The Adventures of Tom Leigh

by Phyllis Bentley

  “How old is this witness, Serjeant Braithwaite?” said the judge.

  “Fourteen, my lord.”

  Serjeant Braithwaite, whom I now looked at, appeared much more dignified and imposing, now that he was in his gown, than he had done yesterday.

  “Do you intend that he shall take the oath, being as he is a minor?”

  “That is as your lordship pleases. I think he is competent.”

  “Thomas Leigh, do you understand the meaning of an oath?”

  “Yes, my lord,” I whispered from a dry throat.

  “Speak up. Do you understand what it means to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  If I had not understood it before, I understood the words when he spoke them. I felt ashamed to be giving evidence on my master’s behalf in this timid, blundering way before a judge I admired so much; I gathered my strength together and clenched my hands and said: “Yes, my lord,” firmly.

  “Give him the oath.”

  A clerk of the court came up to me and made me repeat after him the words of the oath to tell the truth. When this was over he stepped away and sat down; my eyes followed him and suddenly I saw Jeremy and the pedlar and Mr. Hollas in the dock. Jeremy was filthy, in rags, unshaven, his hair tousled, and so downcast and bowed that I felt almost sorry for him; Mr. Hollas looked a pale quivering little worm, his freckles very dark across his face. But the pedlar looked neat and jaunty, well shaven, with a clean shirt and neckcloth, though without his coat; he held his head up and glanced about him cheerfully, caught my eye and nodded to me! I turned away in horror.

  Serjeant Braithwaite began to ask me my name and address and occupation. Looking back on it now, I find my giving of evidence fell into three periods: at first I was so terrified I had great difficulty in finding my words and my voice, and was so afraid of making a mistake that I stumbled and hesitated; then the great interest of the matter I had to tell, and my indignation over it, overpowered my fear and I spoke fast and boldly; then towards the end I grew so tired from the searching questions of both judge and counsel that I could hardly hold up my head, and I spoke with difficulty, slowly. What remains with me most strongly is the acuteness of the counsel and even more of the judge; these were men far more clever than any I had met before. It was not just that they were skilled in the law; they saw to the heart of the matter, the essential point of what I said, and if I let slip any word which was not entirely accurate, they pounced on it and wrestled with it until my meaning was plain.

  “Where were you born? And you lived there till when? You came with your father to the West Riding for what purpose? Do you see in the court the manufacturer who hired your father?”

  Serjeant Braithwaite was looking at the jury as he asked this question; naturally my glance followed his, and I was somewhat disconcerted not to see Mr. Sykes. However, I looked all round and discovered him sitting next to Mr. Firth. My master sat erect and looked more composed and master of himself than I had ever seen him, whereas Mr. Sykes’ fair face was flushed and he appeared somewhat deflated—like one of those pig’s bladders which can be blown up, and squeak and wrinkle as the air is let out. As I pointed him out and named him the spectators gave a titter, Mr. Sykes flushed even deeper and the judge gave a slight acid smile—I guessed, rightly as it proved, that Mr. Sykes had shown his pompous conceit and silliness in the witness-box and been well taken down for it.

  Mr. Braithwaite now, to my surprise, led me on to tell of our terrible first night in Barseland, and how my father and I made our way down beside the stream in Mearclough.

  “And what caused your father to fall down the steep bank of this stream?”

  “A voice which cried out loudly: Keep to the left! The stream bent sharply to the right at this point, so that by obeying the voice’s instruction my father plunged straight down the bank—to his death.”

  “One moment, Mr. Braithwaite,” intervened the judge at this point.

  “My lord?”

  “To what indictment are you pleading, serjeant? This in front of me,” said the judge smoothly, tapping the paper with his long white forefinger, “speaks of cutting and stealing cloth from the tenters of Stephen Firth of Upper High Royd and unlawfully selling the same. I understood you were to plead to that indictment?”

  “I am pleading to that indictment, my lord.”

  “But what has all this about streams at midnight to do with cutting and stealing from tenters?”

  “My lord, it is the defendants’ contention that Thomas Leigh, by reason of a suspicion he entertained that the defendants were concerned in his father’s death, brought this accusation falsely against them from prejudice.”

  “And what is your intention in this matter?”

  “To show that Thomas Leigh did not, in fact, suspect the defendants of being concerned in his father’s death, until after the commission of the theft, my lord.”

  “You take a very odd road to it, Mr. Braithwaite. However, pray go on.”

  “Your father’s neck was broken by his fall?” resumed the serjeant.

  “He was dead when I reached him,” said I in a voice which shook.

  “And what happened then?”

  “I bent over him and tried to drag him from the water, and something struck me on the head and I knew no more.”

  “Witness,” said the judge, leaning forward: “Tell me: did you recognise the voice which called out to your father?”

  “Not at the time, my lord.”

  “Had you heard the voice before that occasion?”

  I was about to say Never, when it struck me that either the pedlar or Jeremy or both must have been in the Fleece Inn when my father showed his gold and took his directions. I therefore hesitated, and answered carefully:

  “Not to my knowledge then, my lord.”

  The judge nodded and sat back.

  The serjeant now questioned me about the poorhouse, Mr. Hollas’s absences and returns, and my apprenticeship to Mr. Firth.

  “Shall we come to the tenters in an hour or so, Mr. Braithwaite?” enquired the judge.

  He did not seem to resent the laughter which followed, though officers of the court shouted: “Silence!” very loudly.

  “At once, my lord,” said the serjeant, bowing. He turned to me. “Had you any suspicion during the period you worked together, that Jeremy Oldfield intended to steal from your master?”

  This perplexed me; I hesitated, and the crowd began to whisper.

  “Not at the time,” I said at length.

  “What do you mean by that?” put in the judge sharply.

  “Jeremy showed himself an enemy to me,” I said, “in many ways.” (I named them.) “I could not at the time understand why. But later I saw that his intention was to get rid of me, so as to leave Upper High Royd empty for the theft.”

  “Later? When was that?”

  “On the night of the theft.”

  “If we could come to the night of the theft, Mr. Braithwaite,” said the judge in his smooth biting tones, “it would, I believe, be of assistance to the witness as well as to the court.”

  “As your lordship pleases,” said the serjeant, bowing again. “It is necessary to substantiate first when the stolen piece was put on the tenters. This witness can provide corroborative evidence.”

  “Very well, very well,” said the judge impatiently.

  “The piece went to the fulling-mill on Wednesday morning,” said I, “and Mr. Firth fetched it back on Wednesday afternoon; then Josiah, Mr. Firth’s other weaver, and I put it out on the tenters.”

  “Where it would remain until?”

  “Until it was dry. Friday morning most probably.”

  “One moment—allow me, Mr. Braithwaite—I hope I do not disturb your argument,” said the judge in a very polite manner. “There is one question I wish to ask the witness. This process of weaving and fulling and tentering and drying—is it possible to foretell its stages with any degree of accuracy?”

  “Yes, my lo
rd—except for the weather,” said I. (At this everyone laughed.)

  “Jeremy Oldfield would know when the piece was likely to be on the tenters?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “How long before its completion could he know?”

  “Several days, my lord, for Jeremy wove the piece himself, so he could weave fast or slow to finish it when he chose. Within reasonable limits,” I added.

  “Proceed, Mr. Braithwaite,” said the judge. “No—one moment. I understood from the first witness, Stephen Firth, that this piece of cloth in court is of the same length and weight as the stolen piece from which the suit is made? Is that correct?”

  “Yes, my lord. They are both approximately eighteen yards long, and twenty pounds in weight, as is usual for such—kerseys, I believe they are called. The two pieces were also woven from the same yarn, dyed at the same time,” said the serjeant, reading these unfamiliar terms from his brief, carefully.

  “I should like to see the witness handle the cloth. Mr. Firth, would you be so very kind as to carry the piece to the witness-box?”

  Mr. Firth, surprised but not displeased, stepped out to the table and swung the piece over his left shoulder. Left arm akimbo, he carried it over and laid it neatly—for he was a true clothier—across the box in front of me.

  “Now, Thomas Leigh, return it to the table,” said the judge.

  I attempted this with some apprehension, for I had in fact never shouldered a piece as yet, not being come to my full strength. But as it turned out I could not even lift it to my shoulder, having only one hand to use. I struggled to get my right arm round it and managed to do so, then as I tried to pull it upwards it escaped my grasp and rolled undone to the floor.

  “Come, come,” said the judge severely.

  I came out of the box, knelt and folded the cloth again and strove again to raise it, but in vain. Panting and hot, I scrambled to my feet and stood there looking foolish, and began to apologise and explain about my arm, but the judge interrupted me.

  “Let it lie there. Return to the witness-box. Proceed, Mr. Braithwaite,” he said sternly.

  I tried to fold the cloth to a more seemly cuttle as Yorkshire clothiers call folds, but the serjeant waved me angrily away. I felt unhappy to leave the piece thus, tumbled on the ground, and gazed pleadingly at Mr. Firth for forgiveness, but he avoided my eye.

  And now the serjeant began his questions again. He took me back to the first days of my apprenticeship. When had I first seen the pedlar? Had I seen Jeremy have any communication with him? (Here I hesitated, and mentioned the arm-waving Jeremy had indulged in on my first day at Upper High Royd; seeing this slighted I spoke of Mr. Defoe’s letter, but was told that this would be read separately later.)

  And now at last we reached the day of the theft and, as I have said, I became so eager and indignant that I forgot my fears. Indeed I forgot the court, the judge, the serjeant, the crowd, the tumbled piece, and saw before my eyes only the events that I described. I spoke of the coming of the pedlar with the message about Mr. Sykes, the swift departure of Mr. and Mrs. Firth and Gracie, the evening when Jeremy hurried me to bed, my discovery that I was locked in.

  “How did you discover this?”

  “It was the cat, sir,” said I.

  At this there was a great roar of laughter. The judge was furious.

  “Silence!” he cried. “Silence at once! If there is any more noise of this kind, I shall clear the court. Now, Mr. Braithwaite.”

  “Explain about the cat, my boy,” said Mr. Braithwaite in a very mild, gentle tone.

  “Sandy often came to my bed to sleep with me,” I said. “That night he came, and mewed as usual at my door. I went to let him in, and could not open the door. It was locked.”

  A hush fell on the court.

  “And then?”

  “I heard voices below, at the house door.”

  “Did you recognise these voices?”

  “The speakers were Jeremy and the pedlar.”

  “What did you do then, Thomas Leigh?”

  “Everything seemed to fall into place, sir; I understood the whole plot, everything was clear.”

  “Never mind about that. What did you do?”

  “I opened the taking-in doors and let myself down to the ground on the hook.”

  “I don’t understand a word of that, Mr. Braithwaite,” said the judge testily.

  “Would your lordship like to excuse the witness for a moment and recall Mr. Firth on this point?”

  “No. Let the boy tell it himself.”

  We had a long struggle—or it seemed long to me—before I managed to make clear what I had done.

  “When you were on the ground, what did you do?”

  “I crept round the back of the house towards the tenters—it was moonlight and the shadows were very deep and gave me cover.”

  “Were you not afraid to approach these two men? It was very rash,” said the judge in a tone of astonishment.

  “Yes, my lord,” said I, colouring and hanging my head. “I was afraid. But—I was Mr. Firth’s apprentice, you see.” I thought of the words “good and faithful servant” in my indentures, but it seemed pretentious to utter them.

  “Well—tell me what you saw, in your own words,” said Mr. Braithwaite.

  I told how I had seen Jeremy taking the cloth off the bottom row of nails, how the pedlar stood by idle, how Jeremy had reproached him, how the pedlar had thrown off his coat and knelt to work, how I had drawn the pedlar’s coat towards me and cut out a jagged portion of the lining.

  “This is the piece of lining, my lord,” said Mr. Braithwaite.

  The officer of the court held it up. The spectators gasped.

  “And here is the coat.”

  The officer of the court fitted the lining into the coat.

  Then the spectators roared, and could not be silenced for some moments though the officers bellowed at them and the judge shrilled.

  “Witnesses will depose—” shouted Serjeant Braithwaite, “to wit, Sir Henry Norton, justice of the peace, Mr. William Gledhill, Constable of Barseland township, and Mr. John Swain, Overseer of the poor—that this piece of lining and this coat were shown to them on the night of the theft in this condition—or rather, in the early hours of the following morning,” he finished in his ordinary voice, the crowd having fallen silent from interest in what he was saying.

  “Will the boy say why he cut out the piece of lining?” said the judge.

  “To prove that the pedlar had been there, my lord.”

  “How chanced it that you had scissors with you?”

  “They were a gift of Mr. Firth’s little daughter, Gracie, and I always carried them in my coat pocket.”

  Here I looked towards Mr. Firth, and saw to my surprise that Mrs. Firth and Gracie were sitting beside him. I learned afterwards that before I entered the witness-box Mrs. Firth had been excused from giving evidence about the pedlar’s message, as Mr. Firth’s was deemed sufficient, so she was allowed to enter the court and Mr. Firth fetched her in.

  “Why did you think to don your coat in the midst of your hurried action?” pursued the judge.

  “I feared my shirt if uncovered would show very white in the moonlight.”

  “Well, well. Well, well, well! And why did you cut such a jagged piece, eh?”

  “It was because of my indentures, my lord,” said I.

  It was at this point, after the long questioning and excitement of the showing of the lining, that I suddenly grew tired. I stumbled over my account of the fight with Jeremy and the breaking of my arm, and I muddled what I had heard Jeremy and the pedlar say to each other at the foot of the lane. Then I made a great effort and cried out loudly when I was repeating the pedlar’s cry:

  “Keep to the left!”

  “This is the moment, my lord,” said Serjeant Braithwaite, “when the witness believed he recognised the pedlar’s voice as the one he heard by the stream.”

  “Keep to the left!” cried the pedl
ar suddenly in a high shrill almost girlish voice, and he giggled.

  Everyone laughed, and the judge bade Anthony Dyce be silent without much anger in his tone.

  “He did not cry out like that by the stream!” I cried angrily.

  Serjeant Braithwaite shrugged, and the judge said:

  “Well, we are not trying a murder case. Continue.”

  The serjeant took me very quickly through my climbing into Harry’s window, my evidence to Sir Henry, my journey to Skipton, my stopping of Mr. Hollas’s horse. Then at last my ordeal was over; I was led out of the box by a court officer, and sank down thankfully by Mr. Firth’s side. He squeezed my arm gently with his hand and gave me a kind look, and I felt relieved.

  I must own that I did not hear very much of the evidence which followed; I was so exhausted as to be half asleep, and —I am ashamed to say—started to wakefulness only when I heard my own name. Harry gave evidence of my climbing into his window with a broken arm and crying out that the tenters were being robbed; Sir Henry spoke of my accusation of Jeremy and the pedlar and the matter of the lining; Mr. Gledhill and Mr. Swain described their arrests of the men and of the sight of the empty tenters; Mr. Defoe’s deposition was read, then Mr. Gledhill was recalled to tell of our journey to Skipton. I started awake here and found everyone looking at me and felt greatly confused. Then came Mr. John Hollas, very indignant, and then a man I did not know, the Skipton tailor, I learned later. Then Mr. Serjeant Braithwaite arose and made a long speech, telling the whole story all over again; I nodded off through this, and woke presently feeling much refreshed.

  “All we pray is,” Mr. Braithwaite was concluding: “that the jury will give such a verdict as is agreeable to justice.”

  He sat down, drawing his gown sweepingly around him, and looked expectantly at the judge. There was a slight pause, then the judge spoke.

  “It is now for the accused to have their say. Anthony Dyce, what say you?”

  The pedlar bounced across to the witness-box, bowed elaborately to the judge, and began at once in a shrill cheerful tone: