by John Wilcox
The warmth of her, coupled with his anxiety, was too much for Josh. He clung to her and found himself sobbing.
‘Shush, shush, my love. You must be strong. You are not in this alone. We are with you.’ She kissed away his tears. ‘It will come out right. You will see.’
‘Oh, Rowena.’ He took out a tattered handkerchief and blew his nose, gently pushing her away. ‘I am sorry to sound like a baby. But this is all too much. How did I get into this mess? Who hates me so much that they would see me hang?’
‘Oh, Josh, I wish I knew. I just don’t know.’
The day of the trial saw the sky hang over Barnstaple like a grey cloak, with soft rain falling. Josh had begged some hot water from the jailer and had been able to shave, giving him, he felt, some veneer of respectability, even though his clothing now had become creased and dishevelled.
He was escorted to the courtroom by a soldier from the Barnstable militia, his hands tied behind his back. Luckily it was a short walk and he arrived having avoided a complete drenching. His case was the first – perhaps the only one? he wondered – and his heart fell as he saw Rowena sitting alone in the gallery. Oh God! Was the doctor too ill to attend?
He was ushered into a box-like ‘dock’ as the soldier had called it, facing the magistrate’s chair behind the high bench and he looked around the courtroom. Sitting before him was his counsel, looking young under his white wig and clutching a bundle of notes. A short distance to his right was another lawyer, considerably older. Prosecuting counsel, presumably. There were no witnesses that he could recognise. Perhaps they were not allowed in the courtroom until they were called to give evidence? The public gallery where Rowena sat, however, was crowded. Obviously, murder was a draw for the good people of Barnstaple who had nothing else to do that morning. He sighed.
‘All stand.’
Sir George stumped into view from behind his chair, dressed exactly as before and Josh half expected him to be carrying a shotgun or fishing rod. He nodded to the court and everyone sat.
‘Now, then.’ The magistrate took out his red handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘As usual I will explain that this hearing is merely to convince me that there is enough substantial evidence to retain the accused in custody and present him to the Assizes in Exeter on,’ he consulted his notes, ‘15th December of this year for trial on this capital charge of murder. I will expect counsel to confine their presentations to this purpose.’
He nodded to the older lawyer. ‘Mr Bowyer, please proceed.’
The prosecuting lawyer stood. ‘Thank you, Your Honour. The defendant has already entered a not-guilty plea to the charge. I shall call witnesses to show that the accused,’ he looked for the first time up at Josh, ‘had the opportunity and the motive for murdering Mr James Drake and that there is indeed just cause why this case should be heard at the higher court.’
‘Very well,’ Sir George nodded. ‘Get on with it, then.’
‘Call Doctor Acland.’
Thank goodness, sighed Josh. The good man was well enough to attend.
The doctor came into the court and took the oath. He looked, indeed, drawn and haggard and Josh could not but help feeling distress on his behalf.
‘Did you examine the corpse at Harland Quay on the morning of October 12th?’
‘I did.’
‘And what were your conclusions?’
‘That the poor man had been killed by the cutting of his throat by a knife or some such weapon, which had caused severe bleeding and death. He had also been hanged and there were rope marks around his neck, but I am sure that these did not contribute to his death. He had died before being hanged.’
‘Can you give us some indication of the time of death?’
‘I should say some ten hours before my examination, which would put the murder taking place at, say, eleven or twelve of the clock the previous night. But I can’t be precise on this point.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’
Sir George waved his handkerchief towards Bright. ‘Any questions for this witness?’
‘No, Your Honour.’
‘You may stand down, Doctor Acland. Call your next witness, Mr Bowyer.’
Josh frowned. Did not the doctor promise to give evidence of his good character and of his injured leg? Perhaps there would be an opportunity later.
The appearance of the next witness, however, took him by surprise. It was Jacob Millbury, the landlord of the inn at Hartland. He scurried in, took a quick look at Josh and then stood importantly in the witness box, obviously enjoying every moment of the attention directed towards him. He was asked if he had been in the bar of the inn when Jem Drake and Tom Pengelly had been drinking with the defendant.
‘Oh yes, sur. I wus there all right an’ I ’eard most of what they were sayin’, like.’
Counsel for the prosecution smiled coldly. ‘And what were they saying?’
‘Well, it was more of an argument, see. This young man ’ere,’ he gestured towards Joshua, ‘was particularly pressin’ poor old Jem to tell ’im somethin’ an’ Jem wouldn’t. I got the impression, sur, that ’e was bein’ threatened by this fellow an’ Jem was a bit frightened, like. ’Im an’ Tom Pengelly scurried away as soon as they could.’
‘Really? What was he trying to extract from the two sailors?’
‘I couldn’t ’ear that much. But this fellow ’ere,’ he indicated Josh again, ‘seemed particularly threatenin’ to poor old Jem. I remember that very well.’
‘Thank you, Mr Millbury.’
‘Any questions for this witness?’ Sir George’s voice seemed to thunder through the courtroom.
‘No, Your Honour.’
Joshua’s jaw dropped. Was his counsel going to let Millbury get away with giving evidence that was all innuendo and certainly harmful? Yet he and Josh had not discussed the meeting with the two sailors so, presumably, he could not cross-examine. What to do? He shrugged his shoulders. No doubt his turn would come and he could then set the record straight.
The next witness was Tom Pengelly. Josh was now becoming apprehensive. Would he twist the facts?
Pengelly stood tall and straight in the witness box, not at all overwhelmed by his unfamiliar surroundings. He answered Bowyer’s questions clearly and without hesitation. He said that the last time he had seen Jem Drake was the day before his disappearance when they parted as normal as he, Pengelly, began his long walk back home to Morwenstow. Yes, he remembered well the meeting in the inn. The defendant accused Jem of attacking him and grew angry when this was denied. Pengelly had to take Drake away to avoid possible violence. Then, he had been called in when the body was found and the defendant accused him of being a suspect in the killing, which was nonsense. Jem Drake was his best friend and shipmate and in no way could he ever hurt him.
Once again, Bright declined to question the witness. Josh shook his head in amazement. Where was this forensic cross-examination of witnesses that he had been promised? So far, all of the evidence that had been presented was incriminating towards him. When would he be allowed to answer these slurs?
The last witness was Captain Cunningham. The tall man presented a handsome figure in the box. He was wearing his best uniform of dark blue with a white stock at his throat and his boots were highly polished. His black hair had been pomaded and was brushed back so that it appeared almost burnished. He was authority and confidence personified.
Would Cap’n Jack, his self-declared friend, wondered Josh, tell the truth to the court at last? It soon became apparent that he would not.
He explained that, after seeing the body in the doctor’s stable, he had immediately ridden to where the dead man had been found. At the base of the tree he found marks made by a heavily laden horse and, by their side, distinctive impressions in the mud left by a pair of riding boots, the right boot of which had some sort of attachment to it, as though a crutch was fixed to it.
A hush fell on the court as Bowyer looked up at the magistrate and then, meaningfully, at Josh. ‘Captain, w
hich person of any significance in this case was using a crutch to get about at that time?’
‘The defendant, sir. He had damaged a leg on being shipwrecked at Morwenstow, but by that time was seen in the village and on the moorland walking comparatively easily. Indeed, some days before the murder, he had been involved in a fracas with some of my men on the moor and I observed him there swinging a sword very ably. He wounded one of my men in what seemed to be a fit of rage and I had to intervene to prevent further harm being done. He was obviously a man of high temper.’
Josh drew in his breath. The swine!
‘There were no other footprints on the ground underneath the tree from which the victim had been hanging?’
‘No, sir. These were very distinct and I took careful note of them. Sadly, people have been showing a maudlin interest in the scene of the crime and since my observation of the scene, many folk have walked up there to look at the tree, and the ground underneath it has been well trampled.’
‘Ahem.’ The magistrate leant forward. ‘This is important evidence. Did you not think, Captain Cunningham, to ask the militia to cordon off the scene?’
Ah, thought Josh gratefully, someone was challenging Cunningham!
For a brief moment the captain looked nonplussed. ‘I’m afraid not, Your Worship.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have much to do and I fear the thought did not cross my mind.’
‘Very well.’ Sir George made a note.
Bowyer now returned to the fray. ‘It is for His Honour to consider what you have said and apply to it whatever relevance he feels is appropriate.’ He made a deferential half bow towards the magistrate, who scowled down at him. ‘But it is clear that the defendant had the opportunity and the ability to carry out this crime. However, can you help His Honour as to the question of what motive he might have for committing such a dastardly deed?’
Cunningham flashed his teeth. ‘I believe so, sir. For some reason, Weyland believed that Jem Drake had attacked him some time earlier, although there were no witnesses to that happening. I should add here, sir, that Drake was a simple soul, a sailor who was much liked in Hartland. He was of timid disposition and most certainly would not have launched an attack on anyone. Yet Weyland seemed to be full of revenge towards him, as you will have heard from a previous witness. This must have been a revenge killing. As a man of high temper, he must be the prime suspect in this case, I would suggest.’
‘Well of course he is,’ Sir George waved his handkerchief, ‘otherwise he wouldn’t be in the dock, damn it.’ Then he blew his nose stentoriously.
‘Indeed, sir.’ Bowyer bowed to the bench. Then to Cunningham: ‘Would you have perceived any weapon that he could have used in attacking Drake?’
‘Oh yes. Weyland always wore a long knife hanging from his belt.’
Sir George leant forward. ‘Where is it? Has it been found and examined?’
‘I am afraid not, Your Honour.’
‘Humph. Pray continue.’
‘I have finished examining the witness, Your Honour.’
‘Yes, well, I have not. You say, Captain, that the defendant wounded one of your men in an affray on the heath.’
‘Er, yes, Your Honour.’
‘Why, then, did you not arrest him?’
‘Because, er, I do not have that power, unless the person concerned was contravening the law concerning Customs and the Revenue.’
‘Why, then, did you not call in the militia and present a charge against him of unlawful wounding, eh?’
Cunningham was undoubtedly flustered. ‘It just, er, did not occur to me to do so, Your Honour.’
‘Yet you have done so to bring him to court today on a charge of murder.’
‘Yes, Your Honour. It, er, seemed a much, er, graver matter that I could not overlook in this case.’
‘Hmm. Very well. Please remain at the witness stand. Now, Mr …’ Sir George looked down at his notes ‘… Mr Bright, you may now question the witness.’
‘I have no questions for him, Your Honour.’
‘Really? No questions?’
‘No Your Honour. I do not think it necessary.’
‘Well, well. Do you have any witnesses to call?’
‘Only the defendant, Your Honour.’
‘Then let us hear from him.’
Joshua, still trembling with a mixture of rage, indignation and fear from listening to Cunningham’s evidence, stepped forward but remained in the prisoner’s dock. He stated his name and his profession, ‘Sailor, qualified second mate.’ He looked up to the public gallery and Rowena smiled down on him, clutching both her hands into fists and raised them above her head.
It had to be said that the defending counsel presented a much less imposing figure than the counsel for the prosecution. A titter ran round the public gallery as he stepped forward, carrying a bundle of notes – which he promptly dropped.
‘Take your time, Mr Bright,’ said the magistrate. ‘We can wait.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘No, you must address me as “Your Honour”. Now get on with it, er, as best you can.’
Bright coughed and put his notes onto the table before him. ‘Mr Weyland,’ he began, in a thin, reedy voice. ‘Did you kill James Drake?’
‘No, I did not. And I refute the evidence given that I bullied him. On the contrary, I owed him a debt of gratitude.’
‘Why was that?’
‘It was he and Thomas Pengelly who rescued me off the rocks of Morwenstow when my ship, the brig Lucy, foundered some six weeks ago. All of the crew were lost, except me, and I would surely have drowned had not Mr Pengelly and Mr Drake risked their lives to pull me off a rock that was continually being swept by the waves.’
Sir George’s red handkerchief fluttered. ‘Now, Mr Bright,’ he said, ‘this would have been better elicited from the witness Pengelly. Why did you not produce this information from him in examination?’
‘Ah, er, I was not aware of that circumstance, Your Honour.’
‘Well, you should have been. It has a bearing on the case. Now, Mr Bowyer, if your witness denies what I have just heard, you have my permission to bring him forward again. If he does not, then we do not wish to hear him a second time.’
‘Very good, Your Honour.’
‘Proceed, Mr Bright.’
‘Ah, thank you, sir … Your Honour.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘You have heard two witnesses say that you bore a grudge against Mr Drake who, it seems, you said had assaulted you.’
Joshua took in a deep breath. He knew that this was a weak point in his case. Why had the two men who had rescued him attacked him later? He could give no rational explanation. He must tell the truth and hope that Sir George, who was maintaining a shrewd, common-sense control of the proceedings, would tolerate the seeming contradiction.
‘Not a grudge. But I knew it was he and his great friend Thomas Pengelly who had, indeed, attacked me when I was alone about two weeks after my rescue.’
Bright’s jaw dropped and it was clear that he did not know which way to go now. Sir George inevitably stepped into the breach.
‘They attacked you,’ he said, frowning down from the bench. ‘Why was that?’
‘That is what I was trying to ascertain when I confronted them in the inn at Hartland.’
‘You recognised them, then, did you?’
‘Yes, Your Honour. Not from their faces, though, because they were covered when they attempted to beat me with clubs. In defending myself – although I was handicapped by having to lean on a crutch – I drew my sailor’s knife. I hit the smaller of the two, Mr Drake, across the cheek with my crutch, bruising his cheekbone, and I delivered a cut to the arm of Mr Pengelly and to his face before they both ran away. I recognised those wounds immediately when I saw them in the inn and therefore challenged them.’
Sir George ostentatiously made a note. ‘Mr Bowyer, pray ensure that the witness Pengelly does not leave the courthouse. I shall wish to inspect his physical appearance.’
‘I don’t care how unusual it is, sir. Make sure he stays here. D’yer understand?’
‘Very good, Your Honour.’
‘Now, continue, Mr Bright – preferably without my assistance.’
‘I am grateful, for it, sir …’
‘Oh get on with it, man.’
‘Ah, yes sir. Now, Mr Westerly …’
‘Weyland.’ The correction came from the bench.
‘Mr Weyland, yes. Were there any witnesses to this encounter?’
Damn your eyes! thought Josh. You are doing the prosecutor’s job for him. You should have ascertained this before the hearing, so that we could have steered clear of it. ‘No. As far as I know, none.’
‘Very well. Now,’ he bent down to pick up a fallen note. ‘Can you tell the court where you were at about the time Mr Drake was murdered, that is about eleven or twelve o’clock on the night before you found the body?’
‘Yes. I was in Doctor Acland’s house and, I should think, soundly asleep in my bedroom there.’
‘Can anyone confirm this?’
‘Well, the doctor was not there, of course, because he was on his way back from London. But Miss Acland was in the house, although, of course, in her own bedroom. If I had left the house, however, she would undoubtedly have heard me. It is a very quiet house.’
‘Indeed. When, the next morning, in answer to the deceased mother’s anxiety, you volunteered to search for him with Miss Acland, why did you make for Hartland Point?’
‘We did not, at first, but headed towards Morwenstow. Then, Miss Acland suggested we should climb to the top of the Point. I think that she felt this would be the obvious place for Jem Drake to make for, if, that is, he contemplated suicide.’
‘Now, wait a minute.’ The magistrate leant forward. ‘Is there any evidence at all that the deceased did, in fact, contemplate suicide? Mr Bowyer? Mr Bright?’
Two wigs were shaken negatively. ‘Very well, continue.’
Bright coughed again as he fumbled with his papers. ‘What did you find underneath the tree when you reached it?’
