Rough Justice - Part 2 (of 6)

The Assizes

Saturday morning was the last day in which the Assizes would sit, before the travelling judicial circus moved on to the next market town. News had filtered through quickly that a third unfortunate woman was to be hauled before the justices as a larger than usual crowd gathered outside the magistrates courts.

After a fitful night’s sleep, Sarah was rudely woken up by one of two bailiffs who had quietly entered her cell, unnoticed by her. She looked around hopefully, in search of breakfast as she had nothing since early the night before as was thoroughly famished. However, her hopes for a meal went unfulfilled, as instead, her wrists and ankles were separately shackled, the latter with a chain long enough to allow her to walk comfortably. The iron felt cold and heavy against her small and delicate wrists and she struggled not to trip over the chain that rattled along the flagstones under her feet. Her boots, belt and stockings had been confiscated when she had been imprisoned the night before. Apparently, someone was of the ridiculous opinion that she might be of a mind to hang herself.

She was led by two bailiffs from her cell, which was in the cellar of the building, and down a corridor past three other empty cells. They stopped before a closed door and waited as one of the bailiffs rapped on it solidly with his knuckles. She was momentarily blinded as a bright light flooded from the opening, followed quickly by the low murmurs of a sizeable crowd. Her eyes quickly adjusted to reveal a narrow set of stairs spiralling upwards. With one bailiff in front and one behind, Sarah lifted her skirts awkwardly with her shackled wrists and carefully made her way up the steps.

They led directly to the dock. There was a tarnished brass rail in front of her, and a wood bench immediately to the left where two other women sat, turning and smiling nervously at her as she entered. She looked around the courtroom, searching for familiar faces, but found herself friendless. Apparently, her employers, who had been so good to her, had decided to absent themselves, choosing instead to put their own interests first.

It was a forbidding place, with oak panelled walls and exposed ceiling beams that were blackened with age. The furnishings were solid-looking and heavy in appearance, and what little fabric there was about the place was a dark red, almost purple, and heavily beaded. The wooden floorboards beneath her bare feet were worn smooth by the nervous footfalls of the unfortunates who had been brought to justice before her. The gallery was behind and above, every inch of it packed with people, so much so that it didn’t seem quite possible for it to support the seething masses.

In front of the rail was space for court officials, lawyers and bailiffs, and then a ten foot gap before the imposing looking bench. The three grand looking judges looked haughtily down upon the accused from the elevated platform, their full-length white wigs illuminated by the light from a large window behind them. As if to remind all who attended of their whereabouts, the window featured a large stained glass representation of Justice, be-robed, blindfolded and with her ubiquitous scales.

The overbearing internal décor, the raised bench, the claustrophic confines of the court room, the wigs and gowns, even the position of the window, so that any sunlight shone directly into the face of the already uncomfortable accused, were all carefully calculated to create an atmosphere of fear and oppression – an almost physical and palpable manifestation of the heavy weight of the law.

The consensus in the gallery was that Sarah would pay dearly for her fiery indiscretion, with the betting ranging from a very optimistic acquittal to the more likely sentence of not less than ten years at hard labour. Her only companions, united with her in fear, were the two other women sharing the dock with her that day. Her case would be the third to be heard, following those against Katherine Andrews, a young maid accused of the theft of a scarf from her employer, and Jane Daniels, accused of killing her infant daughter just hours after its birth.

The three of them could not have found a worse time to be put before the court. With local elections a week away, the incumbent candidate, Sir Henry Hughes had invited the judges to dinner before Assizes began, and used the opportunity to prevail upon them the importance of swift and merciless judgment, to assure the people of their safety and to send the message that no malfeasance, however trivial, would go unpunished.

Katherine Andrews, with little to excuse her errant behaviour, threw herself on the mercy of a court whose discretion for such mercy had been nobbled by local politics. There was no character reference from her enraged mistress, and so she was quickly confirmed guilty of theft, with sentence deferred until all three cases had been heard.

Jane Daniels was next. This matter was a little more complex. The young lady was of decent parentage and her father in particular commanded a great deal of respect amongst the merchant classes in town. Jane was the youngest of five sisters, and had turned out to be a wilful child, easily influenced and sometimes flighty. The family had not been aware of the pregnancy, but rumour had it that the father had been none other than the miscreant who had been accidentally killed by Sarah.

These were times of high morality however, and the murder of defenceless infants, whatever the circumstances, met with little, if any sympathy. Jane was advised by her father to put herself at the mercy of the court and let God be her judge. As little more than a child of eighteen herself, the impressionable girl did as her father demanded and confessed her crime to the stern faced judges on the bench. Her family held hands in a silent prayer for mercy and forgiveness in the gallery, but it was to no avail. Jane was found guilty of infanticide, with no mitigating circumstances. Sentence was deferred until the final case had been heard.

Sarah had sat through the previous two cases lost in her own thoughts. She had little faith that justice would be done, and her mind turned to the probable consequences of her actions. She knew that ten years hard labour was usually commuted to transportation to Australia, and that many died on the long journey there. However, she was fit and healthy, and not without the considerable charms and attributes that frequently turned men’s heads. She knew how to use her assets to get what she wanted, and quietly convinced herself that a new life abroad was not such a bad thing.

She was brought back to the present by the harsh rap of a gavel, as the distressed and hysterical looking girl next to her, now confirmed as a murderess, slumped onto the wooden bench they shared. Sarah was roughly pulled to her feet by two bailiffs, one on each arm, and let her gaze wander to the three judges, who in turn, looked her up and down disdainfully. Well, almost all of them. One of them just looked down, as his eyes settled on her ample cleavage and stayed there for some time. She could have sworn he was drooling as he licked his ancient lips.

Bloody Murder

The one in the middle addressed her directly. “Sarah Thorn of Haymaker Lane, Braley-upon-Avon, you are accused of the foul murder of Edwin Smyth, son of the right honourable Matthew Smyth, on Friday evening last in the local hostelry known as “The Haywain”. The evidence against you is that you wilfully, deliberately and violently assaulted him, causing him to fall and split his head, an injury from which he subsequently expired. What say you to these charges?”

Sarah was dumbstruck. Until now, she had not known the nature of the charges against her. She had assumed assault, possibly manslaughter, but not murder – never murder. She heard the thwack of the gavel again. “Stop gaping and speak girl!”. She tried to get her mouth to work, but her tongue was not cooperating. All she could manage was a weak “No…?!”.

The gallery was quiet. The air was thick with a momentary silence before the chairman of the bench thundered “WHAT SAY YOU!”. Sarah recoiled from the noise and realised she was shaking. All of her confidence and optimism was slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers. She could feel hundreds of eyes boring into the back of her head, causing her to blush involuntarily. Her knees were weak and it was all she could do to control her bladder. Finally, after what seemed like hours, but were in fact, mere seconds, she composed herself long enough to cry out “Not guilty your honours, NOT guilty…!”

She heard the murmurs of the gallery behind her. The judge on the left, the one who had been staring at her breasts the whole time, croaked, barely audibly “You do realise my dear, that it will go well with us if you do as your companions have done, confess, and save us some trouble.” Looking at his colleagues, he asked earnestly “I could do with a pint, is the lunch hour upon us yet?”. Dismissing his doddering colleague with a brief wave, the chairman returned to the matter at hand.

“Do you honestly believe that you have a defensible case? See sense girl! Your position is hopeless.” Despite her flustered condition, and having seen how the cases against her fellow accused had unfolded, Sarah had sense enough to realise that she had to persist. “Yes sir… please allow me to state my case sir.” She replied. He sighed, obviously bored and impatient. “Very well, proceed” he intoned.

Sarah spoke for an hour, eloquently describing the hard life of a serving wench, recounting many incidents where she had been subjected to degrading and ungentlemanly behaviour. She touched on her unhappy childhood, one that had forced her to leave home at sixteen to seek a better life in town. She confessed that she was not a regular churchgoer, but that she believed in God, and that she had led a moral life. Many in her profession had prostituted themselves, but she swore before the court that she was unsullied and virtuous.

She gave a lucid account of the events of the previous evening, being careful to include all of the details she could remember, and finished by professing her remorse at the consequences of her actions, insisting however, that she had not anticipated the outcome and was defending herself against a much stronger man with lascivious intent. She asked the court for mercy and resigned herself to what they considered just in the circumstances.

On a signal from the bench, Sarah sat down, encouraged by the ripples of approval that cascaded down from the gallery above. She was satisfied that her eloquent and passionate defence had made an impression, and remained convinced that there was nothing in what she had said that would condemn her. She waited patiently as the chairman of the bench scribbled some notes before motioning to the prosecutor to begin.

Popplewell

A King’s Counsel, Mr Jacob Popplewell KC, was a tall, bespectacled rail of a man with a hawkish nose and pendulous ears. A favourite of court regulars for his dramatic flourishes and keen instinct for sniffing out the truth (well, at least his version of it), he was affectionately known by his assistants as the Scarecrow. His physical features were quite enough on their own to deserve the title, but the humorous characterisation was given added mileage by the oversized, flapping robes he insisted on wearing.

After shuffling some papers, he adjusted his wig, and rose, throwing a wily smirk in Sarah’s direction as he did so, and, after bowing deeply at the waist, he formally addressed the court.

“Most esteemed and honoured graces. The accused has spoken well. Indeed, no one present today could fail to be captivated by her undoubted charm.” He peered benignly over his spectacles at the bench, trying vainly to catch the eye of the lecherous old judge on the end, whose watery eyes were still firmly fixed on Sarah’s bosom. He sighed. It was as expressive a sigh as one could ever produce, full of weary resignation, regret, and reproach in equal measure. He paused for dramatic effect.

“HOWEVER!,” he bellowed - with such righteous indignation that the Good Lord himself would have blushed – even startling the old lech out of the dark recesses of his feverish imagination. Satisfied that everyone was now awake, he launched into his denouement.

“No number of protestations of innocence, or silver-tongued ramblings about her unfortunate life can hide this crucial fact - she killed a man – the son and heir of a pillar of this community, whose parental grief precludes attendance here today to see that justice properly done. Having dressed in that…” he said, waggling his finger accusingly in her general direction “as such women do – the accused professes indignation and surprise that she is subject to the unwanted attentions of immoral men.”

“She chose to make her living in a den of iniquity, its participants thoroughly lubricated by the fuel of excess drink and raucous merriment, where the vexatious attentions of her customers were an inevitability. Within this environment, her patience and mettle was tested and found wanting. Having believed herself maltreated, she pushed the deceased away with such calculated violence that it led to his untimely and unjust death. She had a choice. She did not choose withdraw, she did not choose to retreat. Instead, she chose to kill, and she stands before you today to face the consequences of that choice.”

“Your graces, the facts of her actions are not in dispute, but her moral turpitude certainly is. She claims to be moral, virtuous and unsullied. Yet she is a serving wench – a profession rife with prostitution – spending her evenings serving liquor, provocatively dressed in a manner calculated to stir excitement in the loins of the men she serves.”

Pausing for effect, he let his words sink in and pushed on. “So it is I believe that we have caught Ms Thorn in a contradiction – there is simply no manner in which her conduct and her words can be reconciled. And, if she is capable of such obvious… contradiction… what else about her is contradictory your honours?“

Contradiction. Somehow, whether it was by his manner, his intonation or his inflection, Popplewell had succeeded in turning this otherwise innocuous word into one with an altogether more sinister meaning. Without directly saying so, he had managed to insinuate that she was a liar, a deceiver, a fraud - deserving of contempt.

“Her entire story - unsupported by any witness - is thoroughly suspect. Even her employer, of whom she speaks fondly, has absented himself from court today and refuses to speak to her character. Are these the actions of a man convinced that the accused is “unsullied and virtuous”? Your honours, the path you must take is clear. The accused is guilty of murder, and I ask that you see justice properly done. Do not be seduced by her charms, for although her outward appearance may be pleasing to the eye, beneath she is corrupt and dishonest.”

In so closing, he bowed to the court, sat down and, catching the indignant look in her eyes, smiled at her in smug satisfaction.

There was a momentary pause as the proceedings against the three accused came to a close, and a stillness settled over the court as the people sensed the business end of the day was about to start. A trial is nothing without the drama of the sentences, and given how the day went, the expectant crowd smelled blood.

The judges did not rise, but conversed on the bench in hushed tones, only interrupted by a clerk who brought them a piece of paper which seemed to cause something of an argument. The harsh rap of the gavel signalled that the three women would momentarily learn of their fate. The chairman of the bench cleared his throat. “The accused will rise”. The three unsteadily shuffled to their feet, and it did not escape Sarah’s notice that the number of bailiffs in and around the dock had doubled. It was the thief’s turn first.

What Price a Scarf?

“Katherine Andrews, you have been found guilty of theft from your employer and as such, have placed yourself at the mercy of this court. You have given us no cause for mitigation, beyond the indiscretion of your youth and your previous good conduct. The theft of personal property is a serious matter and it is for the law to discourage those who may follow your ill-chosen path to make an example of your conduct. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed?”

Katherine shook her head, hopefully, whispering “No sir, sorry sir. I am very sorry.”

There was a pause, as the clerk of the court passed something to the judge. Katherine’s eyes were fixed on the ground as she grasped the rail on the dock for support, so she did not see what it was, but high up in the gallery, looking down upon the court, they saw it – and gasped as the chairman placed a black square of cloth upon the judges be-wigged head.

“Katherine Andrews, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken to the place from whence you came, and from there, at the appointed hour, to a place of execution, where you shall be hanged by the neck until you be dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Sarah’s heart plummeted. Her fellow accused had been condemned to the gallows for stealing a scarf worth pennies. This did not bode well, she knew her only hope lay in a Not Guilty verdict. She could not see Katherine, as she was hidden from view by a bailiff, but she saw her hands turn ashen white as she gripped the rail, and large teardrops splash on the wooden floor of the dock as a soft moan escaped from the condemned girl’s lips. The judge intoned, softly, “Take the prisoner down”. Sarah’s hope began to evaporate along with the tears Katherine had spilled on the floorboards.

Shattered Innocence

Jane was next. In her case, it was hoped that her connections would save her, but the politics of the day demanded a sacrifice. No amount of praying or plaintive cries for mercy emanating from the gallery from her devout parents and siblings would help. This time the judge on the right, who had not spoken throughout the trial, addressed the convicted girl.

“Jane Daniels, you stand convicted of a heinous crime against a defenceless child. This is a crime so unnatural and evil that it runs counter to everything that we, as civilised human beings understand. You cruelly deprived your own child of its life to selfishly hide the shame of its conception and birth. You deceived and lied to your parents about your pregnancy, and denied its existence even when the body was discovered. Your conduct throughout has been ill-conceived and wicked, and even now you express little remorse. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed”.

Jane smiled demurely. It was the smile of a spoiled youth used to getting her way from parents who doted on her, and who, even in these desperate circumstances, naively believed that a smile would save her from the gallows. In a soft but excitable voice she said “I’m a good girl sir, really I am. Father always said I’ll make a very good mother someday on account of me being good with the children. It’s just that I wasn’t ready this time. I’m only young myself. I didn’t mean to do it. Really I didn’t. I won’t do it again, I promise. I’m a good girl sir. I am you know.” She stopped, breathless and stood. Waiting.

With great ceremony, the judge placed the black cloth upon his head and pronounced the dreadful sentence.

“Jane Daniels, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken to the place from whence you came, and from there, at the appointed hour, to a place of execution, where you shall be hanged by the neck until you be dead. May God have mercy on your wicked soul. Take the prisoner down”

Jane continued smiling, a perplexed expression on her face, she turned to Sarah wide eyed and whispered “I’m sorry? Did he say hang? Do they mean to hang me?” Sarah could not look at her as Jane’s entreaties became more urgent, more desperate “No, no, no, No, NO, NO! But I said sorry!” She was screeching now as the bailiffs struggled to restrain her “Please, let me GO. I want to go home.” She looked wildly up at the gallery the retreating backs of her family “Father help me. FATHER! Oh please, sweet Jesus please. I’m a good girl. I DON’T WANT TO DIE.” Her hysterics were cut short as one of the bailiffs slapped her hard across the face. They half dragged the weeping, whimpering woman out of the dock and to the cells below.

A Betrayal of Virtue

Sarah half hoped that they would forget about her in all the fuss. The crowd had it’s justice. It was very rare for women to be publicly executed, and even rarer for two to be condemned to death in the same Assizes. She was sure that two executions would sate their blood lust.

There was that gavel again. Sarah’s heart was racing. Her mind played over everything she had said. Surely she had done enough.

Three judges, three verdicts. The only one who had not pronounced sentence yet was the doddery old fool obsessed with her cleavage. She was not surprised when he took his turn, elaborately cleared his throat, fixed his rheumy eyes on her, and started speaking. Or at least her tried to, as his first effort was halfway between a croak and a squeak. Gulping down some water, he started again.

“Sarah Thorn, the details of your case have vexed us, and accordingly, we are sympathetic to your protestations of innocence. Having given due consideration to the evidence before us, we are of a mind to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

He paused. Her spirits rose. She had been wrong to descend into self-doubt. She was starting to believe. She wanted so desperately to believe. But no sooner had the door to freedom been prised open, than it slammed cruelly shut as he continued.

“However, your case rested upon the foundations of virtue and morality, matters which are not to be taken lightly, and are of no little consequence. So it was with heavy heart that this court has learned that you are not, as you claim “unsullied”.

An excited rumble made its way through the gallery. Sarah’s was absent-mindedly shaking her head in confusion. Her mind was racing. What were they talking about? What could they mean? She had not lied. She had not lain with any of the patrons. She was not a whore!

He looked up to the gallery, and shouted, “Will the person to whom this note refers please rise”. Sarah was looking at the piece of paper he was holding. It was the note the judges had received from the clerk during their deliberations. In panic she turned and looked up at the gallery. And then she saw him, and as her eyes settled upon his still handsome countenance, her shoulders slumped in resignation and disbelief.

“Your name and occupation sir?” the judge asked. “William Miller, your honour, I am a shoemaker from Huntley, just up the road 10 miles”, he said nervously. Miller could not look at her. “And what is your relationship to the accused sir?” Eyes fixed firmly ahead, he replied “I am her fiancée, your honour”. The rumble turned into an uproar as the gallery erupted with noise. The gavel was whacked vigorously six or seven times before order was restored, yet still Miller would not look at her.

Her betrothed William, the man who she had promised to marry, only to have a change of heart months before the wedding. She hadn’t the heart nor the courage to tell him of her plans to leave her unhappy home. He was so keen to leave his own trade and join her father’s shipping business, a father who beat her mercilessly in his frequent drunken rages. He had refused to leave Huntley, so she had decided to leave by herself, and in so doing, broke her promise and broke his heart.

“What say you to her claim to virtue?” Sarah had heard he was bitter and had taken to drink, but even she was not prepared for the extent of his thirst for vengeance. “If laying with a man before marriage and then breaking the engagement is a virtue, then Sarah is indeed virtuous your honour”. Had she not been gripping the rail as Katherine had before her, Sarah would have collapsed. It was once. Just the once. But it was enough. She looked up at the coward who had condemned her with hot tears streaming down her face.

And so it was that the judge turned to her, and becoming more animated, continued his speech. “And so it is that we discovered that you are not the woman you claim to be, and that the pack of cards upon which you built your case has rightly been blown down by the merest zephyr of the truth, and as such, it is the regretful judgement of this court that you are guilty of the murder of Edwin Smyth. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed”.

Sarah looked around her. The faces were blank, she could see neither sympathy nor condemnation. Fate had run its course. There was nowhere to go from here. The sentence for murder was predetermined. She would not need to see the black cap to know that she would live to see only one more sunset, one more dawn. Now that she was facing the inevitable, she felt a serene sense of calm descend upon her. She felt at peace, but there was also a rising determination to ensure that she met her fate bravely.

She turned to the bailiff and asked for a handkerchief, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the soiled square of cloth she was proffered. She delicately wiped her eyes and nose, and, head held high, faced her judges.

“Sirs, it is with the greatest respect for your authority that I stand before you, and I will have none speak against you for what you must do. However, I cannot leave this place without protesting, in the strongest terms, of my innocence in this matter. If I am guilty, as you say, I deserve to pay the ultimate price for the taking of a man’s life. This I do not dispute. But I fear that in this case justice has not been blind, and that I stand condemned not for what I have done, but for whom I have afflicted with grief for a son taken before his time. I stand here before you as a woman who changed her mind about a doomed betrothal, not as a whore who trades her charms for money. I am not the woman this court has painted me to be. I am Sarah Thorn, and whatever you do take from me today, you shall not take my dignity. I stand judged by man, but I believe that, when the time comes, I will also be judged by a higher power, and I will be found to be what I am – an innocent pawn – sacrificed for the machinations of men.”

She knew what was coming, but she was determined to make it difficult. The old letch placed the black cap on his head, seemingly pleased that her decision to stand up straight with her chin up, had thrust her breasts forward against the thin material of her dress, accentuating her cleavage even more. Before proceeding, he licked his lips again and it was clear that the old codger was getting inappropriately excited.

When he was ready, he solemnly pronounced sentence. “Sarah Thorn, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken to the place from whence you came, and from there, at the appointed hour, to a place of execution…” Quite suddenly, his voice trailed off as his face went beet red, followed by a soft and persistent moan. She thought he was having a seizure, but then a look of deep satisfaction crossed his face as he continued “…where you shall be hanged by the neck until you be dead. May God have mercy on your soul.” After the sentencing, the spent old man sat back and visibly slumped in his chair before ordering the bailiffs to take her down.

...to be continued

(c) 2006 - Son of Ketch - Please do not reproduce without permission (sonofketch@yahoo.co.uk)