Dead Ground in Between

by Maureen Jennings

  “Shite. I hope we don’t get a fine. You should have kept your temper, Sam.”

  “It was that bleeding pansy of a constable that got my goat. He could have looked the other way. We weren’t doing nothing.”

  Tim grimaced. “I suppose you might say that. If you discount what we’d got hidden in our baskets.”

  “Good thing the stupid ponce didn’t think to look. He was just too excited at writing down my naughty words.”

  Tim pulled his heavy jersey over his head, muffling his voice. “You’re a misery this morning, Sam. What’s the matter? Her husband come home early, did he?”

  “None of your business,” snapped Sam.

  Tim emerged from the jersey. “Pardon me for asking. I’m your pal, don’t forget.” He dragged his boots out from underneath the chair and gingerly pushed his right foot into one, wincing as he did. He stood up. “Right, I’m ready.”

  —

  The wind pounced on them as soon as they stepped out the door.

  It was pitch-dark. It could have been the middle of the night. Sometimes when they went out on mornings like this, Sam fantasized that the world had stopped turning and there would never be daylight again. Perpetual darkness. Wicked things happened in the darkness. That’s when animals killed their prey.

  “Blimey, it’s a bloody gale,” said Tim.

  There was a large rabbit warren in the copse that ran from the crest of the rise along the north perimeter of the Cartwright farm. Tim and Sam had been there before but, according to Tim, rabbits reproduced at such a rate that there was an almost endless supply for the picking.

  “It’s good to keep them culled. Makes the survivors healthy and stronger,” he said solemnly. “It’s a rule of nature.”

  Sam snorted. “If it’s a rule of nature, it should apply to people as well, but I can’t say I’ve noticed. Healthy men are being killed off by the hundreds, and them that’s left don’t seem stronger. The opposite. They’s all old and decrepit.”

  Tim thought for a moment. “But that includes us, and we ain’t old and decrepit.”

  Sam switched on his torch and led the way to the disused shed where they kept their ferrets. They both suspected Mrs. Mohan knew they kept the animals in there, and why, but she had never challenged them. If a rabbit appeared as a special gift for her to make into a stew, she accepted their feeble explanations. They’d come across the poor thing out in the field. A dog had got to it and they’d put it out of its misery. At least four such unfortunates had come to that end while they had been staying there. She didn’t question them, just made tutting sounds at the disgraceful behaviour of the dogs that the farmers insisted on keeping.

  Sam pushed open the shed door. The strong smell of the ferrets sailed out at them. They had three, a hob and two jills. One of the jills was pure white and a good hunter. Tim took her out of the pen and dangled her in his hands.

  “How’s my girl, then? Ready to go and chase some little bunnies for your dad?”

  “Weeping Jesus,” said Sam. “One of these days, the bloody thing is going to answer you.”

  “Ferrets are sensitive. They pick up mood just the way dogs do.”

  “Well, I’m rapidly getting into a bad one, so get a move on.”

  “I think Snowflake should stay at home. She’s been off her feed a bit.”

  “She’s probably knocked up again. Mr. Blizzard there is as randy as a goat…or a ferret. He won’t stop until he keels over.”

  Tim returned the jill to the cage. “You might be right. I’ll give her the time off. She can put her feet up.”

  “Lord help me,” said Sam. “Will you please hurry up?”

  Tim removed the brown male and put it in its carrying box. The remaining ferret reared on its hind legs, its nose twitching.

  “You want to come, Digger?” Tim said. “All right then.”

  He stroked its long back gently then placed it in the other box.

  “Let’s go. Bunnies, prepare to meet your Maker.”

  —

  Even though it was only a local court and dealt with lesser offences, the courtroom was intended to intimidate. It had been built at least four hundred years ago, when peasants knew their place and were made to realize the power and majesty of the law. The panelled walls were dark with age, the wooden benches shiny from use. The magistrates’ seats were on an elevated platform, and the bench in front of them was massive and solid. Behind them, high on the wall, was the county coat of arms, and next to that a large clock. Tempus fugit. And don’t you miscreants forget it.

  Below the platform sat the two clerks of the court. The courtroom was not much warmer than the police station and one of them looked quite padded. Tyler thought he was probably wearing a wool jersey or two underneath his official black gown. The other clerk was a woman. The two could have been related, Tyler thought, both elderly, both grey-haired and rather stooped. She was typing rapidly. Facing all of them was the defendants’ dock, lower than the magistrates’, of course.

  Tyler had been directed to a bench at the side of the room, positioned close to the magistrates – he was an upholder of the law, after all. This was where the plaintiffs and any witnesses sat. Across from them were two more benches for those who were up on a charge.

  The usher called out, “All rise,” and the two magistrates entered through the rear door. Tyler knew Desmond, the chief magistrate, but the second man, a stringy fellow in baggy tweeds, was a stranger to him. He had to be Mr. Wendell Hare, retired solicitor. They took their seats and, with much rustling and fidgeting, the other members of the court also sat down. The male clerk handed a sheaf of papers to Desmond, who popped a gold-rimmed pince-nez on his nose. Tyler thought such visual aids had gone out of style decades ago, but obviously not.

  Desmond said something to his colleague, who nodded vigorously. Rowell had read it correctly, Mr. Hare was going to defer to the other magistrate on all matters.

  Desmond was a local landowner, a member of the minor gentry. He was a little shrimp of a man whom Tyler had met at previous county sessions. Whether from some obscure set of principles or from sheer bloody-mindedness, he never seemed to consistently follow either common sense or fairness. Sometimes he awarded maximum fines for minor offences and extolled the work of the police; sometimes he went in the opposite direction, scolded the police officer who had laid the charges for being overly zealous, and sent off an obviously guilty accused scot-free, or with a negligible fine. You could never predict which way he would jump. Tyler found him intensely irritating. He and Rowell privately groused to each other. “He’s Hitler’s secret weapon, if you ask me,” said the sergeant. “Keeping us all off balance.”

  The usher brought in Sir Edward Spence, who went to the dock. At least that was egalitarian, although Sir Edward’s frown made it obvious he considered it an insult. He had a prominent beak nose, and Tyler wondered if that had anything to do with his affinity for hawks and kestrels. Perhaps it had grown that way as his passion developed…

  His reveries were interrupted by Desmond’s reedy voice. “My colleague, Mr. Hare, and I are in agreement. We see no solid evidence that Sir Edward was violating the law by taking the journey he did. As he has explained, he was investigating the possibility of using birds of prey for carrying messages, in much the way we have made such good use of pigeons.”

  Tyler couldn’t believe any grown man would buy such a story, but Desmond was acting as if he believed it. Hare nodded.

  Desmond appeared to be suffering from a heavy head cold and he blew his nose before continuing. “A man in Sir Edward’s position has to be always aware of what is happening in his jurisdiction. Resourcefulness in these dangerous times is what we want at all levels of society. He was right to go and inspect those birds.”

  He turned to young Mady, who was standing in the witness box ready to present his case.

  “Constable, I think you were overstepping your bounds when you charged Sir Edward with making an unnecessary journey. Case dismissed
.” Desmond smiled at the burly man in front of him. “On behalf of the court, Sir Edward, I apologize for taking up your time. Especially on a miserable day like this.”

  “Not at all, your worship. Justice must be served.”

  Spence’s voice was unctuous and as greasy as lard on a frying pan.

  Tyler growled to himself. Well, don’t get too comfortable, Sir Edward bloody Spence. We’ll nab you on something else, sure as shooting, and I for one will make sure it sticks.

  He caught the eye of his young constable and gave him a reassuring nod. Poor lad looked as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him. But he’d been quite right to nab the self-satisfied lunk currently preening himself. If Tyler had his way, he would fine the bugger ten pounds for wasting their time.

  Sir Edward stepped out of the box and walked out of the courtroom with a tip of his head to the two men at the magistrates’ bench.

  The next case up was that of the two drunk and foulmouthed bicyclists.

  The court clerk got to his feet. “We have next Timothy Oldham and Samuel Wickers, both of the parish of Bitterley, your worship. They are charged with operating a bicycle without proper lights on the night of Saturday, December fifth, contrary to bylaw L243. In addition, Samuel Wickers is charged with uttering rude and offensive language to a police officer on the night in question.”

  The usher went over to the two young men and indicated that they should go into the dock. One of them limped rather badly, but otherwise they seemed typical farm lads, sturdy and weather-beaten. At the same time, Tyler noticed an attractive, dark-haired woman enter the courtroom and take a seat on the witness bench. He wondered who she was. She was smartly dressed in a grey wool costume and jaunty green felt hat. She seemed too young to be a mother to either of the two young men, too old to be a girlfriend. His eye caught hers and he shifted his gaze, not wishing to appear overly curious.

  Constable Biggs went into the box just vacated by Mady, ready to give his evidence. The two young men shuffled into position. They were dressed in the usual farmer fashion: tweed jackets, brown corduroy trousers, heavy boots. Both were holding their caps in their hands. The taller of the two was twisting his nervously. The other, however, had his head up and was glancing around the courtroom with a nonchalant air that verged on being cheeky. There was no acknowledgement between him and the woman who had just entered. Not related, then.

  “State your name and occupation,” said the clerk.

  “Tim Oldham, farm worker,” mumbled the nervous one.

  “Sam Wickers, farm worker,” said the other.

  Desmond took over. “Well, you two, what do you have to say for yourselves? You’re charged with being a menace on the highway. Riding a bicycle without proper lights, then having the audacity to insult a police officer who was doing his right and proper duty by apprehending you. According to our good constable here, you, Wickers, used offensive and obscene language. Is that true? What do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  They both hesitated, then Oldham shot a quick glance at his pal before turning back to the magistrate. “I’m sorry, your honour –”

  “That’s not the way to address me.” Desmond’s head cold appeared to be making him particularly testy. “I’m not ‘your honour.’ You have to address me as ‘your worship.’ ”

  “Yes, worship.”

  Desmond sighed. “Continue. Were you under the influence?”

  “I suppose we were,” said Oldham.

  “No supposing about it. Had you been drinking?”

  “Yes, worship. But only cider.”

  “No difference. Drunk is drunk. You, Samuel Wickers, do you plead guilty or not guilty to the charges as read?”

  “Guilty, with extenuating circumstances.”

  Desmond peered at him over the top of his pince-nez. “Good lord. Do I have a solicitor here before me?”

  Hare chuckled at the brilliance of the joke.

  “No, sir,” said Wickers, not smiling. “I simply wanted to offer an explanation.”

  Tyler had to bite his own lip to keep back a smile. The lad’s got bottle, that’s for certain.

  “Proceed,” said the magistrate. “What is your explanation?”

  “The battery on my lamp had run out. I tried to replace it but you know how scarce they are these days. We weren’t going far, just up the hill from the Angel to Sandpits Lane. It was bright as day out and there were no pedestrians on the road, so we weren’t going to hit anybody.”

  “Did you or your friend swear at the constable?”

  “I’m afraid I did, sir. He grabbed hold of my handlebars so that I almost went arse over teakettle. I beg pardon, your worship, I meant to say I almost fell head first. I didn’t know who he was, you see, sir. Could have been a fifth columnist. In the heat of the moment, it is likely an expletive jumped from my lips.”

  Tyler noticed the woman on the bench duck her head, presumably to also hide a smile. Desmond, however, was not amused. He sneezed violently, wiped his nose, and glared. Hare also frowned.

  “Did it indeed? Well, I think doing a bit of time with hard labour might keep those so-called expletives under control.”

  Wickers nodded solemnly. “That is possible, your worship, although it is a problem I’ve had all my life.”

  Don’t push him, my lad, he’s got all the power in here, not you.

  Tyler got to his feet. “Might I address the court, your worship?”

  The magistrate looked at him in surprise, glanced at his colleague, and then nodded.

  “Very well.”

  Tyler walked to the bench. He had to look up at the two magistrates. Desmond leaned in closer.

  “Yes, Detective Inspector. What is it?”

  “My constable was doing his duty, and he was quite right to charge these lads. But there has been no harm done, and they might be better employed elsewhere than in jail. They are both in a reserved occupation, after all. Could I ask for a remand of sentence and that they be released into my recognizance?”

  Desmond screwed up his face. “We can’t have youths like these flouting the law and getting away with it. I know their kind. They’ll probably be the heroes of Sandpits Lane.”

  “That is not out of the question, sir. But there is work I can put them to around the station. It will save the council money, for one thing, both by not incarcerating them and by getting necessary repairs done.”

  Desmond turned to the other magistrate. “What’s your opinion, old chap?”

  Hare sported a straggly walrus moustache, which accentuated his rather lugubrious expression. He twisted one end of it.

  “I think the inspector has a good point.”

  “Do you indeed?” Desmond tapped his pen on the blotter in front of him.

  Go on, you tight-assed dinosaur. Give them a break. You were quick enough to let Spence go free when it was so obvious he was guilty.

  “Perhaps in the spirit of the upcoming Christmas season, sir?” said Tyler.

  Desmond looked around the courtroom. All eyes were on him. He went for magnanimity.

  “Very well.” He addressed the two young men. “Samuel Wickers and Timothy Oldham, consider yourselves lucky. I am hereby remanding you over to the recognizance of Detective Inspector Tyler for three weeks. When your case is brought back to this court, he will give a report on your conduct. In the event that you are foolish enough to further offend against the laws, I promise you, I will throw the book at you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, worship,” said Oldham, who looked frightened.

  “You will report to the inspector at the conclusion of these proceedings,” continued Desmond. “Now, you may step down. You can wait in the next room.”

  Wickers’ expression didn’t change. Not exactly grateful apparently for Tyler’s intercession, but Oldham ducked his head and beamed. The usher beckoned to them and they walked out.

  “Next,” snapped Desmond.

  The clerk consulted his docket. “Mr. Lawrence Delderfield is
in court to claim redress of losses. He is the manager of the Woolworth’s store, sir.”

  “Bring him forward.”

  A round, middle-aged man stepped into the plaintiff’s box. His hair was combed across a balding head and he was neatly dressed in a dark suit, although it was a bit on the tight side. He made Tyler think more of an undertaker than a store manager. He stated his name and occupation slowly and deliberately, as if the court clerk were hard of hearing.

  Desmond flapped his hand impatiently. “I understand you have already given a statement about your reasons for appearing here today. However, for the purposes of the record, please repeat it to the court. Begin by stating the date and time of the offence.”

  “Yes, your worship. The offence took place five days ago. Thursday, December third. It was near closing time so that would place it about a quarter to five. In fact I was about to usher out the last customer and lock the door.

  “I had seen the two boys come in some minutes earlier. Usually I keep an eye on youngsters who are unaccompanied because you never know what they will do. Some of them can be quite light-fingered, especially these days. I recognized these two from previous visits and, frankly, I’ve always been a bit suspicious of them. They’re not local. However, I was called to help Mrs. Meadows, who had a rather heavy shopping bag and needed help carrying it out to her pram.” Delderfield paused. “Mrs. Meadows uses a pram for conveying her goods rather than an, er, an infant.”

  Desmond hissed at him. “I would appreciate your getting to the point a little sooner rather than later. We don’t have all day.”

  The Woolworth’s manager turned pink with embarrassment. “Of course, your worship, my apologies. Well, when I returned to the shop, I saw the two boys were in one of the aisles. They didn’t see me coming up behind them. One of them was handing an object to the other, who stuffed it into his coat. I immediately asked them what they were doing. They both looked very guilty and refused to answer. I repeated the question. Again no reply. I decided to investigate for myself, but when I attempted to open the coat of the younger child, he screamed, loudly. As I tried to get a better hold of him, the other boy began to kick at me. You can see the bruises on my legs, your worship.”