IN COURT
A few days were allowed to pass to obtain fresh captures. On a keen,
frosty morning, those taken by the constable and the military, to the
number of nearly forty persons, were brought before the magistrates
for the preliminary examination. It had been resolved that a Special
Commission should be appointed to try the prisoners on the capital
charges of burglary, arson, robbery, and tumultuous assembling to the
disturbance of the peace, and the commission of acts of violence. The
object of the magistrates on the present occasion was to sift the
cases, and deal at once with those of a light nature, and remand such
as were serious.
The magistrates were in force at the courthouse, and proceedings had
begun before Ki Drownlands arrived in a light gig, with Zita at his
side.
On reaching the court, the girl was surprised to see a constable issue
from the door, and in loud tones call the name of Ephraim Beamish.
'Well,' said she, 'those magistrates must be a set of innocents if they
order Pip to be summoned in the streets of Ely. Do they suppose he
would come here to be caught? Pip will put his distance between himself
and the magistrates, as he did t'other day when the dragoons were on
the drove. He did not stay for them then, and he won't come for the
calling now.'
On entering the court Zita looked about her. She was affected with a
qualm of nervousness, and her colour was heightened. She had never been
in a court of justice before; but when she discovered that the hall
was crowded, she held up her head, breathed freely, and her spirits
recovered their elasticity.
'It's my own general public again,' said she; 'I am not afraid any
more.'
'Ephraim Beamish makes no answer to his name,' said the clerk of the
court.
'We will proceed with the case against Ephraim Beamish,' said the
chairman; 'and the Bench hopes that the constables will not be remiss
in their duty, nor relax their efforts to obtain possession of his
body, and lodge him in prison—that is, should his case be proved.'
The evidence produced did satisfy the Bench that Beamish should be
remitted to the hands of the Special Commission.
Then Mark Runham was called, and at once placed in the dock.
Zita looked at him. She could see that he was not altogether confident
that his innocence would be acknowledged. He strove to disguise his
anxiety, but ineffectually. He was bewildered at the charge laid
against him, and troubled at finding himself in a novel and unpleasant
situation.
The depositions having been read over, Hezekiah Drownlands, of
Prickwillow, was ordered to stand in the witness-box, for it was he who
had lodged information against Mark.
Zita immediately elbowed her way to the front, and, resting her
elbow on the rail that limited the portion of the court accessible
to the public, looked steadily into the face of the master. She was
resolved to check and correct his statements, so that they should not
tell unfavourably against the prisoner. Drownlands noticed her, but
refrained from meeting her eye. He gave his evidence with hesitation
and confusedly, for he had laid information against Mark Runham, and
was now seeking to minimise the charge and weaken the force of his own
accusations.
'I was in my office,' said Drownlands, 'on that same evening, and was
talking with—with Zita there,'—he pointed with his thumb towards the
girl, but without looking at her,—'when I heard the voices of the
rioters.'
'Stay a moment,' said the chairman, interposing. 'Who may this Zita be?'
The chairman was a merry, red-faced man, a gentleman who had been
brother to a former Dean, and had obtained from that Dean a lease of
a large tract of ecclesiastical property for ninety-nine years at a
nominal rent, and who resided and had become wealthy in Ely.
'I refer,' said Drownlands, 'to that young woman. She lives in my
house.'
The eyes of the Bench and of the audience were directed towards the
girl.
'Oh!' said the chairman. 'Rather young for a housekeeper, eh?'
'She is not my housekeeper.'
'In what capacity, then, may we regard her as residing with you?'
Drownlands hesitated.
'Come, come! Don't be reticent, Mr. Drownlands.'
'I really cannot say.'
'Shall we say she is a sort of—ahem—companion?'
A titter ran through the court.
'I am a lodger,' said Zita. 'I pay my way.'
'Silence!' ordered the chief constable.
'You shall speak in your turn,' said the chairman, 'and no doubt you
will be able to give us valuable evidence, but you must not interrupt,
you understand.' Then, turning to the witness, and chuckling and
becoming purple with his suppressed laughter, the chairman said, 'Very
well, Mr. Drownlands, go on. We commend your taste. You were talking
with your pretty companion, or lodger.'
A laugh ran through the court, in which all joined save the clerical
members of the bench, who looked grave and shook their heads.
Zita coloured, and looked about her angrily. Mark's face was pale, and
his eyes were lowered.
'I was talking with her in my office,' continued Drownlands, 'when the
mob entered my stackyard with torches, and threatened to burn my ricks
and break into my house. Mark Runham was with them.'
'Did he threaten you?'
'A great many voices were raised. I could not distinguish one from
another. There was a waggon, and Aaron Chevell, Harry Tansley, and
Isaac Harley were in it, and Tansley held a gun.'
'Never mind about Tansley now. I see in your deposition that Mark
Runham entered your house. Was it so?'
'Yes. He came to my door and knocked. Then Zita let him in.'
'But,' interrupted the chairman, 'what you say now, witness, is not in
agreement with your information. You deposed that he had feloniously
entered your house.'
'He came to ask for money.'
'Yes, that may be; but if he knocked and was admitted, he cannot be
said to have feloniously entered your premises.'
'I don't know about that. I gave no orders that he should be let in.
She took it on herself, and went down and unbarred the door, and
brought him up to the office. When there he asked for money—for twenty
pounds.'
'No, gentlemen,' exclaimed Zita, 'it was not so. He told the master that
he advised him to pay the money lest the men should do mischief. He
asked for nothing.'
'Silence, if you please,' said the chairman; 'your turn will come
presently, and then we will listen to your story. Proceed, Mr.
Drownlands. You say now that Mark Runham, the accused, was let into
your house by the pretty companion—or lodger. He did not break in. The
information is incorrect.'
'I don't understand lawyers' jargon,' said Drownlands sullenly. 'All
I know is that Mark Runham came in and asked for twenty pounds, and
said that if I did not pay it, the men would burn my ricks as they had
those of Gaultrip. I know that blows were struck at my door, and I
heard threats that the men would break in, and a brick was thrown at me
through the window.'
'That took place whilst Mark was in the room,' said Zita.
'Silence there!' shouted the constable.
'If that girl will intervene, and will not be quiet, let her be put
out of the court,' said Sir Bates Dudley, who was on the bench.
'I'll be quiet,' said Zita; 'but when one hears lies, it is hard not to
contradict—it is hard—tremenjous.'
'Go on, Mr. Drownlands,' said the chairman.
'They threatened, if I would not pay the twenty pounds, that they would
burst in at the door, or by the windows, and take two hundred.'
'Who? The accused?'
'No, not the accused; the others. He was in my office, speaking with
me.'
'But we do not want to hear what the others said—at least not now. We
are considering the case of Mark Runham. He is a farmer—a landowner, I
believe?'
'Yes, he is.'
'And you think it likely that such an one would put himself at the
head of a lawless rabble, to wreck farms and extort money from his
fellow-landowners?'
'He demanded twenty pounds of me.'
'Well, go on with your story. You refused the money?'
'I did so at first, but in the end I was forced to pay it.'
'Forced? Did the prisoner employ violence?'
'No; the rabble outside threatened to burn all down unless I paid. I
put the money into the prisoner's hand.'
'After that he left your house?'
'He took ten pounds also from Zita.'
'No; I offered them to him to save my van!' exclaimed the girl.
'Another word of interruption, and you are turned out of court,' said
the chairman. 'Constable, stand by her, and if she opens her mouth
again, clap your hand over it, or stuff your pocket-handkerchief down
her throat.'
'I will do so, your worship.'
'That is all you have to say, witness?'
'Yes. I have nothing more, except that Runham gave cake and ale to the
rioters.'
'You saw him do so?'
'No. I heard he had regaled them.'
'That is no evidence.' Then the chairman turned to Mark Runham and
said, 'Has the accused any questions he would like to put to witness?'
'Yes,' said Mark. 'I inquire of him whether I did not protest that I
came merely as a neighbour and a friend.'
'A friend?' exclaimed Drownlands. 'No Runham can be a friend to me, nor
I a friend to him.'
'That is no answer to his question,' said the chairman.
'He said something of the sort,' Drownlands admitted.
'Did I not say,' pursued Mark, 'that Gaultrip had refused at the outset
to pay blackmail, and that in the end, when his rick was blazing, he
gave way, and that I had run on ahead to advise you as a neighbour not
to provoke to outrage an irritated and unreasonable rabble?'
'Yes, you said that; but how was I to know you were not acting for the
rioters? You gave them cake.'
'Come,' said the magistrate occupying the chair, 'we will hear now what
that lively young woman has to say. She clearly is bursting with desire
to tell us all she knows. Put her in the witness-box.'
As Drownlands left the place he had occupied, Zita stepped into his
room at the instigation of the constable. She looked up at the Bench
with a cheery countenance, and then round at the public that crammed
every available space.
'Your name?'
'Zita.'
'Yes, that is well enough as far as it goes, but we want your surname
also.'
'Father said we were Greenways. But nobody never called him nothing but
"Cheap Jack."'
'And your profession or calling? A companion?'
The court tittered. A clown in the public portion of the hall guffawed.
Zita raised herself erect and said, 'A Cheap Jack.'
'A Cheap Jill, I should say,' observed the red-faced chairman, laughing
at his own feeble joke, whereupon the Bench smiled, the clerk of the
court and the constables laughed, and the public roared.
The magistrate went on, 'If you are a Cheap Jack or Jill, how come you
to be at Mr. Drownlands' house? Is your father with you?'
'My father is dead,' replied Zita. 'That is just why I am at
Prickwillow.'
'Then I presume you are a roving Jill in quest of a Jack?'
'It is the place of the Jacks to run after the Jills,' said Zita; 'not
that I want one, thank you.'
'Hush! Hush! No impertinence to the Bench.'
'Beg pardon, I thought the impertinence came from the Bench to me.'
The sally produced some merriment. When it was subdued, the magistrate
in the chair assumed a grave manner, and inquired in a different tone—
'So you are staying at Mr. Drownlands' house? In what capacity?'
'I am a Cheap Jack,' said Zita. 'I have my van there, and horse, and
all my goods. We got stuck in the mud of the droves, when on our way
to Littleport, the night of Tawdry Fair. Father was took ill and
died. So I am lodging at Prickwillow, and I pay for my lodging in
blacking-brushes and slop-pails.'
'You are not, then, in any menial capacity—not receiving wages?'
'I am a Cheap Jack, laid by the heels through mud and frost,' answered
Zita. 'It is true I have sewn on some buttons for Master Drownlands,
and have hemmed the linen, and he gives me house-room for my van and me
and the horse, till the dry weather comes and we can move away.'
'Well, enough of that. Tell us what you know about the events of the
sixteenth.'
'First of aw—aw—all,' interposed Sir Bates Dudley, who sat on the
right of the chairman. 'She has been put on her oath. Had we not
bet—tet—tet—er ascertain if she is aware of the nature of an oath?'
'Ah, to be sure! I suppose you were brought up as a Cheap Jack?'
'Always—since I was a baby.'
'And not in the most virtuous and godly manner, I fear?'
'I beg pardon, sir?'
Here the constable interposed. He stooped and said in Zita's ear,
'Address the Bench as "your worships."'
'I beg pardon, your worships. My father brought me up. There was not a
better man anywhere.'
'Then—do you understand the nature of an oath?'
'Father didn't swear but very little—off an' on like—and mostly at
Jewel, who was sometimes very provoking. But nothing like the man with
the merry-go-round—he swore awful.'
'I do not mean that. Do you comprehend that you have solemnly promised
to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and
that you have called Heaven to witness that it is so?'
'Yes,' said Zita, with a sigh; 'but it is hard—tremenjous.'
'What?—hard to speak the truth?'
'Yes, your worship—because of the general public. You never was a
Cheap Jack, was you, your worship?'
'No. Oh dear no, never—never!'
'I thought so. I never saw you at any of the fairs, but there was a man
who swallowed knives like that gentleman at your side.'
'Never mind about that.'
'I was going to say, sir, that as you never was a Cheap Jack, you can't
understand what the feelings of one is, when she sees the general
public afore her eyes. There comes a sort of swelling of the heart,
and a desire of the mind to launch out into wonderful tales, and a
longing to make the General Jackass believe that black is white, and
chalk is cheese, that what is broken is sound, and what is old is new.
But I will do my best. I'll shut my eyes and try to forget the general
public, and fancy I'm with father in the van, for then I always said
straight out what was true.'
The winter sun streamed in at the south window over against Zita and
flooded her as she stood in the witness-box. She had a scarlet and
yellow flowered kerchief round her neck and over her shoulders, the
white chip bonnet with black ribbons hardly contained her luxuriant,
shining hair. The sun blazed in her face, flushing her ripe cheeks,
making very June cherries of her lips, and adding a solar twinkle
to the sparkle of intelligence and wit indwelling in her honest but
roguish eyes. She stood as upright as a wand, her hands resting on the
rail before her, and her head thrown back.
The chairman bent to Sir Bates Dudley and whispered—
'What a good-looking wench it is!'
'Is she, indeed?' said the canon. 'You don't mean to say so.'
It did not comport with ecclesiastical, certainly not with canonical,
decorum and dignity to know whether a girl were good-looking or not.
The chairman turned to the magistrate on his left and made the same
remark. This magistrate was a layman, a retired admiral, who had come
to live in Ely because his daughter was married to an official there.
His name was Abbott. There was no etiquette in Her Majesty's Navy
against observing good looks. He replied, 'Thunderingly so, Christian.'
Christian was the chairman's name.
'I'll speak the truth,' said Zita; 'though it is against nature—just
as it was against nature for that little fat gentleman to ride
yesterday; but he did it, because he ought.'
A roar of laughter at the expense of Sir Bates Dudley.
'Go on,' said the chairman, hardly controlling himself—the lay members
of the Bench loved to have a joke at the expense of the clerical
members. 'Tell your story, and tell it truthfully, or you'll get
yourself into difficulties.'
'I mean to,' said Zita.
Then she gave the narrative of the events of the evening of the riot in
their order, with such lucidity and simplicity, and so frankly, that
the truth of her story was stamped on every sentence. Now and then
some odd remark, some allusion to her van or goods, or to the horse,
provoked a laugh, and she kept Bench and public in good humour.
'I really think,' said Mr. Christian, 'that we may dismiss the case
against young Runham. If my brother magistrates agree with me'—He
looked round and met with nods of approval. 'The charge against Mark
Runham seems to be a mistake. There is actually nothing in it, and the
Bench sincerely regrets that, through a misunderstanding, and possibly
through an excess of zeal on the part of Mr. Drownlands, you, Mark
Runham, should have been placed in the position you have. Constable,
discharge him.'
'Thank you, gents,' said Zita. 'You've done right, and I'm glad of it.
As I came here, I heard that you had given orders for Pip to be called.
I did think you then a set of ninnies—but now'—
'That will do. You can leave the witness-box.'
'No, sir—your worship, not yet. I have not quite said all I want
to say. I am very much obliged that you have listened to reason and
have let Mark go. And, your worships, there are six of you on the
bench. I have got just six toasting-forks in stock—the beautifullest
toasting-forks that ever you saw. They have red japanned handles and
brass mounts, and fold up small, like telescopes, into the handle. And
if your worships will do me the favour of coming to Prickwillow, I'll
furnish every one of you with a toasting-fork.'
'That will do; leave the witness-box.'
'And, your worships, if you will pass over poor Pip Beamish,—he's not
right in his head,—I'll let you have a real epergne to raffle for
between you.'
'Constable, remove that girl. Turn her out of the court,' ordered the
chairman, red with laughter.
'I pity the man she chooses as her husband,' said Christian behind his
hand to Abbott, when his order was being carried out.
'Or Drownlands, whose companion she is,' whispered the admiral.
'No—hang it!' said Mr. Christian. 'No more of that. I am sure that
girl is as straight as a whistle. You cannot look in her honest face
and hear her cheery voice and not swear she is as good and clean as
gold. 'Pon my life, Abbott, I have a mind to go for my toasting-fork.
What say you? You are an old acquaintance, as you heard,—swallowed
knives at the fair,—will you go?'