The time for Eddie Zamporini to stand trial for suspected murder was fast approaching. But a last minute change of judge throws lawyer Billy Noble’s case into doubt. Especially considering the judge that will now hear his case was once engaged to him. C. C. Smith continues the story of Carlton Place.


What did it matter who the judge was? They could bring on Solomon, for all Billy cared.
His claim of being personally acquainted with the judge at Eddie Zamporini’s forthcoming murder trial had been a giant bluff. But the real lie – no, not an actual lie, just not the whole truth – was letting Eddie think it would make the slightest bit of difference whether Billy was pally with “M’Lord”, had merely a nodding acquaintance, or had never met him in his puff.
The jury – the fifteen people who decided on guilt or innocence – would be the usual random collection of people he wouldn’t trust to remember the plot of a film. Some would listen avidly throughout the trial, making notes. Others would dream the days away, relying on their more conscientious brethren to steer them through. There were usually two or three old ladies of either sex susceptible to a bit of old-fashioned barnstorming oratory – which is why he always went for Tavish Clyde QC. All told, he thought, I can manage the jury just fine.
When Billy arrived to discuss the case, Clyde was already in full flow.
“Unbelievable,” he declared. “A late substitution. Lady Lawson. Complete newcomer.”
“Where have you been?” smirked back Clyde’s junior, Ed MacDonald, who liked being in the know. “She’s been a temporary judge for ages. Never thought she would go for permanent office, mind you. And criminal work will be a change for her.”
Beside them, Billy Noble had gone a strange shade of grey.
“You know, I’m not surprised she’s been appointed,” continued MacDonald.
“Well, frankly, I am surprised,” grouched Clyde. “The woman who instituted “stitch and bitch” evenings for the girlies? Knitting. Trying to make some kind of point about golf outings. That’s taking the feminism too far, eh?”
“D’you know, Allister MacAllister learned to knit specially so he could go along. I still have the teacosy he gave me for Christmas,” offered MacDonald.
“Nihil humani alienum, eh?” grunted Clyde.
“Anyway,” continued MacDonald, settling down for a good legal gossip, “I heard that the reason she hated golf outings was not because she couldn’t play. Apparently, she played off a handicap of two, so it was torture to go round a course with all those old duffers. And apparently there’s a whole subculture out there who can’t spare the time for golf but don’t mind doing something civilized for an hour or two after the kids are in bed. It was either the knitting or the dreaded book group. Before you could say “purl one”, she’d got a good network going for her practice. Plenty talent. Oh, and Allister too.”
“What do you make of Lady Lawson, Billy?” asked Clyde sociably.
“Moira.” He was going to have to say it. “I used to be engaged to her.” Even keeping his eyes on the impeccable creases in his vicuna suit trousers, he was conscious of the stares of the other two men. “It was a long time ago. We split up so I could marry Anna. It ended quite amicably. Considering.”
MacDonald’s eyes widened in delight. “So: she could have been Lady Noble?”
Billy grimaced. No, she could never have been Lady Noble. She would have been Mrs Noble for the rest of her life. Even if she eventually gave up on him, just like Anna, plain Mrs Noble for the rest of her life.
Clyde glared at his junior. There was a time for gossip, and a time for professionalism. He cleared his throat. “In your expert view, Mr Noble,” he began coldly, “what would a reasonable and informed person think are your client’s chances of getting a fair trial in the present circumstances?”
“Excellent. Perfect,” said Billy, faking nonchalance even as his plans were unravelling. All he wanted now was a quick trial, and the chance to get away. “Moira was always as straight as a die and it was a long time ago. I’m sure it all means less than nothing to her now.” Clyde regarded him stonily. Billy rushed on. “And anyway, we’ll get him off. If by some mischance there has to be an appeal, you can play the “unfair trial” card then. Or somebody can.”
“If Lady Lawson has any sense, she won’t be party to any of that. And neither will I.” Clyde rose bulkily. “First the bad publicity, now this. You’re a liability, Billy Noble. I don’t need your business.”
He opened the door. MacDonald smiled an embarrassed “sorry, pal”. Mechanically, Billy passed through.
In the street, Billy’s Aston Martin had been very deliberately scratched with a coin. “Never used to happen,” reflected Billy. “Could park it anywhere.” Soon he wouldn’t be able to park anywhere at all; and the car would be safer than he would. If he did not represent Eddie Zamporini, the deal would be broken and he could expect little mercy from padrone Mario.
As he returned to Carlton Place, Billy became aware of a commotion outside his offices. Warily, he stopped the car. Several uniformed police officers surrounded Mario Zamporini, who was shouting as loudly as his age and his incipient emphysema would allow him. Veronica Pryce, Billy’s secretary, was on the steps, wringing her hands. Two of Zamporini’s hired hands were being led away. DI Cat Hackett was a spring blossom beside her monochrome colleagues as they guided the elder Zamporini towards the waiting police vehicle.
There was nothing surprising about the family of the accused making a nuisance of themselves; that happened all the time. But Mario was not shouting about his son. And he was breaking the cardinal rule: “say nothing”. While denying everything, he was singing like an asthmatic canary.
Billy joined Veronica on the steps as the van drove away. “What the hell has happened?”
Without shifting her gaze, she said, “I grassed him up. Proceeds of Crime.”
“But the evidence is at the bottom of the Clyde.”
“There’s other evidence,” replied Veronica.