Blood Royal by Harold Robbins Page A

“His Lordship is the Honorable Lord Chief Justice, retired. He brings to our team a half a century of judicial experience and leadership.”
    Lord Finfall shook hands, giving a rough heavy paw that Marlowe guessed from the calluses she felt had seen some gardening recently. He appeared to be in his seventies. His jowls had begun to droop and liver spots blotted the delicate pale skin on his hands and face. She assumed that a Lord Chief Justice was something akin to Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court. And that the “Lord” part made him a peer of the realm. She wondered if he had been brought out of retirement to throw his great prestige behind the defense. He was definitely Yesterday, while Trent was Today.
    “Helen Catters. Helen is a barrister by profession and is on the Board of the London Family Council. She brings to us her experience and reputation in handling family matters in court, a very important skill, since our client, the princess, is well known for her concern for the two princes.”
    “A pleasure,” Helen Catters said. Catters did not stand up, nor offer to shake hands.
    A divorce lawyer with a social worker background, Marlowe guessed, or something akin to it. Catters looked to be in her early fifties, Marlowe thought, a rather plain, large-busted, thick-waisted woman with dark brown hair who probably tended to blend into the background at social events except when her opinion was solicited on family matters.
    Dr. Duncan McMann introduced himself with a Scottish growl. McMann was a big man, bull-necked, with a flat, broad face and sandy hair that was already turning gray even though Marlowe guessed his age at around the same as hers.
    “Dr. McMann is a psychiatrist and teaches at the University of Edinburgh,” Trent said. “He is one of the most distinguished forensic psychiatrists in Britain. He is also able to give us the northern view on the matter.”
    Marlowe nodded, trying to look suitably impressed. She instantly evaluated him in terms of his jury appeal as an expert witness and didn’t like his demeanor—he had that casual arrogance of doctors who let you know that someday you’ll be dying and will need them. “Northern view,” she guessed, was the Scottish view, a not-too-difficult presumption since Scotland was to the north.
    Lawrence Dewey introduced himself and shook hands.
    “Larry is with Bartlett’s, the best public relations firm in Britain,” Trent said. “He’s also a solicitor, and has taken leave to join our team.”
    Dewey appeared to be in his fifties, a slender man with narrow, pinched features, creating the impression of an inquisitive bird.
    “And this distinguished gentleman is Sir Fredic Nelson. Sir Fredic is the princess’s solicitor and he is the instructing solicitor in this matter.”
    Sir Fredic looked very much the wealthy, successful corporate attorney Marlowe took him to be. Corporate attorneys worked on the business side of law, representing major entities, battles of titans against each other and battles of titans against little people. It was not an area of law practice she, as a street lawyer, could relate to.
    Anthony Trent said, “And of course you have already met Philip, who will be assisting me in the trial. Won’t you have a seat, Miss James?”
    Trent showed her to a seat at the opposite head of the table from where he had been seated.
    “Please call me Marlowe.”
    “Of course. We are all on a first-name basis here,” Trent said. “And with Lord Finfall and Sir Fredic, we use both their first names.”
    There was a polite laugh around the table. Trent took his seat at the end of the table opposite Marlowe and Philip took a seat at his right side.
    There was a silence as the seven people stared at her.
    She smiled and raised her eyebrows. “I take it I have the hot seat.”
    There were polite chuckles from Dewey and McMann. Helen Catters coughed with what was probably a bit of a laugh.
    Anthony Trent smiled, exposing