by John Masters
Four magistrates occupied the bench. Cate, sitting under the royal coat of arms in the dingy room, had Colonel Wadleigh on his right and Terence Edwards, Esquire, on his left. The Earl of Swanwick sat on the far left, but as it was his pheasants that were alleged to have been poached by Probyn Gorse, he had disqualified himself when Probyn’s case came up. He had not done it with a good grace, but only after the clerk of the court had pointed out that if he sat as a magistrate in Probyn’s case, whatever verdict and sentence were given would most certainly be set aside; and a severe rebuke administered from the Lord Chancellor’s office for disregarding the basic principle of common law. Cate wished he could have had the other two JPs with him, rather than Wadleigh and Edwards: for Wadleigh, an arthritic retired lieutenant colonel of artillery, was a strict upholder of discipline and punishment; and Edwards, though only a small landholder, was a fanatic believer in the sacred nature of the game laws.
The case had been going on for half an hour already. The clock on the left wall ticked monotonously, as Skagg, Lord Swanwick’s head gamekeeper, described how he and Dan and Amos, the other keepers, came upon the accused in the middle of Hayling’s Copse on the southern edge of Walstone Park, at 2.35 a.m. on the morning of Tuesday, June 23rd. Gorse was carrying an electric flashlight, and an offensive weapon.
‘What sort of weapon?’ Colonel Wadleigh asked, perking up.
‘A club, your honour, about this long, and …’
‘’Twas my walking stick,’ Probyn Gorse interrupted from the dock. The policeman beside him said, ‘ ’Ush your trap, Probyn.’
‘We thought we seed him earlier with a little gun, a folding .410 perhaps, but we couldn’t find it.’
‘Then what you thought you saw is not material,’ Cate said. ‘Proceed.’
The gamekeeper was perspiring in his heather mixture tweed suit, the matching peaked cap twisting in his hands. Lord Swanwick chose the material every September from an outfitter in Hedlington, and had each of his gamekeepers fitted and furnished with one suit and hat, all of the same material, each year.
Skagg continued, describing how they saw pheasants’ tail feathers sticking out of Gorse’s coat pockets and on examination found them to be one cock and one hen. They had both been shot in the neck and head, and then hit on the skull, to kill them.
‘Did Gorse threaten you at any time?’ Cate asked.
Skagg hesitated. ‘Well, sir, he raised his stick when we was coming.’
‘I didn’t know who was coming. And when I raised the stick, they was twenty yards off,’ Gorse said. He added sotto voce, ‘And if it hadn’t been blowing so hard I would have heard their clumping boots a mile away.’
The case continued. Corroborating evidence from Dan and Amos. Report from a police constable. Proof that the birds had existed, as described – they had long since been given to the Workhouse in Hedlington and eaten by the inmates.
‘What do you have to say?’ Cate asked finally.
Probyn Gorse was small and wizened with small bright black eyes, crinkled apple cheeks, and hair that was probably gingerish-grey, but was kept dyed gingerish-black. He had taught Christopher Hengist Cate country lore when Cate was a boy; and regarded the office of squire of Walstone, once Lord of the Manor, with a reverence remarkable in one who had no reverence for anything else created by man, especially pomps and titles. Cate’s family claimed descent, in this vale of the Scarrow, from Hengist, Danish King of Kent in the fifth century; and had carried his name in their own ever since; but when he was with Gorse he often thought that the little man’s lineage was even older, direct from the Britons who had been here when the Romans came under Caesar; and, later, called themselves Romans when Hengist came.
Gorse looked over at Cate on the bench now, and said, “Course I took some of his Lordship’s pheasants, squire.’
‘Were you hungry? Was there no food at home?’
‘I say, Cate,’ Colonel Wadleigh said, ‘that’s nothing to do with it, really. I mean …’
‘Not until the defendant has been found guilty, if he is,’ the clerk said from below.
Cate said, ‘Why did you do it?’
‘’Tis my right,’ Gorse said, ‘an’ they shot Prince Albert three days later, out of spite.’
‘What, what?’ Wadleigh said, sitting up with a start.
‘His dog,’ Cate said. ‘You can’t prove that, Probyn. And it’s nothing to do with this case, so don’t mention it again.’
Wadleigh harrumphed and Edwards examined the prisoner through cold eyes.
Gorse added, as though to underline the inalienability of his right, whatever his circumstances, ‘We had plenty of food. And money. My Woman done some washing. Fletcher earned a few shillings with the scythe. Florinda cut two ladies’ hair.’
Cate raised his head. Willum Gorse caught his eye, pleading. He heard Wadleigh and Edwards muttering to each other across his back, leaning out of their chairs. Albert Gorse was looking at him with a sneer undisguised on his face. The twins were yawning.
Cate turned to the others and said in a low voice, ‘What do you think?’
Edwards snapped, ‘Guilty.’ Wadleigh said, ‘He’s admitted it.’
Cate said, ‘I agree. There’s no doubt.’
He looked at Gorse. ‘This court finds you guilty as charged.’ Feet shuffled in the room, someone blew his nose.
Cate said, ‘Any previous convictions?’
The clerk of the court, a Hedlington solicitor, stood up. ‘Your honour, this man was found guilty of taking and destroying a hare on Lord Swanwick’s estate on October 24th, 1908.’
‘That’s the only time he’s been caught,’ the earl growled. ‘He’s been in there a hundred times.’
The clerk continued, ‘He was sentenced to a fine of ten pounds. Sureties against his offending again within one year were found by Gorse himself, and by Mrs Christopher Cate, each in the sum of ten pounds – as required by law. These sums were returned after one year without a further conviction of Mr Gorse for the same offence.’
‘So this is his second poaching conviction?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘There is a character witness, I believe – Matthew Fleck.’
‘There is, your honour. But if Fleck testifies as to his good character, others are free to testify in the opposite sense.’
‘I don’t want no help from Fleck,’ Probyn Gorse said belligerently. ‘He don’t know nothing about my character.’
‘Very well then.’
Cate motioned Wadleigh and Edwards to come closer. They leaned in, and he said in a low voice, ‘You know the law as well as I do … Second offence can get up to six months with hard labour, and recognizances for two years – twenty pounds from Gorse and two others of ten pounds each, or one other of twenty. Or prison for another year.’
‘And the third offence, he has to go to Assizes or Quarter Sessions,’ Edwards said, ‘and can get up to seven years.’
‘What do you think we should give him?’
Edwards said without hesitation, ‘The maximum – six months. The court let him off very lightly last time – I wasn’t on the bench on that occasion, but poaching is, damn it, it’s his profession. We’ve got to show these people they can’t break the law with impunity.’
Cate turned to the other man. ‘Colonel?’
‘I agree with everything Edwards said.’
From beyond, Lord Swanwick said, ‘Is six months all you can give the swine?’
Cate said, ‘I think you had better not take part in this discussion at all, Lord Swanwick, or our proceedings will certainly be set aside.’ He turned back, thinking, why don’t I let him rant on, encourage him even? Then we’ll get a caning from the Lord Chancellor, the sentence will be set aside, and Probyn will go free … but it wasn’t his role in life to do such a thing: and Probyn would be disappointed in him if he stooped to it. His duty was to ensure a fair trial and a fair sentence. He spoke quietly to the other two magistrates. ‘Gorse is guilty,
we all agree. I don’t think he had any intent to strike any of the keepers, and they certainly haven’t proved any such intent. He must have used a gun, and hidden it. He’s not a violent man. I don’t think it will change him at all, sending him to gaol.’
‘What will, then?’ Edwards said.
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ Cate muttered. ‘Look, six months is a very long sentence when no violence was committed, or even threatened. We only gave that Sussex tramp six months last year for stealing ten pounds and hitting Mrs Warren in her shop. This is not comparable.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Colonel Wadleigh asked. He looked unhappy and Cate thought, the old boy realizes he’s going to have to offend either the earl or the squire, both pillars of his world.
Cate knew he could not get Probyn off without a prison term this time; and he was not sure that he wanted to, for Probyn was being foolishly obstinate. He said, ‘I think two months is enough. Public opinion about poaching is changing. There’s been no violence and only two birds taken. It’s not like the bulk poaching for the London market.’
Lord Swanwick got up, left the bench and walked out of the court room. Edwards said, ‘You know Gorse better than I do, but I couldn’t go below three months in all conscience.’
‘Nor I,’ said Wadleigh, seeing a possible compromise.
‘All right,’ Cate said quickly. He faced Gorse and raised his voice. ‘This court sentences you to three months imprisonment, at hard labour.’
‘Come on, Probyn,’ the policeman at the dock said.
Albert Gorse leaped off the bench where he had been sitting, and shouted, ‘You call this justice?’ He stabbed his finger at Cate – ‘Lord Swanwick was up there telling you all what to do, and you were too afraid of his high and mighty lordship not to do it!’
‘’Ere, ’ere,’ the constable by the dock said. ‘That’s enough of that.’
‘Lord Swanwick was not a member of the court in this case,’ Cate said, ‘and he had no part in our proceedings.’
‘It’s you who ought to go to gaol, the whole fucking lot of you!’ Bert yelled.
‘Now, mind your language there,’ the constable said, seizing Bert’s arm. Christopher Cate banged his gavel on the table and said, ‘Take him out, constable.’
Probyn watched his son’s removal with the hint of a sardonic smile on his face. Willum, his other son, was on his feet, hands twined in entreaty. Struggling and shouting, Bert Gorse was pushed out by the constable.
Cate said, ‘Sit down, Willum.’ Mary was pulling at the tail of Willum’s jacket, muttering, ‘Sit down!’
But Willum said, ‘He doesn’t mean it, sir … I’m sorry for him using such language … he’s just put out about Dad going to prison.’
Cate said wearily, ‘We understand. It’s not your fault.’
The constable returned, tugging at his tunic. ‘I gave him a piece of my mind,’ he said. ‘Told ’im ’e was lucky not to go to gaol with his dad, for contempt.’
‘Thank you, Fulcher. How are you going to get Probyn to Hedlington?’
‘Take him up on the morning train tomorrow, your honour. He’ll sleep in our back room tonight. My Mary’ll give him his supper.’
‘All right. Next case.’
The clerk said, ‘The plaintiff didn’t show up, your honour. And that was the only other case.’
Cate looked at the other magistrates and said, ‘Then if we sign the committal warrant for Probyn, we can adjourn. Right?’
The clerk of the court said, ‘Yes, your honour.’
‘Make out the warrant, then.’
At six o’clock in mid-July, it was still broad daylight, the sun low over the Weald. Christopher Cate walked down the lane along the Scarrow’s bank towards Probyn’s cottage. It was invisible from anywhere except across the stream, for huge growths of brambles, nettles, and hazel bushes hid it until, when you were right up to it, you saw the gap in the brambles, and the worn earth of a path between the nettles. The cottage itself was of brick, very old bricks by their shape and colour, with a tiled roof. It had had a thatched roof thirty years ago, but mice and starlings and rot had got into the thatch, the rain had poured through it, and one of Christopher’s first acts, when he succeeded his father as titular squire of Walstone, was to give Probyn a new roof. Typically, Probyn had not said a word of thanks … but then he had never expected any for all the hours he had spent showing the boy Christopher the way of weasel and fox, rabbit and pheasant, mole and plover.
A few pink roses grew beside the cottage door, which was of the stable type, the top half open, and along the wall there was a row of tomatoes and another of cabbages. A wooden lean-to housed, as Cate knew, Probyn’s ferrets, many snares and nets, traps and gins, and a few elementary gardening tools. A smaller hutch was the kennel, now unoccupied. Twenty yards away in the dense undergrowth, a path beaten to its rickety door, was the out-house, and Cate always felt, when he saw it and, when the wind was in the wrong direction, smelled it, that all Probyn’s ancestors back to the woad-painted Britons had used that exact spot for their defecations.
Probyn’s Woman was hanging up clothes – a woman’s skirt and cotton blouses – on a string hung from a nail in the mortar to a small apple tree.
Cate touched his cap to her, ‘Good evening, Mrs Gorse.’
Probyn had never married her; he never married any of his women, but she might well have been married to someone else before deserting him and her previous life to join Probyn, and Cate always called Probyn’s Women, ‘Mrs Gorse’.
She said, ‘The twins are inside,’ and went on hanging up her laundry.
Cate knocked on the upper door and a man’s voice from inside called, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Cate,’ he said.
‘Oh, come in, Mr Cate.’ Fletcher Gorse appeared out of the gloom, smiling, a book in his hand. A pile of groceries covered the battered table. His sister Florinda was at the sink, peeling potatoes.
Cate said, ‘I came along to see whether you had enough to eat, but apparently you have.’
Florinda threw over her shoulder, ‘Your lady brought them. An hour ago.’
Cate said, ‘Mind if I sit down a minute, and light a pipe?’
‘’Course not.’
Cate sat in a hard-backed chair, and found his pipe and tobacco. He wished Margaret would tell him where she was going on her errands as the squire’s wife; or perhaps he ought to know without being told. She did her best to perform her duties in that field, he had to admit. It was a pity that her acts had no feeling or emotion behind them – for these people were Kentish, not Irish.
Fletcher said, ‘Old Swanwick was bound and determined to get Granddad sent to clink for the rest of his mortal life.’ He chuckled.
‘I’m sorry he had to go at all,’ Cate said, ‘but he really deserved at least that.’
‘Oh, of course he did! He should know better than to let that flatfoot Skagg catch him. ’Twas the wind and not having a dog. Prince Albert would ’a smelled those keepers a mile away, but he had the colic. Skagg stinks like a badger, and Amos is not much better.’
‘Do you think they shot him – the dog?’
‘’Course they did! Three days after they caught Granddad. A twelve bore in the head that evening, and they left him across the river there. He was a good dog, but when Granddad wasn’t here, he’d like to wander off a bit, sniffing things for himself. I think ’twas Amos saw him, and killed him. None of us was here, except her.’ He jerked his head to the outside. ‘She told us when we all come home, about the shot, but we didn’t see nothing till the morning. Granddad knew though, when Prince Albert wasn’t home by his bedtime.’
Cate had his pipe drawing, and tried to make himself comfortable on the hard chair. ‘What about money while Probyn’s in gaol?’
‘We’ll be all right,’ Florinda said. ‘I’ve got a little saved up. And there’s a job as lady’s maid at the Court, if I want it.’
‘Lady’s maid?’ Cate said, astonished. ‘You?’
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She was out of the sink now, facing him, rubbing her wet hands on her dirty skirt. She tossed her heavy auburn hair – ‘Why not? I can learn quicker than any of those London sluts they have up there. I can learn anything.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ Cate said.
‘And I can look good, dress right – if I want to,’ she said.
Probyn’s Woman came in and said, ‘Garth’s going to marry that girl Fletcher put in the family way, eh?’
Cate said, ‘Yes. The wedding’s to be next month.’
‘And the baby four months later.’
Cate wanted to change the subject. He said, ‘We’re playing the Light Infantry Depot next Saturday, aren’t we?’
Fletcher said, ‘Yes. I’ll be playing. Pity Guy Rowland won’t be back from school. He’d show them soldiers something.’
‘He won’t, I know. Besides, Ted England doesn’t like playing him for Walstone unless he’s staying at High Staining, or with us. He does live in Hedlington, after all, not here, and the other villages grumble if he plays, and say it isn’t fair.’
There was no clock in the house and he did not want to bring out his half-hunter, because a preoccupation with time seemed inappropriate here. Only wind and calm mattered, light and dark, sun and rain. He said, ‘I’ll visit Probyn as soon as he’s settled in.’
‘He’ll be all right,’ the Woman said. ‘It’ll give him a good rest, and time to think how he can best tweak Swanwick’s tail. He won’t let Skagg catch him next time.’
Cate started to say that Probyn would do better to think of other matters than revenge, or how to improve his poaching skills; but that would be an impossible wish or hope, and for Probyn, an unacceptable life.