Accidents of Providence

by Stacia M. Brown

  Bartwain studied Rachel, who stood motionless under the defendant’s mirror. She isn’t saying anything, he thought. She needs to speak up. The defendant is supposed to interrupt and challenge the prosecution. She should have taken a few lessons from John Lilburne about how to win over a courtroom.

  “What do these findings indicate?” Griffin asked.

  “That the child took some breath outside the womb before it died, otherwise the lungs would not have inflated. Therefore, it was not stillborn. Also, the chafing around the neck indicates the high probability of strangulation.” It was the same thing the coroner had told Bartwain at the outset of the investigation.

  From the juryman on the far left, the one with the eye patch: “Were the lungs only partly inflated?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it is possible the child could have died by natural causes, and still have taken in some air as it passed out of the birth canal?”

  “Yes, it is possible. But there is the matter of the bruising.”

  “Could the bruises have come about by accident?” the same juror persisted. Good point, Bartwain thought. You are a troublemaker, juror-with-the-patch. During trials of this nature, the jurymen could question the witnesses directly, just as the judge, the prosecutor, and the defendant could. Sometimes everyone peppered the witness at once. Bartwain disliked it when that happened.

  “Anything is possible.” The doctor shrugged. “But in this case I do not think so.”

  “Then it is your opinion that this child was alive when it was delivered?” The question came from Griffin.

  “Yes. Yes, that is my firm and unwavering opinion.”

  The last witness for the prosecution was William Kiffin. He was wearing thick spectacles that fogged when he exhaled and cleared when he breathed in. “I was called to minister to Rachel Lockyer after the Widow du Gard found the infant,” he stated.

  “What did the defendant say when you arrived at the house?” asked Griffin.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing that I can repeat. She is an unnatural woman.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I stayed some hours to counsel her. In all that time Miss Lockyer would not speak except to curse me. She held the cloth that had been wrapped around the infant. She clung to it. I told her she ought to tell the truth. I told her she needed to confess. Still she said nothing. She is a monstrous mother. I left that evening persuaded she had murdered it, else why would she need to lie?”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I have no doubt. It is clear what happened. She gave birth to a child of spurious issue and was ashamed. So she ended its life. She ended its life, in my opinion, to spare herself the shame and inconvenience.”

  Aha, Bartwain thought. Here was the first attempt on the part of a witness to explain why she might have done it. But the law did not allow such speculations. The law did not care about the reasons prompting the act. Pleading good intentions would get you nowhere, Bartwain thought, unless you were John Lilburne defending yourself against treason.

  The investigator sat upright. All his life he had studied the statute books, but until now he had not noticed this discrepancy. Where treason was concerned, what counted was the intention. Where bastard murder was concerned, all that mattered was the act. Why, the law is flawed, he thought.

  Elizabeth Lilburne was stepping onto the witness platform over the objections of the prosecutor.

  “I am the wife of John Lilburne,” she declared. “I am here on behalf of the defendant. I have known Rachel Lockyer since 1646. And I was with her the night she gave birth.” This caught the audience’s attention—it caught Bartwain’s as well. I knew it, he thought. I warned Griffin. I told him she might try to establish herself as a witness to a stillbirth. At least someone is going to make the prosecutor earn his keep this morning.

  Elizabeth proceeded to give her statement. “On the first of November Rachel sent the errand boy to fetch me, around nine o’clock at night. When he arrived at my house he told me she was not well, so I made my way to Warwick Lane. I entered the shop and went to her sleeping quarters. She asked who it was. When I gave my name she let me in. She could hardly move for the pains. She said if she had ten thousand words still she could not say how much it hurt. I told her to kneel in the bed on her hands and knees, and I helped her deliver. It was a difficult birth.”

  The prosecutor pounced. “Your Honor, I would like to call this boy, this errand boy, to verify her testimony. She is saying she was present at the birth. This is the first I have heard of it. Let us find the boy and see if the witness is telling the truth. Let’s see if he was called to her house that evening. My own opinion is she is lying. Her testimony is not credible.”

  Judge Blakemore said this request for verification seemed reasonable enough.

  Elizabeth stated: “That’s not going to be possible, Your Honor.”

  You’re almost enjoying yourself up there, Bartwain thought. You’re more of a Leveler than your husband.

  “What is the boy’s name?” asked Blakemore.

  “Thom,” she swiftly said. “But I do not know his surname or where he resides. He has disappeared.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “We think he has gone off with the Diggers. Also, he is a thief and not to be trusted.”

  “And you are?” Griffin retorted. The jurymen laughed. Griffin beckoned to one of his clerks and sent the youth scampering out of the courthouse. “We will hunt down Thom the messenger,” he announced. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Lilburne. It will not take long to verify your testimony.”

  Elizabeth held her ground. “Your Honor, he will not be able to find him, for the boy has gone out of town and I do not know when he is coming back.”

  “I thought you said he had gone off with the Diggers.”

  “Yes, but who knows where they have wandered?”

  “I saw them milling around just last week,” one of the jurymen piped up, “tilling that field next to the Crown and Hope tavern.”

  “I saw them too,” said another. The jurymen began conversing amiably with one another. Someone mentioned refreshments.

  Judge Blakemore buried his nose in his bouquet. “Go on, witness.”

  “Tell me this,” Griffin interposed before Elizabeth could say more. “Where was the Widow du Gard the night you say you went to Warwick Lane? Can she verify your presence in the shop?”

  “I did not see Mary that night. I assumed her to be sleeping. I didn’t try to wake her—I did not think she would want to be involved. Also, there was a gale. It was hard to hear past the wind.”

  Griffin told Mary to stand, which she did, though her eyes sought the floor. “Did you see Elizabeth Lilburne that night?”

  “No,” Mary whispered. “No, I did not. The dog would have barked if anyone came to the door.”

  Oh, Elizabeth, Bartwain thought. You forgot to account for whatever damned mongrel Mary is talking about. And that matter of Thom is going to come back to haunt you.

  While the court awaited word on the messenger boy, one of the jurors asked if Elizabeth had ever given birth. The jurymen were finding Elizabeth Lilburne more interesting to look at than the other witnesses. They didn’t mind keeping her on the stand.

  “Yes, I have given birth,” Elizabeth snapped. “Three times. I know what it is to have a difficult labor. And Rachel’s was difficult. She bled a copious amount. There were other problems common to a first delivery. When the infant would not leave the birth canal I examined her. Its shoulders seemed wide, so I took the ribbon and tied it around the neck. The head was mostly out. I tugged one time and that was all we needed. When the child slid into my arms it was full grown but not breathing. I tried for some minutes to clear its lungs. Rachel tried as well,” she concluded, gesturing at the defendant, who was staring at her, open- mouthed.

  She hasn’t agreed to this, Bartwain realized. Elizabeth has not bothered to obtain Rachel’s permission bef
ore telling this little lie on her behalf. And Rachel does not like what she is hearing.

  “Did she harm it?” Blakemore asked.

  “No! She sought to revive it. Only a savage monster could harm a child.”

  “Your Honor, I am telling you, she is lying—she was not present,” Griffin protested.

  “I was present,” Elizabeth flared. “When I saw the child would not revive I asked Rachel what she would have me do. She said she wanted to be by herself. I said she should not be by herself under the circumstances. She paid me no heed. She said she would wrap the child in a blanket and bury it the next day. I said I would help her, but she would not listen. She wore a frightful look. I returned home. That was all. Your Honor, she is innocent!”

  It was an entertaining tale, and it resembled the truth in places, but it failed to persuade Bartwain. And if it failed to persuade him, it would never persuade the jury, who did not appreciate Elizabeth Lilburne’s enterprising spirit as much as he did.

  “Are you certain the child was not living when you left?” This question came from the juror with the patch.

  “Of course.”

  “Did you return to check on her, on Miss Lockyer, the next morning?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Her lie was growing complicated. “I could not return because my husband was released from the Tower of London shortly thereafter.”

  “What relation does that have to your attendance at Warwick Lane?”

  “I became busy with aiding in his release and caring for him. He was in need of my attention.”

  The crowd cheered and hooted. From his seat in the middle of the courthouse, John Lilburne muttered a few choice words.

  The judge called for order. “It is your opinion then, Mrs. Lilburne, that Rachel Lockyer did not kill her babe?”

  “Yes, that is my opinion. It was stillborn. I am the one credible witness.”

  For a second, Bartwain almost believed her. Maybe Elizabeth had resisted divulging these details earlier because she did not want her name—her husband’s name—drawn into scandalous association. No, he decided, recovering his senses. She is trying to atone for having raced off to retrieve her husband and in so doing missing Rachel’s hour of need. She is trying to protect her friend. And she is failing.

  Before the jurors adjourned, the errand boy Thom was dragged into the courtroom. Griffin’s clerk had found the boy sitting outside St. Sepulchre’s, enjoying the morning, dining on a plundered oat loaf. Thom had no idea his name was being bandied about inside the Sessions House. He had no idea Rachel Lockyer was on trial until the clerk recognized his orange hair and nabbed him. He was not happy to be pulled into the proceedings. On one side of him was Rachel, who housed him when it was raining. On the other side was the prosecutor, whom the boy feared. “May I go, Your Honor?” were his first words.

  The judge asked Thom if he had been sent to find Elizabeth Lilburne and bring her to Warwick Lane on the night of November 1. “This is very important,” he cautioned.

  Stalling, Thom glanced over at Elizabeth and tried to read her expression, but Elizabeth’s eyes were daggers and Thom could not read them. He turned back to the judge. “I don’t remember.”

  “Think harder,” Blakemore urged. “We are attempting to confirm or disprove a witness to a stillbirth.”

  Thom had no idea what they were talking about. He decided to give himself time to think by reviewing his message-delivery schedules out loud for the court, ticking off his list of regular customers as well as their more unusual habits, causing some in the audience to laugh. He began to relax; he grew less intimidated. His inner jester came out. A few minutes later he shouted, “I remember!” He bounced up and down. He hoped what he remembered was the same thing Rachel and Elizabeth wanted him to say. Elizabeth, at least, was nodding vigorously; she looked encouraging.

  “What do you remember?” Griffin said.

  Thom proceeded to do exactly what he should not have done—he proceeded to tell the truth. “No, sir, no, sir, there was no call to fetch Mrs. Lilburne. I never saw hide nor hair of Mrs. Lilburne that night. I would’ve remembered that! I did not see anyone that night, sir, no one at all. I mean, I remember it all quite clear now, for there was a crescent moon and I was eating ham and peas east of Poultry. I never saw Mrs. Lilburne, sir. I have not seen that lady in months. I would’ve remembered that.” Eating ham and peas off the trash heap, he might have added, but he kept that detail private. He danced on his toes, relieved to have done his duty.

  Elizabeth dropped her head, low and furious, a bull about to charge.

  “May I go now, Your Honor?” Thom piped up.

  A low hum, a kind of squalid mutter, began reverberating through the courthouse.

  Griffin smiled. “Yes, boy, you may go.” Thom sprinted down the aisle.

  Judge Blakemore addressed Elizabeth. “Woman,” he said, “are you aware of the dangers of bearing false witness?”

  Bartwain shifted in his chair. Leave her out of this, he thought.

  “What I said was true,” she insisted. “That boy is lying.”

  “Your deception will send you to Newgate along with your companion. Is that what you want? Correct your testimony, Mrs. Lilburne, or you too will face a punishment.”

  Suddenly the defendant spoke up. “Leave her alone,” Rachel commanded.

  Bartwain groaned. Why now? Why not sooner? She should have been speaking earlier. She should have been cross-examining the prosecution’s witnesses. She should have been pounding each link in the chain, looking for weaknesses. Yet she had said nothing—until now.

  “Pardon me?” Judge Blakemore had almost forgotten Rachel was in the courthouse.

  “I said, leave her alone!” she repeated.

  At the rear of the courthouse, William Walwyn was standing, struggling up from the bench, shouting something, trying to speak. Mabbott the newsman was pulling him back, gripping him roughly, reminding the Leveler his testimony could only make things worse. For Walwyn to reveal himself, to stand and proclaim his support, would be to remind the jury that the defendant had a past—that she was an oyster wife, a strumpet, a stealer of good women’s husbands. Mabbott pulled Walwyn back to the bench.

  “Elizabeth Lilburne had a fever last summer and was not well,” Rachel said to the judge. “She lost her two boys to the smallpox. She made a mistake in her testimony. That is all. Please let her be. It was a mistake. She was confused. I will do whatever you want, just let her be.”

  The judge looked from one woman to the other.

  “Your Honor, please,” Rachel entreated.

  Elizabeth, to Rachel: “Stop it. Stop saying that. I can speak for myself.”

  Rachel, to the judge: “I tell you, she is not well.”

  “I am well enough,” Elizabeth flung back.

  Blakemore called for order. He said Rachel had no permission to speak about the guilt or innocence of others; she must speak only of her own. “What do you have to say in your own defense? Speak now, or your time for speaking is over.”

  Rachel gazed out over the packed courthouse. Her eyes flickered with recognition as she saw Bartwain, but she did not linger on him. She was not searching for him. She was seeking someone else. Bartwain did not have to turn around to guess whom she wanted. Again the Leveler rose from his bench with a strangled cry; again his friend silenced him, pulled him back. Mabbott the newsman, Mabbott the moderate, was restraining Walwyn, talking in his ear: You cannot help her this way, he was saying.

  Then, in a small voice, Rachel said, “I waited too long, Your Honor.” That was all. She stepped off the platform.

  The judge rose. “Very well. I see you do not wish to speak further. Clerks, put her words in your books. The jury will adjourn.”

  Bartwain squirmed in his movable chair, craning to get a better look. Say more, he silently urged. Explain what you mean. Don’t do this. Give us your side. Tell us something. Tell us anything. Give us a reason
. There has to be a reason. Talk to us. Talk to me, at least. Tell me why it happened, so I may sleep again.

  The judge sent the jury into the back chambers to dine on roast chicken and to deliberate.

  Bartwain smoked his pipe and waited.

  Fourteen

  NEAR THE END of her trial, Rachel thought she saw her brother standing in the back of the courtroom. For a minute she forgot he had died; she looked for him among the spectators. When she remembered, she searched for Walwyn instead; she sought the one who was living. She concentrated so hard she became nauseated; she thought she might be sick on the stand. She beat back the urge. She found Walwyn in the last row. Fixing her attention on the horizon of his face, she distracted herself by trying to name all the sounds creatures make when they are in trouble. She ran the noises around in her head. She wished she too could roar and whistle and screech and bleat and rattle and all those other noises a woman could not make unless she wanted the world to declare her an animal, a creature of unreason, a dreamer of false dreams. She stood through two hours of testimony. She listened to friends and strangers tell the judge and jury who she was, what she had done, when and how far she had fallen. It took a while for her to grasp that she was the person under discussion. She could not find herself in their words. Not even in Elizabeth’s. Poor Elizabeth, who loved Rachel but was going about it the wrong way, who was trying to fix the problem by turning things upside down, whereas Rachel wanted to turn things right side up, to get off the ceiling, to pull her claws out from the rocks.

  She continued to stand as someone in the audience threw a fig at her. Someone else suggested how long it would take her to suffocate once she was hanging. Through it all she kept her eyes on Walwyn. She went home to him in her thoughts. Even as the surgeon discussed the state of putrefaction, she did not pull away. No reservation lingered in Walwyn’s expression. And when Kiffin accused her of being an unnatural woman, her lover rolled his eyes with such an exaggerated motion she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. He sustained her.