I pass over the reading of the indictment, my pleading and the opening of the case. The Prosecutor said that although it was a most simple case, which would not occupy the attention of the court very long, it was at the same time one of the most flagrant and audacious robberies that had ever been brought before the court of the Old Bailey: that the facts were few: that he was not aware of any possible line of defence: 'Oh yes,' observed my Counsel, smiling, 'a very possible line of defence': that he, for one, should be prepared to receive any line of defence that could be set up. But he thought his learned brother would not waste the time of the Court.
He then rehearsed the history of the facts and proceeded to call the witnesses. First he called Samuel Carstairs, Doctor of Divinity (I do not intend to set down the whole of the evidence given by him or by the others because you already know it).
The Doctor, with alacrity, stepped into the witness-box: he was clean shaven, in a new wig, a silken cassock; snow white bands; and a flowing gown. But that his face was red and his neck swollen and his appearance fleshy and sensual—things which may sometimes be observed even among the City Clergy—he presented the appearance of a prosperous ecclesiastic. For my own part I can never satisfy myself whether he was in Holy Orders at all. One hopes, for the sake of the Church that he was not. After kissing the Testament with fervour, he turned an unblushing front to the Prosecutor. He said that he was a Clergyman, a Doctor of Divinity, formerly of Trinity College, Dublin, and some time the holder of certain benefices in the neighbourhood of that city. He deposed that on the night in question he was making his way through Leicester Fields to Charing Cross at the time of nine in the evening or thereabouts: that suddenly a young man rushed out of some dark recess and flourished a cudgel over him, crying, 'Your money or your life!' That being a man of peace, as becomes his profession, he instantly complied with the demand and handed over his purse: that he also cried out either on account of the extremity of his fear, or for help: that help came in the shape of a stranger, who felled the ruffian: that they called the watch: carried the senseless robber to the guard-house, and that the witness's purse was found in his pocket.
My counsel deferred cross-examining this witness for the present.
Next came the Captain. He, too, stood unabashed while he poured out his tale of perjury. He assumed the style and title of a Gentleman from the North, Mr. Ferdinando Fenwick: and he entirely bore out the previous witness's evidence. My counsel also deferred his cross-examination of this witness.
Mr. Merridew was the third witness. He followed suit. He deposed that he was a Sheriff's officer. He had seen the assault and the rescue: he had also helped to carry the robber to the round house. This witness's cross-examination was also deferred.
Mr. Probus, attired in black velvet with fine lace ruffles and neckerchief, so that his respectable appearance could not but impress the jury, said that he was passing the watch-house, by accident, about midnight, having been summoned by a client, when he saw an unconscious figure carried in: that he followed from motives of humanity hoping to be of use to some fellow Christian: that he then perceived, to his amazement, that the robber was none other than the son of his old friend and employer the late Sir Peter Halliday, Alderman and ex-Lord Mayor: that he saw the worthy clergyman's purse taken from his pocket so that there could be no doubt of his guilt. He also added that it was four years and more since Sir Peter had turned his son out of doors, since when he believed that the young man had earned a precarious living by playing the fiddle to sailors and such low company.
Then the cross-examination began.
My counsel asked him first, whether he knew any of the three preceding witnesses. He did not: they were strangers to him. Had he never seen the man Merridew? He never had. Did not Merridew owe him money? He did not. He was now attorney to Mr. Matthew Halliday? Had he ever taken the man Merridew to Mr. Halliday's counting-house? He had not. 'In fact, Mr. Probus, you know nothing at all about Mr. Merridew?' 'Nothing.' 'And nothing about the other two men?' 'Nothing.'
'I come now, Mr. Probus, to a question which will astonish the Court. Will you tell me in what way the prisoner's death will benefit you?'