
, and since only
persons
can be lawyers . . .”

“We’re envious of the progress women have made as lawyers across the Atlantic.”

“I heard Annie Langstaff speak at a University Women’s Club lecture when she demolished the argument about separate spheres. Quite brilliant.”

“If only we didn’t have to get involved with such arguments. If only we could prove ourselves by the quality of our work. I simply want to be left in peace.”

“Or do you mean isolation?” She gave my arm a little squeeze as if to soften this last, rather disturbing remark, fell back in her chair, and smiled at the waitress, who made a maternal fuss setting our table with milk jug, tea strainer, napkins, and cutlery.

Meredith now sat with her chin cupped in her hand, gazing about like a wondering child, her big, dark-lashed eyes (did she use some form of makeup and, if so, whatever would Prudence say?) fixing first on one diner then the next with such intensity that occasionally she attracted a shy glance or smile. I saw the restaurant mostly in monochrome: waitresses in black dresses, silver cutlery and condiments, white napkins and aprons. Only Meredith, in her lilac dress, was brightly tinted at that moment. An artful curl peeped out on either side of her hat and I sensed that everything she did was planned, including her spontaneity.

“I expect you’re dying to ask me questions,” she said, knotting her fingers under her chin like a Kate Greenaway illustration.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me exactly as much or as little as you want.” She had ordered a ham salad, I a poached egg as the cheapest choice on the menu. It turned out to be tepid and I thought anxiously of the cost of this meal compared to my usual lunch of a cheese sandwich brought from home.

“No, no. I don’t want to foist information on you,” she said, sprinkling oil on her lettuce. “After all, there may be some things you don’t wish to hear.”

“What troubles me most is that I didn’t know of Edmund’s existence before yesterday.”

“That must have been your father’s choice. I admit I thought it odd that Edmund never heard from his aunty Evelyn or indeed his grandmother.”

“When did you tell Father about Edmund?”

“Let me see. I would have written to your father in the early spring of 1918 to let him know I was coming to London, and why. We met for luncheon in a very smart hotel—or so I thought at the time—called Brown’s, though I remember the beef was tough. I was pregnant, of course, and a fastidious eater. That’s when we reached our agreement. He thought it best that I return to my family in Canada but he promised I would have a monthly allowance. For a while he sent me regular checks, then more erratically, until about eighteen months ago they dried up completely. I wrote but got no answer.”