"And so His Lordship had no Choice, but to hear the Case. However, such was the Power of His Lordship's Invection condemning the Propriety of such a Trial, that Mr. Sneare declin'd to prosecute, being fearful of further Damage to his already battered Reputation, having been soundly trounc'd earlier in the Sessions by me. In the mean whiles, as you might expect, Squire George beseech'd me to deliver the Hag, as it was a capital Crime and should she be found Guilty, she must hang. There was great Danger."
"Fiddlesticks, Sir. Why the Defence must have been as easy as licking a Plate,” says Sir Edm., “there being no competent Adversary in the Proceedings."
Ambury: “But she would not forswear being a Witch, Sir."
"Then she was only to be kept from testifying."
"Her unpleasant and garrulous Character is unaccounted for by your Reckoning, Sir. She could not be silenced."
"But surely no Jury would pay Heed to the wild Ravings of a crazy old Woman."
"The Jury was hostile, Sir—as Sir Hugo had not been idle in Exeter. He had become a Friend to every Gentleman, hail and well-met, hearty and generous—and free with his Purse, especially in Ale-houses. And Devonshire, Sir, is not Cambridge, where Science and Reason circumscribe the Passions. He thus ensured himself of a sympathetic Jury."
"How is such Interference with the Course of Justice to be borne?” cries Larkins. “The man's a Rascal through and through."
Ambury: “Such are the Customs in those rude Parts. I fear, also, that he had learnt much from Squire George's example in the preceding Trial."
Sir Edm. snorts and says: “Very well. Then what Defence did you present?"
"You misunderstand, Sir Edmund. I did not defend. Contra, I prosecuted."
Were it silent when Ambury first announc'd his Adventure, ‘twas nothing to the sudden Hush then, Stillness like unto Death, made more dramatick by succeeding Uproar, all Bears and Bulldogs.
Finally Thrawley by much bellowing and prodigal Gesticulation restores a Semblance of Calm and Rectitude, and he says, choaking with Passion, “D—n it, man, you don't mean to say that you prosecuted the poor old Bat?"
"The Evidence, alas, was overwhelming,” Ambury replies with a small cruel Smile, “even out of her own Mouth. Villagers severally testified that they had been caused to vomit Pins and Needles after incurring her Ire, and produc'd crude Dolls she had purposed for Curses and Maledictions, stuff'd with Herbs, the crack'd Bones of Wrens and Blackbirds, and the unwholesome Dust of decrepit Gravestones, and the Witnesses related divers Afflictions occasioned thereby, exhibiting such Boils and Sores and scabrous Rashes as she had severally inflicted upon ‘em. And also the Cows of any who had offended her yielded not Milk, but a pale, thin and unwholesome Liquor, until such Time as she received Redress for their Offenses."
"Squire George must have been much enrag'd,” says Thrawley. “Did he not ask you to deliver the Crone, not put her Neck in the Noose?"
"Of the Squire, I have for the present Nothing to say,” says Ambury, now openly smiling, eyes gleaming like the very D—l, “but we now come to the Crux of the Matter. These Events transpir'd at Midsummer. The most difficult Task in the Trial was one of timing, for it was imperative that the Jury deliver their Verdict on Saturday morning, but that His Lordship not pronounce Sentence until Monday."
"Thus providing you with the entire Week-end—but to what Purpose?” asks Easton.
"Why, the Fact of it being the Week-end was entirely coincidental,” Ambury says. “Surely you must guess the true Reason for the Delay."
"I observe that you have not told us the Verdict,” says Sir Edm., methinks somewhat sullen, “but it takes no Genius to divine that you did not prevail, for had there been a Conviction, we should all of us have learnt of it—such a Circumstance would have been justly Infamous, as we inhabit a Rational Age, where the Light of Reason guides our every Action. Therefore the Judge's Sentence could not have been in it—for I have just prov'd that there was no Sentence. Tell us therefore somewhat of the Defence, and how you were defeated."
"But you are mistaken,” says Ambury. “She was found Guilty, as I had always designed."
Blast and D—nation and Hell-fire. Penelope has found me. Never was wise Socrates tormented so by shrewish Xanthippe, nor proud Jason by foul Harpy. More anon.
Tuesday, April ye 21, 1750
Theobald's Row, London.
Penelope ill. Braked violently mid-morning this Day and last, losing all her Breakfast, but not, at least, regorging Needles and Pins. Methinks it due to too many Oysters, for which she has recently developed a great Craving. Rebuked Bessie her Maid for calling all Men blind Fools and vain Idiots, especially Husbands. Would dismiss the Trull, but P will not hear it, calling her Godsend and Angel, and when I broached this Intention, P said most waspish, “But did you not long ago tell me that the Truth is a Defence?” and forbade it.
D—n it All to Hell!
Summon'd the Chymist, who after having examin'd my Wife told me such Things pass, and dos'd her with Ginger, and then gaz'd upon me, amus'd as if I some snotty Brat. But for now Peace reigneth.
Ambury, his Story cont'd:
"And how could she be found guilty?” demands Sir Edm., “How on such Evidence? The Vomiting of Pins and Needles has long been known as a Species of Fraud, even by so credulous a Daemonologer as King James himself. And Dolls, I ask you, Dolls, D—n me! Are we to ascribe evil Powers to mere Dolls on the Words of a Madwoman or a bevy of feculent Villeins? And have not Cows failed to provide Milk when they had no Grass? Did I not hear you claim that the Ground was not fecund in those parts? Or do you say that you yourself believed her in League with Lucifer?"
"It matter'd not one whit what I believ'd, Sir Edmund,” says Ambury. “'Twas a matter of the Law, which I have sworn to uphold, as have we all."
"But how could you have agreed to prosecute such a perfidious Charge,” says Thrawley, “knowing, as you must have done, that the Law was itself about to change, concerning the Prosecution of Witchcraft?"
Much Noise.
"At last, at last—” Ambury says, but the Din too great, finally he jumps up on the Wash-tub, attempting to pacificate th'Assembly with his arms, after which somewhat Quiet repris'd.
"At last, someone hath put his Finger upon the relevant fact,” Ambury says. “For I told ye Jane Thornwold had been charged under the Witchcraft Act of 1604—but this was the Year 1736! Furthermore, it was Midsummer of the year 1736, as I have also inform'd ye."
"I have no Idea what the D—l he is talking about,” Easton says to me, and yawns. “Wake me when ‘tis over."
"What he is talking about is the Witchcraft Act of 1735,” says Thrawley, “in which the Penalty for practicing Witchcraft was chang'd from Death, to Imprisonment for one Year without Benefit of Bail or Mainprize, and also to be plac'd in the Pillory for an Hour once ev'ry Quarter during the Sentence, and also to surrender a Surety to the Court in Guarantee of good Behaviour. It took effect in the Year ‘36."
"In the Summer of the Year ‘36,” Ambury points out. “I must not let Jane Thornwold be tried under the new Statute—she would never have surviv'd the Bridewell, let alone the Contempt of the Publick in the Pillory, and I had been charg'd with delivering her."
"I cannot see that having her convicted to hang is the more merciful,” says Sir Edm..
"That is why the timing was so critical—she must be convicted on Saturday, June ye 23, for the new Law was to take effect the next Day, ye 24, which, being the Sabbath, precluded the Court from being in Session,” Ambury says. “Then on Monday, ye 25, all that needs be done is to present a Motion for Habeas Corpus."
"G-d's Teeth, but I do not follow, Ambury. What was to prevent his Lordship from simply imposing the lesser Penalty, she being found guilty?” asks Larkins.
"Precisely because she was guilty, Lark,” says Ambury. “According to the Act of 1604, following the original Act of 1541, ‘twas a Felony to practice Conjuration, Witchcraft, Enchantment or Sorcery; or to consume any
Person in his Body, Members or Goods; or to provoke any Person to unlawful Love; or for the Despight of Christ, or Lucre of Money, to pull down any Cross; or to declare where Goods stolen be.
"But the Act of 1735 outlawed the Pretense of practicing Witchcraft, Sorcery, Inchantment, or Conjuration, and furthermore forbade any Prosecution, Suit, or Proceeding, against any Person or Persons for Witchcraft, Sorcery, &c., or the charging another with any such Offence, in any Court whatsoever in Great Britain. Do you now see?"
"I'm not certain,” says Larkins.
"Jane Thornwold was convicted of Witchcraft on Saturday, but on Sunday that were no Crime—only the Pretense of same was so defined. And she could not be prosecuted for pretending to be a Witch under the new Law, because the Court had already established that she was an Actual Witch, and no Pretender."
"And so she must be set free by the Laws of England!” Sir Edm. cries. “Capital, I must say! Jolly good."
"Which she was, that very Monday,” Ambury replies.
"Monstrous clever and most instructive, Mr. Ambury,” Thrawley says. “And so Squire George must have been very pleased."
"He was pleased that I had gotten his Tenant off, less so with later Consequences, but as I pointed out, those were his In- structions, and I followed them explicitly to the Letter."
"He was not happy, then? But why not?"
"Because it were more difficult for him to Proceed with his Suit for Slander agin Sir Hugo, which should have been as easy as kiss my Hand had she been acquitted. For even though Jane Thornwold be now free, yet she had been found to be a Witch by an English Court, which as I mention'd, was Sir Hugo's entire Purpose. But I, of course, was quite satisfied."
"Of course you were, being a Champion of Justice,” says Sir Edm..
"Not for that Reason, Sir Edmund—but for the Reason, that to Prevail in his Suit, Squire George requir'd the Services of a clever Attorney, viz., my Self—but that is a Story for another Evening."
And so more Wine.
* * * *
Wednesday, April ye 22, 1750
Theobald's Row, London.
Care not a Fig for the Club tonight, D—n them for mere Puppies—Am fill'd with Amaze and Joy!—Penelope is with Child!
My Dear! My Darling! My Beloved! My Sweet Heart! How could I ever have thought her Shrew, or Virago, or Harpy, or Nag? Now is All explain'd! How shall I e'er repent of my Thoughtlessness—how shall I put Right so much which I made Wrong?
But am I to be blam'd for my Blindness? For I am dazzled by her Beauty, her soft Voice, her gentle Manner, her Terpsichorean Grace.
She is my Goddess!
I am quite bewitched.
EXPLICIT.
Copyright (C) 2008 James Lincoln Warren
* * * *
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[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: NO. 40 BASIN STREET by O'Neil De Noux
* * * *
Tim Foley
* * * *
Tuesday, 1 November 1887
A mulatto holding an empty water jug with her head wrapped in a red tignon raced down the steps of the white mansion, stumbled past New Orleans foot patrolmen Concannon and Dugas, and ran screaming into the street. Dugas looked back at the mansion's front door as a white woman with rumpled blond hair and wearing a bright blue satin kimono came out and shouted, “Murder! Oh, my God, Murder!"
Jacques Dugas, his heart suddenly stammering, lifted his police whistle and let out a piercing screech, which echoed against the mansions along Basin Street.
"Put that away, laddie.” Concannon patted his rookie partner on the back and added, “Let's see what's amiss first."
Concannon, who stood a good four inches shorter than Dugas's six feet, led the way up the stairs. Both coppers wore sky blue bowlers, matching sky blue shirts with silver star-and-crescent badges pinned to their chests, and navy blue pants. Concannon was sixty, a few weeks from retirement, his hair long since turned gray. Clean-shaven, Concannon's face was craggy and his green eyes not near as sharp as when he was Dugas's age—twenty-two. Dugas was lean and light on his feet with dark brown eyes and dark brown hair parted down the center. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache in an attempt to look older. The blond woman at the top of the stairs was tall, nearly six feet, and babbled as the cops arrived at the doorway. She bounced in place, pointing inside.
Dugas knew this was a brothel, like all the mansions along Basin, but it was the first time he'd been inside one. Basin Street was once the finest residential thoroughfare in New Orleans, built up by the Americans while the Mediterraneans—the French and Spanish, and later the Sicilians—occupied the old Creole Vieux Carre. After the Civil War, in the chaos of reconstruction, brothels replaced the displaced rebel sympathizers, and the decent residents of Basin Street quickly moved across Canal Street into the Faubourg Ste. Marie.
Past the heavy oak front door, ornately carved and embellished with a thick pane of cut glass, Dugas followed Concannon up a huge spiral staircase to where four sobbing women stood. Their faces were streaked and smudged with the previous evening's paint, and each wore semi-sheer undergarments that hid little of their abundant endowments. Dugas tried not to stare as he passed, turning left to trail Concannon into a large bedroom. He stopped in the doorway.
A redheaded woman lay belly-up, sprawled across a huge four-post bed, her head dangling over the side. She was a small woman, her white chemise ripped, wicked gashes sliced into her pallid flesh. A sea of bright red blood glistened on the hardwood floor beneath the bed. There were at least six dozen yellow roses in vases around the room. Dugas felt his breakfast rising in his throat and fought to keep it down in the pungent atmosphere of blood and roses.
A head rose from the far side of the bed, taking the cops by surprise. It was a young woman in a white nightgown. Her long dark hair hung straight and her large blue eyes blinked at them before she reached over and began rubbing the dead woman's foot.
"What are you up to, lass?” Concannon moved to the bed.
"Rubbing the life back into her.” She began crying. “I chafe the hands ... and feet, the ankles and wrists."
Shaking his head, Concannon went around and lifted the young woman by her shoulders. “That'll do her no good now.” He checked the victim's pulse, turned, and looked at Dugas. He guided the young woman to Dugas and told him, “Keep everyone outta the room. I'll fetch a doctor."
Dugas braced himself in the doorway as the young woman told Concannon, “There's a doctor upstairs."
"Upstairs?"
"He's with ... he's upstairs."
Another of the women led the way up the staircase as the wailing women began shuffling down the stairs to the first floor. Dugas caught another scent, perfume from the young woman standing next to him in her nightgown. She turned her eyes to him and wiped tears from them.
"Did you see what happened?"
She shook her head. “I was in my room. In the attic."
Dugas nodded to the body. “Who was she?"
"Kate. Madame Kate Jones. She owns this house.” The young woman put her hand on Dugas's arm. “You'll know her as Crimson Kate."
Crimson Kate. Dugas had heard the name many times before. The most infamous madam on Basin Street, it was rumored Crimson Kate's tenderloins were the most notorious in the nation. The madam traveled the world to secure her “female boarders,” as they were listed in the New Orleans City Directory.
"What's your name?"
"Marie Adams. I'm a housekeeper.” The blue eyes grew narrow. “I'm too thin to be a whore, although some have propositioned for me.” A nervous quiver came to her lips, which were full and as sensual as those painted in bright red.
"My name's Dugas. Jacques Dugas."
Her eye
s seemed to soften momentarily, then she looked back into the room and made the sign of the cross. “This is All Saint's Day. She passed on All Saint's Day.” Her voice broke. “Would that be good sign? Would she pass easier into heaven?"
Dugas shrugged.
A tear rolled down her cheek. “Whores can go to heaven. Father O'Reilly told me so himself. At St. Anthony's."
A whimpering sound turned Dugas back to the room. He reached for his revolver, but hesitated, carefully stepping into the room. A rustling noise turned him to where the snout of a black and tan dog protruded from under the bed, followed by the dog's whimper.
Dugas took his hand from his revolver and went down on his haunches. The dog, still whimpering, crawled toward him.
"An eyewitness,” Dugas said. “If only you could talk."
The sound of footsteps turned him back to the doorway. A tall man in his undershirt, black pants held up by suspenders, came into the room with a black doctor's bag. The dog barked and scurried back under the bed.
"Did I hear a dog?” Concannon asked when he stepped in. The doctor was already examining the deceased.
"Under the bed,” Dugas explained. “If only he could talk.” He noticed one of the painted women standing beyond the doorway. Her abundant breasts nearly exposed, she brazenly puffed on a cigarette and slowly winked at Dugas, who tried his best to keep from blushing. Marie Adams was no longer outside the room.
Concannon leaned close to Dugas. “Dr. Veasey here was just checking on one of the ladies upstairs."
Dugas whispered, “Did he hear or see anything?"
Concannon shook his head. “Of the murder, he says no. What else he saw or heard is not the prerogative of the police.” He patted Dugas's shoulder again. “Wait here, laddie, while I summon the rank and the bulls."
Not the prerogative of the police. None of the mansions here were under police control, thought Dugas. Coppers walked the streets to keep the violence down, but what went on in the Basin Street houses of pleasure was not their business. It all seemed to work well, rowdies who went beyond the bounds inside the houses were quickly and quietly dealt with, usually waking up in nearby Congo Square with a headache, sans money and watches and whatever valuables they were foolish enough to bring along. Gentlemen were welcomed, of course—doctors, lawyers, city officials, and police rank. Dugas had heard that a gentleman, upon first visiting Crimson Kate's must present credentials of identification and credit. Randy youngsters rarely made it through the door.
AHMM, November 2008 Page 10
