by Tessa Harris
The trial of Abraham Diggott, coppicer of Brandwick, was held on the tenth day of May. The old man was due to be arraigned with four other defendants, who were charged with lesser offenses such as theft and poaching, but in all cases the specter of the gallows loomed large.
Such a prospect drew a sizable crowd, and the courtroom was full to bursting a good half hour before proceedings began. The fashionable ladies and gentlemen of Oxford had ensured they took the seats with the best view, whereas the rest of the rabble had to make do with standing like cattle in market pens. The room itself had been sprinkled with herbs and scented flowers in order to prevent the spread of disease. However, the gesture did little to mask the smell of the spectators, let alone the unwashed prisoners who stood accused. The stench caught in the back of more genteel throats, sending those of a delicate disposition reaching for their kerchiefs and nosegays.
Thomas was accompanied by Sir Theodisius that morning. The coroner had insisted he be present for the trial of the man accused of murdering his friend, even though he doubted his guilt. The previous evening, over dinner, Thomas had presented a very good case for acquittal and had swayed his friend’s opinion on the matter. The coroner had, however, been wary of the prosecution counsel. He had already warned his dining companion.
“Watch out for Martin Bradshaw,” he had said through a mouthful of mutton. “He’s a slippery one, and a personal friend of Malthus’s to boot, I fear.” His warning only served to make Thomas even more determined to fight in the accused coppicer’s corner.
Consequently, in court the following morning, the coroner introduced Thomas to an official as a medical man wishing to offer his expertise in Abe Diggott’s defense. The clerk made a note of his name and assured him he would be called in due course.
It was then that Thomas spotted Nicholas Lupton, seated on a chair by Martin Bradshaw. The two men were engaged in conversation, and Sir Theodisius’s words echoed in the anatomist’s head. Seeing these adversaries crouched in collusion was a reminder that the odds were stacked most firmly against poor old Abe Diggott.
Thomas did not fancy his chances of squeezing his way along rows of rowdy spectators to a seat and so was relieved when another official offered him a chair near the front of the courtroom, between the witness stand and the huddle of black-clad lawyers. As he sat down, Lupton caught his eye and acknowledged him with a leer before turning to converse with his neighbor. Sir Theodisius saw the rebuff and clamped a friendly hand on Thomas’s arm. He then nodded to him to signify that they must part, and he eased himself onto a bench a few feet away.
On the stroke of nine o’clock Judge Anton Dubarry entered the court. He was a large man, and his enormous wig made him seem even larger. His scarlet robes lent a sense of religiosity to the occasion. A reverent hush descended on the proceedings, imbuing upon them an instant solemnity that previously had been so absent. The preliminaries were observed in a well-rehearsed manner—the selection of a jury and the swearing of oaths. As was the custom, the lesser cases were heard first, with startling efficiency. Only one man pleaded guilty, and he was dealt with in less than a minute. Three others protested their innocence, but even they were dispatched in less than ten. It seemed that, come the end of the day, when it was time to sentence all the miscreants, Judge Dubarry would have recourse to don the black cap more than once.
Any hope of leniency that Thomas might have held for Abe Diggott was fast ebbing away. As they brought the old man from the prison, the anatomist tried to catch his eye. The coppicer staggered up the steps of the dock and looked with an unseeing gaze at the masses who jeered and shouted at his arrival. Word had been put about that they were to see a dashing rake who had held up the surveyor’s party in the woods. At first, it was said, there had been playful banter. He had knocked off the chief mapmaker’s hat and taunted him and his man a little but had no intention of harming either. Shortly after, however, he had been joined by others not yet apprehended and the mood turned ugly. Coshes were wielded, a pistol was drawn, and a single shot fired. The chief surveyor fell mortally wounded and the rest of the cowardly gang fled, leaving the surveyor’s assistant and their guard in a most terrible state and remaining in fear of their lives.
What they saw in court, however, could not seem further from the truth. Could this decrepit old fool be one and the same? A highwayman of renown? It was hard to envisage high-society ladies clamoring for an audience in his cell as they did with dashing James MacLaine. Nor could they see this dolt chatting to the topsman before launching himself off the ladder like the famous Dick Turpin. A murmur of undisguised disappointment rippled around the courtroom.
The charge against Diggott was that on the afternoon of April 20, on the Boughton Estate, he “did lie in wait in Raven’s Wood for Mr. Jeffrey Turgoose and his chainman Mr. James Charlton and did willfully and without regard rob them of their possessions.” He then assaulted Charlton, causing him injury to his head, before firing a single shot that killed said Mr. Turgoose.
“How do you plead to the charge?” asked the clerk of the court.
Diggott, who seemed not to have registered his predicament, let alone indictment, remained silent. Shaking violently, he appeared overwhelmed by the entire proceedings. What was more, he began to sway. Within less than a second he had disappeared below the stand.
Many in the court leapt to their feet. Ladies gasped; fans fluttered. “He’s saved you a job, Judge!” called one cove from the gallery.
“Let’s gibbet him and be done!” shouted another.
The two guards who flanked Diggott tried to right the defendant, and one of the officials actually slapped the old man’s face. Seeing the situation, Thomas presented himself. He was acutely aware that if the accused did not enter a plea, then standing mute would be deemed the same as admitting guilt. He spoke to the clerk amid the surrounding uproar.
“Sir, as you know, I am the surgeon here to speak on this man’s behalf. I would testify as to the nature of his illness and its bearing on his ability to commit the crime,” he told him. “Would I be allowed a moment with him?”
The official raised a brow. “You would speak for the man’s character?”
“I am an expert in my field, acting for the defense, sir,” Thomas told him.
The clerk considered the request for a moment before marching straight to Judge Dubarry. Pointing at the anatomist, he relayed his message, and the judge lifted his gaze toward him. A second later he brought down his gavel.
“This court is adjourned for twenty minutes,” he barked. It was more than Thomas could have hoped for.
The jailers dragged Abe Diggott into a small anteroom where Thomas could attend to him. They sat him down and a cup of water was offered. The old man put his face to the rim and lapped like a dog. Thomas knelt down at his side and took from his pocket a phial of smelling salts. He uncorked it and wafted the pungent vapors under Diggott’s nose.
“Abe, ’tis I, Dr. Silkstone.”
Diggott’s head suddenly shook from side to side as he gasped for breath, and his lids blinked as he tried to focus.
“Do you remember I came to see you in jail?”
There was a flicker of recognition between coughs. Thomas looked at the man’s hands. They remained bound by cord, pinioned in front of him. He held them in his and touched his fingers.
“Do you remember you had lost the power of movement in your hands?” he said softly.
Diggott frowned, then nodded. “I can’t move ’em, Doctor,” he hissed through his gappy teeth.
“They trouble you still?”
“Aye. Aye,” he mumbled. “That and the gripes.”
These were classic symptoms, thought Thomas. “And your bowels?” he asked.
The old man shook his head. “ ’Tis a long, long time since I shat, sir,” came the reply.
Thomas knew his case was growing stronger by the minute. The guards stood on either side of the door, allowing them a little privacy. He put his hand on the accused ma
n’s shoulder.
“You do realize that you are being tried for murder, Abe?” the anatomist said calmly.
At his words, however, the old man suddenly became agitated. He tried to haul himself up but was not strong enough. “Murder? Whose murder?” he protested.
The guards suddenly became more alert, their hands on their coshes, at the ready. Again Thomas tried to soothe the accused. Such confusion was a well-known symptom of lead poisoning.
“When we return to the courtroom, the judge will ask you how you plead.” Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the guards and lowered his voice. “You must say, ‘Not guilty.’ ”
“Not guilty,” repeated the old man, parrot-fashion.
“Do you understand?” asked Thomas.
“Yes, sir. I didn’t kill no one.”
“I know you did not,” Thomas assured him, rising to his feet once more. Turning to the guards he said, “The prisoner is ready.”
Chapter 38
Once 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 k
new 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.”