The Adventures of Tom Leigh

by Phyllis Bentley

  “Several things have been asserted against me which are false, my lord, with respect to my intention. I had no intention whatever of stealing cloth, I never gave a message to Mrs. Firth that her father was ill, I simply said I was told in some Almondbury inn or other—”

  “Which inn, Dyce?”

  “The White Lion or the Fleece or the Weavers’ Arms—” I could see from Mr. Sykes’s swollen look that these were not the right names, and the pedlar saw it too, for he added hurriedly: “I cannot remember and your lordship cannot imagine how stupidly alike all these Yorkshire inns are—I was told in some inn that Mr. Sykes was ill. Now I learn that Mr. Sykes often believes himself to be ill and his make-believe ailments are much talked of—but is that my fault? I simply repeated what I heard. But poor Mrs. Firth being so excessively devoted to her father”—here the pedlar tittered, and all the spectators tittered with him—“went off at once into a flutter.”

  “This is not what Mr. Stephen Firth says, Dyce,” said the judge.

  “A weaver—pardon, clothier—on a remote hillside who can hardly speak the King’s English is not as quick in the uptake—pardon, as swift in comprehension—as a man of intelligence and learning like yourself, my lord,” said the pedlar with a bow.

  “Dyce, you are a saucy fellow,” said the judge.

  “As your lordship pleases,” said the pedlar with a grin.

  The spectators tittered again, and my heart burned within me at the pedlar’s cunning.

  “What have you to say on your sale of the cloth to George Hollas?”

  “I have a chapman’s licence, I am a licensed pedlar,” said the pedlar on a note of grievance. “Oldfield handed me the cloth to sell, and I sold it honourably to George Hollas.”

  “I never!” wailed Jeremy in astonishment.

  “Silence! You will have your opportunity presently, Oldfield. Now, Dyce. What do you say of Mr. Daniel Defoe’s statement that he saw you with the other two accused, the week before the theft?”

  “He was mistaken, my lord; I was not in Halifax at that time. After all, Mr. Daniel Defoe is a man not unacquainted with the inside of prisons; he has even stood in the pillory for a political offence. Are we to take his word against that of a decent citizen like myself?”

  “Mr. Defoe’s political offences are long since over,” said the judge drily. “When did Jeremy Oldfield give you the piece of cloth to sell?”

  “Later that night. I understood that Tom Leigh had spoiled it for the usual market by tearing and cutting the cloth.”

  “So you sold it to George Hollas?”

  “Just so.”

  “Have you anything more to say?”

  “I beg your lordship to assign me counsel,” said the pedlar in an earnest pleading tone.

  “Should any point of law arise, you shall have counsel, but as yet there is nothing but matter of fact. Have you anything more to say?”

  “Nothing, my lord. I leave my case confidently in your lordship’s hands,” said the pedlar, bowing.

  “If you, Dyce, have done, then Jeremy Oldfield, what have you to say for yourself?” said the judge.

  Jeremy looked utterly taken aback, as well he might after the pedlar’s lies.

  “You have pleaded Not Guilty,” said the judge impatiently. “You have heard the evidence against you. Have you anything to say in rebuttal? In your defence, I mean?”

  “Aye—aye,” faltered Jeremy. “Aye, I have that.”

  “Go into the witness-box,” commanded the judge. “Now, give us your account of the happenings on the night of the theft.”

  “It were Tom that stole t’piece,” said Jeremy. “Me and pedlar were sitting talking, you see—”

  “What were you talking about? What was the object of Anthony Dyce’s visit?”

  “Oh, that. He come to—to—” stammered Jeremy. It was clear that he had forgotten the story agreed upon, and he gazed imploringly across the court at the pedlar. I saw, and I think the judge saw, that the pedlar slightly tapped one hand. “It were t’mittens,” said Jeremy with relief. “Aye, it were t’mittens. We was sitting, you see, and we heard a noise, and we ran out, and there were Tom Leigh, pulling cloth off tenters. I yelled at him to stop, and sprang at him, and we rolled on ground.”

  “Have you any explanation as to how he broke his arm?”

  “Nay,” said Jeremy indignantly, “it weren’t me as broke his arm. Nor it weren’t me as talked his father down, neither—”

  “Hold your tongue, you fool!” roared the pedlar.

  There was an awful hush in court. For the pedlar had shouted as I had heard him shout, with his full man’s tone. Everyone who heard him knew that, though there might not be enough evidence to convict him of being concerned in my father’s death, he had incriminated himself. The judge gave a grim smile; the pedlar saw what he had done, and slowly his pasty face turned a dark crimson.

  “Continue, Oldfield,” said the judge.

  “He got away—Tom, I mean—and ran off.”

  “Did he carry the piece of cloth with him then?”

  “Nay, it weren’t right off the tenters then,” said Jeremy. “Us coming out to tentercroft stopped him, d’you see.”

  “When do you suppose he took it away, then?”

  “Why—afterwards, of course.”

  There was a pause. Then the judge said very quietly:

  “In spite of his broken arm?”

  “Well—I suppose,” agreed Jeremy.

  “He handled the cloth as he did just now?” said the judge.

  He turned his gaze slowly to the blue piece, tumbled on the floor in front of the witness-box. And suddenly the spectators—and the jury too, I saw—took his point. A great roar of delight thundered from all parts of the court. Jeremy hung his head and said nothing, and I knew with an immense rush of relief that my name was cleared.

  “Have you any witnesses on your behalf, Jeremy Oldfield, anyone to speak for you?” pursued the judge.

  “No,” muttered Jeremy.

  “Have you anything more to say?”

  Jeremy shook his head despondently.

  “Well, George Hollas, then. What say you, Hollas?”

  “Anthony Dyce is a licensed pedlar, he sold me the cloth as any licensed chapman would.”

  “At what hour of the night did this sale occur?” enquired the judge drily.

  “It would be about midnight,” said Hollas, somewhat crestfallen.

  “Yet you did not doubt the honesty of the sale?”

  “I had bought other goods from Anthony Dyce, and no trouble had ensued. I sometimes brought goods from Skipton—mittens and such like—and we exchanged. I am confounded, my lord,” went on Hollas at a great rate, as if he had learned the words by heart, “to think that I should be thought concerned in such a heinous crime.”

  “What other goods had you bought from Anthony Dyce which caused no trouble?” enquired the judge.

  Hollas hesitated. He gazed across at the pedlar, who returned hi m a furious, forbiddin g look. (“This is my father’s watch,” I thought.)

  “Cloth,” muttered Hollas at last, hanging his head.

  “Have you any explanation of why you ran away from Thomas Leigh in Skipton?”

  “A young jackanapes like that comes charging down on me and frightens my horse out of his senses, and I am blamed for galloping off!” cried Hollas.

  His tone of outraged virtue was nauseating.

  There was a pause now for the candles to be lighted, then folding his fine hands before him, the judge gave his summing up. It was the most clear, easy-to-follow, correct—and damning—account imaginable of the whole affair; every incident was in its right order, yet the actions of each person concerned were shown in a way which revealed their meaning. The pedlar’s tale, and Jeremy’s, and George Hollas’s, were presented as proper for the jury’s consideration—but on the other hand, said the judge, and proceeded quietly to expose each lie. Why did the pedlar return late at night to Upper High Royd? How and
when was the piece of lining cut from the pedlar’s coat if the pedlar was innocent? Oldfield stated that Thomas Leigh had stolen the cloth, but this conflicted with the evidence of the pedlar and George Hollas, as well as with that of Thomas Leigh and with the admitted incapacity of his arm. In which of these stories did every detail of events fit without forcing?

  “I am bound to say,” observed the judge presently in his even, silvery tones, “that no point of Thomas Leigh’s evidence seemed to me to be shaken, in spite of the attempts made to shake it by the accused, while the evidence of the other inhabitants of Barseland and of the piece of lining, gave it strong support. It is for you to decide, members of the jury,” he continued: “whether you believe this lad, cruelly orphaned and, you may think, brave, faithful and the victim of conspiracy, or prefer to confide in the contradictory and evasive testimony of the accused, two of whom seem determined to lay the blame upon the third, to his evident surprise. Honest men are not wont to make sales at midnight, and eighteen yards of heavy cloth cannot be raised to the shoulder by a boy with a broken arm. None of the accused has offered an alternative explanation of the lining cut, and proved to be cut, from the pedlar’s coat, and it may seem to you that this is because there is no other tenable explanation.

  “If, then, upon the whole, members of the jury,” he concluded, “you are satisfied from the evidence, that Jeremy Oldfield did on purpose, and of malice aforethought, unlawfully remove the cloth from Mr. Stephen Firth’s tenters, and Anthony Dyce was present and assisted at this removal, and did after sell this cloth so stolen to George Hollas, and George Hollas then sold this cloth to his cousin, John Hollas of Skipton, who received it not knowing it to be stolen; if, I say, you are satisfied that this is true, then you will find Jeremy Oldfield, Anthony Dyce and George Hollas guilty. But if this has not been proved to your satisfaction, then you will find them not guilty. Members of the jury, consider your verdict.”

  We all stood as he left the court. No sooner was he gone than a tremendous noise broke out, everybody chattering and expounding their own views on the case. The heat and stench were by this time almost unbearable, and Mrs. Firth, looking pale, leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. He put his arm about her to support her.

  “You had better leave the court, Meg,” said Mr. Sykes. “This is too much for you.”

  “I prefer to remain, Father,” said Mrs. Firth faintly.

  “You were splendid, Tom,” said Harry in my ear, leaning forward from the bench behind us.

  “We had better await the verdict before distributing commendations,” said Mr. Sykes.

  “Why should we?” objected Harry. “I think Tom was splendid.”

  “Harry,” said Sir Henry warningly.

  Mr. Sykes flipped his thumbnails in a huff. I felt a warm little hand in mine; it was Grade’s. She had too much sense to contradict her grandfather in words, but her eyes spoke her agreement with Harry silently.

  At last, in about half an hour, the jury returned, and the judge was once again installed, looking cooler, more elegant and more sardonic than ever. The accused were brought up from below and placed at the bar; Hollas was white as a sheet and trembling, Jeremy was so collapsed in face and form that he was hardly recognisable, the pedlar held himself upright and looked jolly. The suspense was hardly to be borne as the clerk called out the jury’s names, each answering “Here” and standing.

  “Gentlemen, are you agreed upon your verdict?” said the clerk.

  They all said: “Yes.”

  “Who shall speak for you?”

  “Our foreman,” they said, and they all sat down save one very respectable-looking middle-aged man in a bag wig.

  “Jeremy Oldfield,” said the clerk, “hold up your hand.”

  Jeremy gazed at him vacantly, and there was an awkward pause, till the pedlar suddenly seized his arm and held it aloft.

  “Look upon the prisoner,” chanted the clerk. “How say you? Is Jeremy Oldfield guilty of the felony of which he stands indicted, or not guilty?”

  “Guilty,” said the foreman.

  “And so say you all?”

  “Yes.”

  A murmur of satisfaction ran through the court, and the same murmur arose when George Hollas, too, was pronounced guilty. For myself I waited with almost unbearable longing to hear the verdict on the pedlar, for it seemed to me that he was the originator of it all, the killing and robbing of my father, the stealing and selling of the cloth.

  “Anthony Dyce, hold up your hand.”

  The pedlar shot up his hand, and looked around him smiling as if to receive applause. The court fell very silent.

  “Look upon the prisoner. How say you? Is Anthony Dyce guilty of the felony of which he stands indicted, or not guilty?”

  “Guilty!” cried the foreman.

  There was vehemence in his tone, and the sudden great roar of the spectators showed how cordially they agreed with him. It was some minutes before the clerk and the officers could restore order. For myself, meanwhile, I was so carried away by rejoicing and relief, that I did not take note of the proceedings until suddenly there was a great hush, and in the midst the judge’s clear cool voice saying:

  “The judgment of the law is this: that you, and each of you, go from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, where you shall be severally hanged by the neck till you be severally and respectively dead: and the Lord have mercy on your souls.”

  Then the trial was over. The judge went out, officers took the prisoners below, and everybody seemed to rush upon me, shake my hand, pat my shoulder, shout congratulations in my face, till I was quite pushed about and hot and breathless, and my new necktie torn. But in spite of all the smiling faces about me I was not happy. Jeremy and Hollas were low, mean, cruel fellows, and the pedlar was a calculating villain; yet that they should die because of my evidence was a trouble to me.

  “Must they be hanged, sir?” I gasped out to the serjeant across the hurly-burly.

  “Are you in any doubt that they are guilty?” said he with a sharp look.

  “No. I saw Jeremy and the pedlar taking the cloth off the tenters.”

  “Those who do not wish to be hanged should not commit felonies,” said he. “It is the law.”

  With this I tried to be content. And so, all of us from Barseland except myself talking at the top of our voices, we came out of the castle into the cold November air. It was dark, but the torches at the door flared brightly. We all paused a moment to collect ourselves, and Mrs. Firth made Gracie put on her cloak.

  “Now, my boy,” said Mr. Sykes to me in a surprisingly affable tone: “If I had not hired your father to come and weave for me, he would not have come to Yorkshire, and might be alive today. Is not that so?”

  “That is so, sir,” said I.

  “Therefore, I feel a certain responsibility for you,” said he.

  This comes a little late, thought I bitterly, but I said nothing.

  “So I am quite willing to take you into Clough End as an apprentice,” said Mr. Sykes in his stateliest, most condescending tone.

  I was so struck with consternation at the thought that I could only falter pleadingly: “Mr. Firth!” At the same moment Gracie said: “Father!” and Harry cried: “He only wants you because you are famous now!” “Harry,” said Sir Henry warningly.

  “Well, Stephen?” said Mr. Sykes. (He managed to sound pompous and overbearing in these two words alone.)

  Mr. Firth cleared his throat.

  “With all respect, sir,” he said in a firm, plain tone: “That cannot be. Tom is my apprentice, indentured to me for seven years.”

  “The indentures could be broken. Meg, you may perhaps change your husband’s mind for me,” said Mr. Sykes.

  It was a command, though indirectly expressed, and my heart sank low.

  “Father,” said Mrs. Firth in a trembling tone: “We cannot part with Tom. He has become like a son to us, and Upper High Royd is his home.”
/>   I stooped and kissed her hand.

  Epilogue

  Yesterday, it being Saturday, I was in Halifax with Mr. Firth—I always go to market with him nowadays. We had sold our two pieces well in the Cloth Hall—for the Upper High Royd blue had gained some celebrity from the trial—and felt free to stroll around the town and see anything which might be going on. So when we saw something of a crowd at the door of an inn, and folk running in that direction, we, too, walked over.

  A coach stood there with its shafts down, and an officer of the law waited impatiently by the door while the ostler brought out a relay of horses. Somebody cried out: “Tom Leigh!” We pushed nearer, and to my surprise there in the coach were the three prisoners, Jeremy, Hollas and the pedlar. It was the pedlar—of course, thought I—that had called me. He was leaning his hands on the window-ledge: his wrists were in chains, but he was smiling.

  “Good morning, Tom Leigh,” said he. “I see your arm is whole again.”

  “I thought you were dead a week since,” said Mr. Firth bluntly.

  “Our sentences were commuted. We were recommended as fit objects for the royal mercy, and His Majesty graciously extended it to us.”

  “Upon condition of transportation,” said Hollas, putting out his head.

  “Are you to be transported, then?” asked my master.

  “Aye, to Maryland in America. We are on our way to Liverpool now to board ship.”

  “Your wife, Hollas, is to remain mistress of Barseland poorhouse,” Mr. Firth told him. “And Mr. Gledhill has arranged with your cousin to send regular supplies of mutton. Why did you ever take to selling stolen goods, you silly fellow?”

  Hollas growled, and withdrew his head. Maryland would be the loser by his sullen presence, I thought.

  “Why are you not wearing your father’s watch, Tom?” minced the pedlar. “I am sure that admirable Sir Henry returned it to you.”

  “I leave it safe at home when I come to market for fear of pickpockets,” said I.

  “Wise, very wise. Hearkee, Tom,” went on the pedlar quickly, as the fresh horses were backed into the shafts; “I have wished to see thee and tell thee the tale straight. It was I, as thou thought, who called out to thy father, and who took his watch and guineas, but believe me, Tom, I did not mean to kill him.”