Dead Ground in Between (3 page)

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
L
243. 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.”

He paused again, but Desmond showed no desire to see said wounds. Delderfield continued.

“All the time this one, the bigger of the two, was yelling the most vile obscenities. Very loud he was too. Well, in the ensuing struggle, we collided with the shelf where there was a display of china cups and saucers. They had been brought in
from London especially for Christmas sale. The shelf collapsed and most of the china was broken. I have estimated the cost to the store at between ten and twelve pounds. I would like to be reimbursed for that cost, and also to see that these young hooligans are punished. They have no business being given the freedom and privilege of wandering about our streets. It is my belief they belong in a reform school.”

Desmond pursed his lips and addressed the clerk. “The note here says they are evacuees, and the billeting matron is here to speak on their behalf.”