Shadow of the Raven (21 page)

O
nce again, Abe Diggott was forced to run the gamut of raucous shouts and taunts, even though he did not seem to realize fully the seriousness of his predicament. He dragged himself up the steps and into the dock. He seemed more alert, but that also meant he became more nervous. When he was asked a second time how he pleaded, his shriveled frame juddered in reply.

“Not guilty, sir. I'm not. I swear on my life.”

Judge Dubarry brought down his gavel as the court erupted in laughter at the accused's protestation of innocence. The clerk called the counsel for the prosecution. Thomas exchanged a nervous glance with Sir Theodisius. He knew they were about to listen to a tissue of lies, fabricated, no doubt, to suit Sir Montagu Malthus's plans.

For the prosecution, Martin Bradshaw delivered his opening speech. He was a thin, short man with an intense stare that could seemingly slice through a man's mind. With great clarity and precision, he outlined the case against Abe Diggott.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” Bradshaw began. “What you are about to hear is a tale of a bungled robbery carried out in the most perfidious way that ended in the brutal murder of a man who gave his life while carrying out his duty. Mr. Jeffrey Turgoose was a gentleman and a commissioner, esteemed by those skilled in his profession and held in most high regard by all who knew him.”

Thomas had expected this concerned tone, designed as it was to engage the audience and arouse sympathy among the jury. Indeed, he found himself being curiously drawn into the prosecution's version of how Turgoose and Charlton, led by Talland, had ventured out on that fateful afternoon. The court was told how Raven's Wood was a notorious hideout for thieves and cut-purses and how, alas, the party had been forced to abandon their vehicle because of the boggy ground and to continue on foot. Suddenly, their single horse, which was being led by Talland, fell into a terrible pit that had been dug by the scoundrels as they lay in wait for any passing travelers. It was then that Abe Diggott and his men pounced. They demanded that Messrs. Turgoose and Charlton hand over their personal possessions, while more ruffians plundered the laden horse for their valuable equipment. When the surveyors refused to cooperate, there was an altercation. Mr. Charlton was beaten, while Talland was held fast. Mr. Turgoose protested and rushed forward to assist the young surveyor, so Diggott shot him at near point-blank range. Turgoose fell, mortally wounded, and seeing what he had done, Diggott immediately fled, followed by the rest of his murderous crew. Mr. Charlton and Talland were left wounded and afeared, while the surveyor lay in a pool of his own blood.

The courtroom listened in hushed silence as through his words, Mr. Bradshaw painted a most vivid picture of events. Such a delivery deeply troubled Thomas. The account seemed to him almost plausible, save for a crucial omission. Bradshaw had distinctly said that it was Abe Diggott who had pulled a gun. Yet if, as Thomas planned to prove, the pistol was in Mr. Turgoose's possession prior to his murder, then he was sure someone must have wrested it from the surveyor before firing it. It was a missing piece of the puzzle that Thomas would pursue later.

Next a bellow went up. “Call Mr. James Charlton.”

The young chainman entered the courtroom with his head swathed in a bandage that covered his right eye. There were loud exclamations from the gallery as he walked in and expressions of sympathy from some of the more genteel ladies. Thomas recalled seeing Charlton thus bandaged at Boughton Hall shortly after the incident and again at the public meeting at the Three Tuns. He wondered if the injury was real, or simply another ruse employed by Malthus and Lupton to enlist the jury's sympathies.

It was clear that Charlton was even more nervous than usual as soon as he took the stand. His hand was evidently shaking as he laid it on the Bible to take the oath, but it was his speech affliction that caused much mirth in the gallery. Bradshaw tried to assist by skillfully leading him into scenarios.

“Please tell us what happened when you heard the horse neigh, Mr. Charlton.”

“I . . . I . . . I . . .” The young man was sweating profusely, his freckled face glistening for all to see. “I s-saw m-men c-come out of the w-woods, s-sir.”

“How many?”

“I . . . I . . . I cannot b-be sure.”

“Was the accused one of them?”

Charlton glanced over at Abe Diggott, then looked away again. His reply was mumbled. “I cannot be s-sure.”

The prosecutor's patience seemed to be wearing a little thin. “Speak up, if you will, sir.”

Charlton straightened his back. “I cannot be s-sure, sir,” he repeated.

Bradshaw seemed a little put out by this revelation, as if he had previously believed the witness could make a positive identification. Thomas watched for a reaction among the jurors. He saw some swap looks and arch their brows.

“Tell us what happened next, Mr. Charlton. Did the men demand you hand over your belongings?”

“Y-yes, s-sir. I gave them my p-pocket watch.”

“This watch?” Bradshaw held the article aloft and angled it toward the jury.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“And were they threatening toward you?”

“Y-yes, s-sir.”

“You were beaten about the head, were you not, as your guide was pinioned by two other scoundrels?”

“Y-yes, s-sir.”

“And was it not the case that when Mr. Turgoose refused to hand over his compass, one of the men produced a gun?”

“Y-yes, s-sir.”

At that moment Bradshaw walked over to a table in front of the judge and picked up a small firearm. “This pistol?” he asked, brandishing it in front of the jury.

The gallery gasped and hollered as if they had never seen such a weapon before.

“I think s-so,” Charlton replied.

“And that man was holding it?” Bradshaw pointed to Diggott in the dock. He was shaking his head violently.

The young man looked at the accused, paused for a moment, then replied, “I-I-I cannot b-b sure.”

At this admission, the gallery erupted once more. Charlton scanned the crowd, and as he did so his one visible eye welled up and a tear ran down his cheek. Judge Dubarry called for order, but it was too late. Seeing that his witness was about to dissolve into tears, and to avoid his further humiliation, Bradshaw dismissed the young chainman. He was escorted away from the courtroom, and Seth Talland was called next.

Thomas directed his gaze toward Sir Theodisius, who nodded to him from across the floor. Both men knew that Charlton's vague evidence would not be enough to convict Diggott. Everything now hinged on Talland's testimony.

The burly prizefighter made his way to the stand and gave his name and took the oath in a voice that was low and coarse. Thomas noted a fresh cut on his right cheek that ran from his nose to his ear. He wondered if it was self-inflicted, a badge of victimhood to strengthen his credibility. Coming to the end of the oath, with his right hand remaining on the Bible, Talland suddenly lifted his left hand to his ear and tugged at his lobe. It was an odd gesture, but one that Thomas knew he had seen somewhere before. He secreted it in his memory and remained listening intently as the prizefighter embarked upon his evidence.

Despite his uncouth manners, Talland made a much more convincing witness than Charlton. He seemed confident and sure of his facts. Yes, he had been pinioned by two ruffians and had watched as Mr. Charlton was cruelly beaten. Yes, they had stolen some of the surveyors' tools. Yes, he had seen the accused man draw the pistol and fire it. Yes, he had seen the gang, about four men in all, run off into the woods, knowing Mr. Turgoose to be dead. He and Charlton had lifted the body onto the horse and somehow managed to make it back to Boughton Hall.

The courtroom was enthralled by the exchange between the counsel and his witness. This crude man had given them what the young surveyor could not—seemingly reliable testimony—delivered with a clarity and purpose. And there was more.

“But that is not the end of the story, is it, Mr. Talland?” asked Bradshaw, turning his piercing eyes onto the jury.

“No, sir. Next evening—”

Bradshaw broke in: “The day after the murder?”

Talland nodded. “Aye, sir. Afterward, I rode into Brandwick with another sideman.”

“Why was that?”

“I wanted to find the men who murdered Mr. Turgoose, sir.”

“A noble sentiment.” Bradshaw jerked his head toward the witness. “And what did you find?”

Talland swallowed hard. “It were curfew, sir.”

Bradshaw stopped him short. “Curfew, Mr. Talland?”

“Sir Montagu called a curfew after the killing, Your Honor. No one was allowed out after dusk, sir.”

“And you went to the home of the accused?” Again Bradshaw pointed at Diggott. “Why was that?”

Talland scowled at the old man. “Because I knew it was 'im that shot Mr. Turgoose.”

“You saw him with your own eyes?”

Thomas felt his muscles tighten. “That I did, sir.”

“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.

A
t 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 long, 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.