Perhaps Quinton was just trying them out: Corinna certainly wouldn’t have told him who they really were. The Commander was clearly less certain about her, but she ignored him and asked: “Burning a police station-house . . . is that political? Sounds as if it could be.”
Quinton didn’t answer; instead, he said: “Why doesn’t someone ask about anarchism?”
Knowing the Commander now wouldn’t, Ranklin asked: “What about anarchism?’
“Interesting that you should ask that,” Quinton said. “Because there was a case just a few years after Castioni: Meurnier, this time, a French anarchist. He blew up a Paris cafe and killed a couple of people and claimed that had been political. Mr Justice Cave – as he then was – came back with a rather crafty judgment. In effect, he said that a political act is one aimed at replacing one party or system of government by another – but that, since an anarchist didn’t believe in any form of government, all his actions must be directed against private citizens, and he sent Meurnier back.”
“Does that mean,” Corinna asked, “that nothing an anarchist does can be political?”
“That would be one possible reading of the judgment.”
A grimy light began to shine on Ranklin’s thoughts. “This cafe in La Villette – do you know what sort of place it is?”
Quinton smiled but retained his legal caution. “I understand that it is said to be a haunt of anarchists.”
The Commander growled: “If this damned American is an anarchist then all that stuff about royal scandal is probably just trouble-making.”
Quinton said: “Nothing in the depositions offers any proof that he is an anarchist.”
“But if he was working as a waiter there-”
“Would you assume that every waiter at a poets’ cafe is a poet?”
Corinna said: “But Mr Tippett the vice-consul said the boy-”
“That is not evidence.”
With Corinna and the Commander both rebuffed, that left Ranklin to steer the conversation into a more soothing, general channel. “You were going to explain to us laymen the normal progress of an extradition case . . .”
“‘Hearing’ is the proper term. Yes. It starts with a request through diplomatic channels for us to arrest the chap. When we’ve done that, he makes a brief appearance at Bow Street police court to be remanded to Brixton. Then the foreign government sends over depositions and perhaps witnesses themselves – there are two in this matter – for the magistrate to decide whether they have made a prima facie case of an extraditable crime for the prisoner to answer. We’ve reached that point now, with the hearing due tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” the Commander and Ranklin said simultaneously.
“I came a little late to this matter-”
“I was slow off the mark myself,” Corinna confessed. “And the consulate didn’t-”
“It seems,” Quinton said firmly, “that the lad didn’t take the matter very seriously until someone else read the French depositions and explained how strong a case there was.”
“Is it strong, then?” the Commander asked.
“I think . . .” Quinton sounded a little reluctant but now he was embroiled in the real case and couldn’t turn back – which was roughly what Ranklin had hoped. “I think it might be torn to pieces by a good, well-prepared advocate at a full trial – in France. Whether I can do as much tomorrow, I wouldn’t care to say.”
He looked pensive and Ranklin prayed for the Commander to stay quiet. And for once, he did.
Quinton went on: “The prosecution only has to show there is a case to answer – the defence doesn’t have to answer it. But the boy wants me to: he wants above all not to be sent back to France. He’s convinced the police are fabricating evidence against him.”
“And are they?” the Commander asked, brightening up at this hint of illegality.
“There’s one witness in particular whom I’d like to see cross-examined within an inch of his life. But to do that properly, I need more preparation. If I do a half-cock job and the boy gets extradited anyway, I’ll just have shown the prosecution the holes in their case so they can patch them up for the full trial. But my client seems ready to risk that.”
Corinna said: “What about it being a political crime anyhow?”
“I shall argue that as well. But I can’t see a Bow Street magistrate ruling on that. I think he’ll leave that to a higher court.”
The Commander asked: “Can you appeal the magistrate’s decision, then?”
“In effect. It’ll be a habeus corpus hearing in the King’s Bench. When,” he turned to Corinna, “your fund will have to stump up for Counsel. But I think I can find one who’ll say what he’s told and not have ideas of his own.”
Mr Quinton, one suspected, did not share the high opinion that barristers had of themselves.
The Commander said: “I think we’re getting bogged down in legalities. Frankly, it’s no skin off our nose whatever happens to the lad – that is, I’m sure he’s safe in Mr Quinton’s capable hands. What concerns me is whether he’s going to say anything in open court. Is he?”
“If he listens to me, he’ll say nothing bar his name,” Quinton said very firmly.
“Good. And meanwhile, if he tells you anything more about this – alleged – royal scandal, you’ll be sure to let us know?”
Quinton frowned. “Whatever a client tells his solicitor is in the strictest confidence.”
“Good Lord, man, this is a question of your duty to the King!”
Quinton stiffened. “I agreed to come to this meeting on the understanding that you would take this aspect out of my hands. It isn’t germane to the boy’s case and is the sort of thing I prefer not to be told. And if told, not to hear.”
“I would have hoped your patriotic-” the Commander began, but Ranklin cut in:
“I’d better come and hear what happens at Bow Street myself tomorrow. Will I get in?”
“I’ll make sure you do. But I can’t promise you’ll hear anything from the public seats. Meet me outside at lunchtime and I’ll explain what’s been happening. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . Mrs Finn . . .” He bowed over Corinna’s hand, shook hands with the Commander and Ranklin, and walked briskly away.
Watching him go, the Commander said thoughtfully: “D’you think I overdid the duty-to-your-King bit?”
“Perhaps,” Ranklin said.
Corinna said: “He’s supposed to be good.”
“I imagine, madam, that by that you mean ‘effective’.”
“Isn’t that what we all mean?” She was quite unabashed. “Well, I’ve done my effective deed for the day.” And she leant back in her chair and looked at them expectantly.
The Commander looked puzzled. Ranklin said: “Not quite. That letter the lad’s mother wrote had a Paris address. When you sent someone from your Paris office to check up on her, was she still there?”
Corinna said dreamily: “If I had three wishes, d’you know what the first would be? To have someone push that terrible little crook Lloyd George under a bus. Having a Chancellor of the Exchequer who-”
“Sorry we can’t oblige you there,” Ranklin interrupted. “What’s the second wish?”
“Are you truly offering to do me a favour?” Her surprised delight was quite false.
“No, ducky, we’re not, but let’s hear it anyway.”
“Well, since you mention it . . . at the moment, the Treasury doesn’t place many bonds in the US but it does so exclusively through Morgan Grenfell. Now, if you happened to be speaking to anyone with influence, you might just mention that the House of Sherring has its main office on Wall Street and would be only too happy to help out.”
Looking grim again, the Commander came in with a surprising knowledge of financial politics – surprising to Ranklin, anyway. “Madam, I can only see us needing to sell more Treasury bonds abroad in an exceptional circumstance – such as a European war. And a long one.”
“Is that truly so?” Corinna was an innocent little girl again. “Dear me. Still, it helps to be prepared, don’t you think? So you will remember?”