by Tessa Harris
“And you knew where he lived?”
“Abe Diggott is well-known in the village.”
“And why is that?”
“Because ’is grandson is a ne’er-do-well. He was whipped for firing some fence posts last month.”
The rabble, clearly taking Talland’s side, cheered at this last remark. The judge called for order once more. “So you went to his dwelling. Why?”
“I wanted to look for the dag and the booty.”
Bradshaw smiled in a smug manner. “By ‘dag,’ you mean ‘gun’?”
“I do, sir.”
“Go on.”
“We was near the cottage when we see’d Diggott. Fighting with the constable, ’e were, sir.”
“Fighting?”
“ ’E were in ’is cups, sir,” Talland replied. “So we took ’im back to ’is dwelling.”
“And what did you find, pray tell?” he asked.
Talland lifted his gaze to the gallery. “We found the pistol and Mr. Charlton’s pocket watch hidden in the old man’s cottage.”
Amid gasps and cheers, Bradshaw pointed to the table. The noise was slow to die down, but when it did, it left the prosecution counsel with a self-satisfied look on his face. He had not only the corroboration of a witness and evidence, but a motive, too. The fact that his grandson had been whipped to within an inch of his life for arson was the last nail in Abe Diggott’s coffin for the masses and, in all probability, the jurors. Thomas knew it was now solely up to him to change their minds. The fact that he could prove the murder weapon had previously been in Mr. Turgoose’s possession could be his trump card.
Chapter 39
At the sound of his name being called, Thomas rose. All eyes turned on him. He could hear hostile barbs fly through the air as he walked to the witness stand. He was already known in Oxford from his previous exploits. They called him “the colonist” or “the American,” and their voices were always tinged with suspicion or derision or both when they spoke his name.
Judge Dubarry addressed him directly after he had sworn the oath. “You intend to give the accused a character witness, Dr. Silkstone?” he inquired, looking slightly perplexed as to how a gentleman, albeit a foreigner, might want to testify on behalf of a man of such low breeding, especially as he was not in his service.
Thomas nodded. “I would speak as an expert witness, Your Honor,” he said. “I appear in my capacity as a man of medicine and as physician to the accused.”
The judge shrugged. “If you can throw light on the case, then please proceed, Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas took a deep breath and looked directly at Abe Diggott. He came straight to the point. “You have seen for yourself, sir, that the accused is in ill health. I can prove that this is due to his consumption of gin that is contaminated with a high concentration of lead.”
The judge raised a brow. “Go on.”
“Lead poisoning presents a variety of symptoms, the most acute of which are rapid weight loss, severe abdominal pain, and paralysis. The accused suffers from all three.” Thomas lifted his gaze toward Abe Diggott.
Judge Dubarry, however, seemed unimpressed. “This is all very well, but what bearing does this have on the case, Dr. Silkstone?”
“By your leave, sir, I would suggest that this man is far too weak to have traveled into Raven’s Wood as both witnesses have suggested, let alone discharge a weapon,” said Thomas.
With the judge’s agreement, Thomas left the stand and strode over to the table where the pistol lay and picked it up. There was another murmur from the gallery. Walking over to Abe Diggott, Thomas stopped in front of him.
“I would ask that the prisoner be untied for the moment, sir.”
The judge looked askance. “For what purpose?”
“In order to prove this man’s innocence, sir,” came the reply.
Judge Dubarry appeared exasperated. “This is most unusual, Dr. Silkstone!” he cried.
“I would crave your indulgence, sir,” said Thomas with a bow. “A man’s life depends on it.”
The judge flapped a hand in submission. “Very well,” he snapped, and a guard untied the cord around the prisoner’s wrists.
Facing the accused, Thomas addressed him directly. “Mr. Diggott, would you please take this pistol and show the gentlemen of the jury how, if you had killed Mr. Turgoose, you would have aimed it and pulled the trigger.”
Abe Diggott looked even more confused. “But, Dr. Silkstone—”
Thomas was firm. “Here, show them,” he insisted, handing the man the pistol.
Diggott looked at the weapon, his eyes wide with fright.
“Take it,” urged Thomas.
The court watched in silence as Abe Diggott began to move his unfettered arms toward the gun. But the expression on his face changed from fear to pain as he extended his grasp.
“Take it,” repeated Thomas.
Diggott flinched. He tried to move his fingers, but he could not. He let his gaze fall to his hands, as if willing them to move, but he could not.
“My fingers, sir. I can’t . . . ,” he wailed.
A wave of amazement rippled through the gallery. More caterwauling ensued, until the judge brought down his gavel.
“Your point being, Dr. Silkstone?” he barked.
“You see, Your Honor, this man’s fingers are paralyzed through lead poisoning. It is a slow poison that takes many weeks to elicit such an effect. I understand he has been incapacitated for more than a month now. It is proof that he could not possibly have been responsible for the murder of Mr. Turgoose.”
Judge Dubarry sniffed. “I take your point, Dr. Silkstone. But just because the man is incapable of pulling the trigger of a pistol does not mean he was not an accomplice.”
“Of course, Your Honor,” Thomas deferred politely. “But what if that pistol was in the possession of the victim himself, sir?”
The judge looked puzzled. “Explain yourself, sir!” he barked.
Thomas cleared his throat. “I conducted a postmortem on Mr. Turgoose, sir, and can prove, beyond doubt, that the pistol that fired the fatal shot was on his person prior to his death.”
“Are you saying there must have been some sort of struggle?” The judge, a frown planted on his forehead, was thinking out loud.
Thomas nodded. “I believe so, sir. Yet Mr. Talland’s testimony made no mention of an altercation.” Now was his chance. He could reveal his findings and postulate that the gun was planted by Lupton’s men. As it was, however, he was robbed of the opportunity.
“Enough, Dr. Silkstone!” The judge brought down his gavel. It was obvious he had heard all that he cared to. He fixed Thomas with a glare. “Sir, you are a surgeon and an anatomist, but you are most certainly not a barrister, and you would do well not to meddle in affairs about which you know very little,” he said crossly. “I will not have my courtroom turned into a tavern for every Tom, Dick, or Harry to have his say. It is clear you believe this man is innocent and have made your point well. Now it is up to him to speak for himself.”
Duly chastened, Thomas returned to his seat, his heart pounding in his chest. He was not sure if he had made or marred Diggott’s chances of acquittal. He cursed himself for his brashness. He had let his unwavering belief in the old coppicer and his hatred of injustice make him act with a passion that was unseemly. He had not endeared himself to the judge, and for that he felt quite wretched. Had he done enough to persuade the gentlemen of the jury to find the accused not guilty? He did not know. All he could hope was that he had sown a seed of doubt in their minds that was enough to acquit the old man.
Told to make his own case, Abe Diggott remained confused. He appeared befuddled and agitated. Over and over again he merely repeated: “I didn’t kill no one. No one.”
On the fifth identical protestation, the judge brought down his gavel with an abruptness that betrayed his irritation. “Enough,” he boomed. He looked at the clutch of jurymen nearby and began his summing up. It did not take him lon
g, but what he said most certainly gave them much to consider. The case, said Judge Dubarry, was by no means cut-and-dried in one direction or the other. No doubt a gruesome murder had been committed and no doubt the surviving members of the party had been sorely abused and deeply affected by their experiences. Yet there was an ambivalence in the evidence they had heard; some of it was at odds with testimonies. Did they feel, Judge Dubarry asked, that Abe Diggott had murdered Mr. Turgoose beyond reasonable doubt? As God-fearing Christians, the jurors knew much was at stake. If they found the accused guilty, they would be liable to the vengeance of the Lord, so it was said, upon family and trade, body and soul, in this world and that to come, if he was innocent. It was likely that they would err on the side of caution rather than risk eternal damnation. Thomas saw a chink of light as finally the judge asked the gentlemen of the jury to consider their verdict.
The next few minutes could as easily have been hours to Thomas, so slowly did they drag, until, shortly before midday, the jury’s foreman rose.
“Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?” asked the clerk.
Thomas’s mouth went dry, and his palms became clammy. For a moment all he could hear was the sound of his own heart pounding.
“Not guilty,” came the reply.
“And is that the verdict of you all?”
“It is.”
Thomas, unaware that he had been holding his breath while this exchange had been taking place, now exhaled deeply. As he did so, a huge weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. He looked at Abe Diggott, still dazed and addlepated. The old woodsman had not yet registered that he was a free man and regarded the guards who unfastened his wrists with a childlike incomprehension.
As members of the public rose and began to file out, chattering like querulous hens, Thomas walked over to the dock.
“You are free to go,” he told Diggott, touching him gently on the arm. “You shall journey with me back to Brandwick?”
Behind him, Thomas heard Sir Theodisius call his name. He turned to see the portly coroner standing at his side.
“You did a good job, there, Silkstone,” he said, but, reminding Thomas that Turgoose’s killer was still at large, he added: “But there is still more to do.”
Thomas took his meaning and nodded. As he did so, he noticed Nicholas Lupton from out of the corner of his eye. He was marching out of the courtroom, his face like thunder. He and Sir Montagu did not take defeat lightly. Thomas knew it would not be the last of the affair. Adam Diggott was still at large. Proving he had no hand in the killing of Jeffrey Turgoose would present even more of a challenge.
Chapter 40
News of the acquittal was carried back immediately to Brandwick by Abe Diggott’s supporters. By the time Thomas arrived in the village with the newly freed coppicer by his side, crowds lined the street to greet them. Some of the women even threw flower petals at the carriage as it drew up outside the old man’s cottage.
To cheers and shouts of encouragement, Thomas helped his charge down from the vehicle and lent him his arm as he turned to scan the sea of smiling faces. Rachel Diggott was at the fore. She scrambled forward and hugged her father-in-law, who seemed reluctant to be the center of attention, dipping his head bashfully.
Latching her arm through the old man’s, she smiled broadly at Thomas. “Thank you, Dr. Silkstone,” she said, her voice taut with emotion.
“Justice has prevailed,” he replied. He looked about him. “Your husband—he is still in hiding?”
At the mention of Adam, Rachel’s features hardened. “ ’Tis not safe. They’ll come for him no matter, Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas knew what she said was true. Until the real killer of Jeffrey Turgoose was unmasked, Adam would be forced to live in the woods like a common outlaw. The doctor had decided he would head back to the Three Tuns when, in among the throng, a tall man suddenly appeared, his face half-hidden under a large-brimmed hat. Thomas watched him make his way up to Abe Diggott and hug him. It was Adam.
The doctor sidled up to him. “Take great care, Adam,” Thomas told him.
“I will, sir,” said the coppicer with a nod, and tugging the brim of his hat to pull it down even further, he disappeared once more.
The pushing and shoving continued around them, and Thomas feared for Abe Diggott’s safety. “Your father-in-law needs to rest,” he told Rachel above the din.
“I’ll see to it, sir,” she replied.
Thomas nodded. “And remember, no more gin!” he said firmly. He turned to find a path away from the melee and began to walk down the High Street, away from the crowd. The carriage had taken his luggage on to the inn. He felt quite drained. The past few days had taken their toll on his own well-being. Above all he needed a good night’s sleep. Then and only then could he hope to apply himself to his next challenge—finding out who really did kill not just Jeffrey Turgoose, but Aaron Coutt, too.
“How was this allowed to happen?” Sir Montagu Malthus banged a clenched fist on his desk.
In front of him Nicholas Lupton was floundering. His usual bluffness had deserted him and his forehead was furrowed by a frown.
“It was Silkstone.”
Sir Montagu scowled. “I should’ve known he had a hand in the acquittal.” He clenched the edge of the desk until his knuckles went white. “So now these troublemakers are at liberty once more. A fine state of affairs!” He rose and began pacing the floor. “And Charlton?”
Lupton recalled the young surveyor’s unconvincing performance as a witness for the prosecution. He had returned with him to Boughton Hall and seen for himself his mental anguish. “He still suffers in the aftermath,” he said, not daring to catch Sir Montagu’s eye.
“Where is the lily-livered fool now?”
“He is resting, sir.” Lupton had watched Charlton sob and wail all the way back from Oxford. He wondered he had any tears, or energy, left.
The lawyer had not been in court to witness what he considered to be a mere formality; the accused would be found guilty of murder, hanged, and gibbeted for all to see at Milton Common, and the people of Brandwick would have learned a valuable lesson—that he, Sir Montagu Malthus, was not to be crossed. Their protests and petitions counted for naught; they were merely pawns in his game. Now, however, he had arrived at Boughton to be greeted with news of this preposterous acquittal. Such incompetence could not be tolerated.
Standing at the French windows, he looked out onto the lawns, his balled fist tapping on his chin. Finally he said, “We need to get rid of Charlton.”
“Sir?” Lupton’s startled gaze shot up.
“He needs to be gone. Just get him out of here.” The lawyer took a deep breath and fixed his hooded eyes on his steward. “Do you understand?”
Relieved that he had misinterpreted his master’s original instruction, Lupton nodded. “Yes, sir. I shall see to it right away.” He knew, however, that such a dismissal would not be well received.
The steward decided to deliver the message in person. In the hallway he saw Howard and instructed him that Mr. Charlton would be leaving. He was to be packed and ready to go by the end of the afternoon. He then proceeded to Charlton’s bedroom. The chainman had been staying in a room in the servants’ quarters since the murder. He seemed in no fit state to resume his normal duties.
Lupton knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again. Still no reply. He tried the door. It was locked. He called for a key. He unlocked the door and entered. The room was darkened, the shutters half-closed. The steward made his way toward the bed and stood stock-still. There, slumped across the counterpane, his left arm outstretched, lay James Charlton. And in the semi-gloom, the blood from a slash on his wrist dripped relentlessly onto the rug below.
Chapter 41
In the Three Tuns, dozens of villagers had crammed into the pump room to toast the release of the old woodsman. The threat of rain had brought them all inside to enjoy the tavern’s hospitality and Peter Geech’s cheap gin. Thomas had no wish to join them
. While he felt a great relief at the acquittal, he was in no mood for celebration.
On his return journey from the Diggotts’ cottage, he had been forced to stop and press himself against a wall in the High Street to allow a heavily laden cart, accompanied by two outriders, to go ahead. Other riders and pedestrians had also been obliged to stand aside to let the wagon pass. Its cargo was wooden poles, each cut to the same length. Fencing for the common, he thought. Malthus and Lupton were intent on making a show of their power. The wagon did not have to travel through the main thoroughfare to reach its destination, but here it was, with escorts, as if in some sort of a religious procession for all to see. The message to the people of Brandwick was clear. The Boughton Estate would countenance no opposition. Enclosure of the common land would proceed, with or without the consent of Parliament.
Above the muted din from below, there came a knock at Thomas’s door.
“Enter,” said the doctor, shutting the open casement.
In walked Peter Geech carrying the supper tray that Thomas had ordered. The noise of laughter and singing from downstairs suddenly invaded the room through the open door. He had not seen the landlord since he had conducted the postmortem on the stableboy. There were several questions that needed answering. He seized his chance.
“You are busy,” commented Thomas.
“Aye, sir. There’s some carousing to be done tonight.” He smiled as he set down the tray. “Thanks to you, I believe, sir.”
Thomas thought of the revelers celebrating the release of Abe Diggott. Pints of poisonous gin would be sold to punters that evening along with the plugs of untaxed tobacco that Geech dealt in. He suspected the relatively low levels of lead he had detected in the gin could be attributed to the still heads and worms of the landlord’s apparatus. What concerned him more, however, had wider implications.
“You’ll turn a pretty profit tonight, no doubt,” he commented as he sat himself at his table.
“That I will,” replied the landlord with a chuckle.
