“Nell and James were born within two months of each other,” Jenny continued, “and our families have just assumed that they would get married someday. Especially James.”
“Does your father expect Nell to marry James?”
“I’ve never heard him say it directly, but he and Master Cooper are best friends. He’d be pleased if they did.”
Convinced that Nell wasn’t going to speak to him, the red giant shuffled back to his friends, his shoulders slumped. Glancing up, he saw Drew standing close to Jenny. His eyes focused hard on Drew as he raised himself to full height.
It seemed inevitable. Drew knew that unless he could complete his business in Edenford quickly, their paths would cross. He didn’t like the prospect.
The high constable was awake and well fed by 10:30, with enough time to hold a court session before lunch. On clear days the hearings were usually held on the village green beside the church; on the day of Drew Morgan’s trial, however, the blustery weather forced the gathering inside the church. Drew entered the building alongside Christopher Matthews. The wooden pews were already packed with spectators. Nell and Jenny managed to find seats halfway to the front as Drew and the curate walked up the center aisle. James Cooper and a few other young men sat directly behind them. Nell’s head was bowed as they passed. Was she praying or simply trying to ignore the red giant seated behind her? Jenny smiled reassuringly as she wiggled her slender fingers in a little wave.
The shutters were closed against the wind, making the inside of the church dark and gloomy. An occasional shrill whistle howled as the wind tried to force its way in through the cracks in the shutters.
Although every seat was taken, people continued to pour in. They stood against the walls, lining the edges of the building two and three deep. To Drew everyone seemed in a surly mood, as if they were looking for a fight.
As Drew and Matthews sat on the front pew, reserved for defendants and witnesses, Drew couldn’t help but smile when he saw the communion table in violation of Bishop Laud’s directive: it wasn’t against the eastern wall, nor was it railed off. In fact, the bishop would be incensed—the obese high constable was hunched behind the table, using it for court proceedings.
Two other cases were addressed before the charges against Drew were read—a money dispute between two men who were building a cottage together and a property loss settlement involving the death of a pig. Apparently a drunken man had stabbed his neighbor’s pig when he mistook it for a demon.
After the high constable fixed the amount between the two building partners and ordered the pig killer to pay restitution, he called Drew to stand before the assembly. Ambrose Dudley, in his capacity as town scrivener, read the charge against Drew. From the platform Drew could clearly see Nell and Jenny. Nell’s face remained expressionless; her hands worried a few strands of fringe on her shawl; Jenny was biting her lower lip.
Dudley’s high voice cut through the crowd’s restless murmur, “Master Drew Morgan is hereby charged with being a vagabond.”
Then the scrivener was asked to present his case.
“Performing his rightful duty, Cyrus Furman, town watchman, detained Master Morgan three days past. Master Morgan was traveling from the north on Bridge Road entering Edenford. He was armed with this.”
Using both hands Dudley raised Drew’s grandfather’s cutlass over his head so that everyone could see it. The level of murmuring rose.
“Suspecting Master Morgan of being a vagabond, or worse, Cyrus brought the boy to me, whereupon I questioned him extensively. My examination revealed he had no permanent place of residence from which he was coming, and no permanent place of residence to which he was going—hence, a vagabond.”
The high constable leaned over his book and wrote something while everyone waited. The scratching of his pen and the whistling of the wind through the shutters were the only sounds.
Lifting his head, he said, “Anything else?”
The scrawny scrivener straightened his doublet while he cleared his throat. When he spoke next, the tone of his voice was lower and deeper, to lend an added note of authority.
He said, “There is. I suspect Master Drew Morgan of murdering Shubal Elkins!”
As if by cue, the room exploded with noise. Several men jumped to their feet and leaned forward over the backs of the pews, shouting and shaking fists at Drew. Like a flowing tide, they began moving toward him, a cursing, shoving, jostling wall of angry faces. Head and shoulders above them was James Cooper. The red giant wore a twisted grin as he pushed his way forward.
To old Cyrus Furman’s credit, the town watchman positioned himself between his prisoner and the furious tide. He had nothing with which to protect his prisoner except his bare hands, since firearms were not allowed in the church. The high constable was on his feet, frantically hammering the communion table and shouting for order. Christopher Matthews leaped to the town watchman’s side and loudly called for calm, but the noise of the angry sea of townspeople drowned him out.
The curate shoved Drew against the wall and shielded him with his body. The angry tide continued advancing. Not until it was within a foot of the curate did it stop. No one was willing to lay hands on the curate. They shouted and cajoled, but the curate of Edenford refused to move.
Matthews took advantage of the impasse. “This man did not murder Shubal Elkins!” he shouted.
“The scrivener says he did!” A man with a large forehead and a splotchy black beard became the self-appointed voice for the mob.
The tide of men surged as they shouted their agreement. Christopher Matthews was beginning to understand. The scrivener had orchestrated this vigilante effort.
“On what evidence?” Matthews shouted back.
“He did it with his sword!” the black beard said.
“Is that what the scrivener told you? That the murder was committed with the sword?”
He was answered with affirmative nods and shouts.
“That’s interesting, since Ambrose Dudley didn’t examine the body. I did. So did Cyrus and David Cooper.”
He scanned the crowd for the town watchman and found him off to the side, restrained by two men.
“Cyrus, could the wounds on Shubal Elkins’ body have been made with a sword?”
“Not likely,” Cyrus replied. “The cuts were too small. More like the work of a small knife.”
“Cooper?” the curate shouted across the sea of accusers to the cobbler who was standing at the back of the church.
“Had to be a knife,” Cooper shouted back. “There’s no way it could have been done with a sword.”
“Morgan could have done it with a knife!”
The voice was Ambrose Dudley’s. He was standing safely away from the action on the far side of the church behind the communion table and the high constable.
At this point the high constable intervened.
“Did you find a knife on the boy?”
“He could have thrown it in some bushes or the river or buried it.” The scrivener’s voice was high pitched and uncertain.
“You found no knife on the boy when he was arrested?” the high constable repeated.
“No, we did not.” the scrivener said grudgingly.
The high constable followed up with another question.
“Do you have any other evidence that would link this boy to the murder?”
“He was in the area at the time of the murder!” Dudley replied. “The body was found late last Sunday. Drew Morgan came from the direction of the murder on Monday. Your lordship, I believe Morgan did it. I have a feeling about Master Morgan. I can always tell when people are hiding something, and he’s hiding something!”
The oversized constable produced a lace handkerchief and wiped large beads of perspiration from his brow and the side of his face.
“Master Dudley, as you are well aware, impressions are not admissible evidence. Nor is a man guilty simply because he was in the vicinity of a crime. Unless you have something more substanti
al, I will not accept the charge of murder against Master Morgan.”
“There is still the matter of his being a vagabond!” said Dudley. “Of that there is no doubt!”
“That is a matter we will decide.”
The high constable spoke firmly with a touch of exasperation.
“But as for you, town scrivener, let it be known that your actions in this matter have been reprehensible! You have let personal opinion outweigh fact. You stirred up this town needlessly with your wild accusations. At the conclusion of this trial, I will meet with town officials, and we will determine suitable punishment.”
An unplanned recess followed as everyone returned to his seat. Drew thanked his protectors before returning to his place on the platform. The sea of faces before him was decidedly mixed: some, like Jenny and Nell, were pale from fright; others eyed him suspiciously, while still others looked genuinely disappointed that they weren’t going to hang him.
When all was quiet, the high constable addressed Drew.
“How do you respond to the charge that you are a vagabond?”
“I am a traveler. Nothing more,” Drew replied. “I am no threat to this town.”
“His response doesn’t answer the question!” Dudley shouted.
A perturbed, angry look crossed the high constable’s face.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Dudley, I know my job, if you’ll let me do it.”
Dudley folded his arms and scowled.
“He is right, Master Morgan,” the high constable continued, “your response does not answer the question. Do you have a permanent place of residence?”
There was a long pause as Drew tried his best to come up with something that would acquit him of this nagging petty charge.
“Is the question too hard for you, Master Morgan?”
Christopher Matthews stood.
“Master Morgan has a permanent residence in my home, should he choose to dwell there.”
Jenny silently clapped her hands together, cheering her father. Nell’s mouth dropped open for an instant; then she snapped it shut with tightly pursed lips.
“A noble gesture, curate,” Hoffman replied, “but hardly relevant. Your gesture comes after the crime has been committed. Let me rephrase my question. Master Morgan, four days ago when you were detained by Edenford’s watchman, did you have a permanent place of residence?”
“No, sir,” Drew replied. “But I still contend I was no threat to the town. I was passing through on my way to Plymouth.”
“Plymouth? For what purpose?”
“To enlist as a crew member aboard a trading ship.”
“I see.”
The high constable played with the folds of flesh under his chin.
“Was a ship’s captain expecting you?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever been a crew member of a ship before?”
Drew thought about lying that he had, but remembered the problems he encountered during his first assignment at Norwich where too many lies proved to be his undoing. Better to keep his story simple and look for another way out of this.
“No, sir,” he said.
“Do you have any evidence that could convince us that your story about Plymouth is true?”
“No, sir.”
A rumble of voices reverberated through the church as the high constable scribbled something in his book. When he was finished, he addressed Dudley.
“I am fully aware how trite this next question is in light of the recent outburst, but to satisfy procedure, I must ask it. Was Master Morgan carrying any weapons when he was detained?”
“He was,” Dudley said quickly, obviously pleased.
The scrivener laid the cutlass on the communion table in front of the high constable. The constable pulled the cutlass from its sheath and held it up, examining the blade.
“Does this cutlass belong to you?” he asked Drew.
“Yes, sir, it does.”
“Why were you carrying it?”
“For protection, sir.”
“Protection? Protection from what or whom?”
“Highway robbers. The roads of England are hardly safe for travelers.”
The high constable agreed with a grunt as he continued to examine the sword.
“I was in Collumpton a few weeks ago,” he said in a tone that sounded like he was thinking out loud. “Seems there was a highwayman who was working the stretch of road between Collumpton and Bradninch. You wouldn’t happen to be that highwayman, would you?”
“No, sir!”
“This is a navy cutlass unless I’m mistaken,” the high constable noted. “Yet you say you have never been to sea.”
“It was my grandfather’s.”
Drew debated whether or not to use his grandfather’s name, then decided it might impress the constable.
“My grandfather was Admiral Amos Morgan.”
Another murmur throughout the church, this one louder and sustained by whispers.
The high constable turned from the sword and examined Drew.
“Impressive!” he said. “Is Admiral Morgan still alive?”
“No, sir. He died earlier this year.”
“Hmm,” was all the high constable said.
There was a moment of silence.
The high constable placed the cutlass on the table.
“It’s just as well. I’m sure such a nobleman would be ashamed to know his grandson has become a common vagabond. Do you have anything else to say in your defense?”
Drew’s mind raced. There was no sense of panic; it was just that he was perplexed. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a way to extricate himself without endangering his mission in Edenford. Could his efforts be salvaged if he was found guilty? What was the penalty for being a vagabond anyway? He didn’t know.
“May I say something?”
All eyes swung from Drew to the speaker rising from the front pew. It was Christopher Matthews.
The high constable acknowledged the curate with a nod.
“If I may, I would like to speak on behalf of the accused.”
Another nod from the constable.
“According to the definition read by our scrivener, there seems to be little doubt that Drew Morgan is a vagabond.”
“Father!” Jenny couldn’t constrain herself.
Even stoic Nell had a shocked look on her face.
Matthews continued. “He may be a vagabond, but he’s not an evil person, and he’s certainly not a threat to our town. Although I have known him for only three days, I have spent more time with him than anyone else in this room.”
“Hardly relevant testimony!” Ambrose Dudley said, jumping to his feet. He addressed the constable. “Christopher Matthews was entrusted by the good people of Edenford to guard the prisoner until this hearing. A job, I fear, he has performed miserably. On one occasion I caught them bowling together! The curate was entrusted with guarding him, not entertaining him!”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“On another occasion the curate left the prisoner completely unguarded in the street! The boy could have run away!”
“Which proves my point exactly!” Matthews countered. “Drew has had every chance to run away, and he didn’t!”
“He didn’t run away because he knew I was following him!” the scrivener shouted.
“A single occasion,” Matthews replied. “I still contend that if Drew Morgan intended to run away, he could have done so. If he intended to do us harm, he could have done so. He has done neither. If he is truly a criminal, he wouldn’t be here today.” Matthews sat down.
The high constable sighed. This was taking longer than he had hoped, and he was getting hungry. He looked at the scrivener who would undoubtedly want to respond.
“The fact remains,” Dudley said, “Drew Morgan had no permanent place of residence on the day he was arrested. By English law he is a vagabond and ought to be sentenced as such.” Dudley sat down in apparent triumph.
With
great reluctance the high constable asked, “Does anyone else have something to say?”
Drew scanned the room. Nell and Jenny were huddled together. Their heads were bowed. Behind them redheaded James Cooper had lost interest in the trial. He was staring blankly at the ceiling. David Cooper stood in the back against the wall, his huge hairy arms folded across his chest.
“If I may speak again,” Christopher Matthews stood, this time with his father’s Bible in hand.
Ambrose Dudley rolled his eyes upward.
Just then the back door of the church swung open, letting in a gust of cold air. Complaints from those standing in the back were short-lived when the latecomer was recognized. The constable sat up straight in his chair. When Drew saw who it was, his face drained of color. It was a good thing everyone was looking toward the back door because it took him a moment to compose himself.
Lord Chesterfield closed the door behind him. Totally self-absorbed, he acted like he had stepped into an empty room.
Removing his outer cloak, he took great care in arranging his clothing, smoothing wrinkles, straightening the lace on his shirt and sleeves. Like most noblemen, he was used to being stared at and waited on; in fact, he expected it, even enjoyed it. After making himself presentable, he looked at the high constable. “Continue with whatever you were doing,” he said, with a casual sweep of his hand.
“It is an honor that you should join us,” the high constable said. “I would be further honored if you would join me on the platform.”
After another series of hand waves, as if brushing aside the constable’s offer, he said, “Continue your business. When you’re finished, I have something to tell the townspeople.”
Four men seated on the back pew offered the lord their seats He took all four places, spreading out his cloak. For Lord Chesterfield’s sake, the high constable reviewed the charges, pointing toward the defendant. Drew Morgan watched intently for Lord Chesterfield’s reaction. There was a flash of recognition, then a slight frown. A moment later Lord Chesterfield’s expression became that of a bored nobleman who was forced to endure the trivial squabbling of commoners.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 18