An Almond for a Parrot

by Dray Wray

  ‘Do you have any questions, Mr Gately?’ asked the judge.

  ‘Mr Wrattan,’ said Mr Gately, ‘was there anyone with you when you were on the roof of the Hedge Tavern?’

  This one question ruffled Wrattan’s sleek feathers. ‘I didn’t see anyone,’ he said.

  ‘Let me help you,’ said Mr Gately. ‘There was, I believe, a young girl seen on the roof. Is that correct?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone,’ repeated Victor Wrattan.

  Pretty Poppet squeezed my hand. ‘Have the gentleman call me,’ she whispered.

  Mr Barrow stood up. ‘Your honour, this has no relevance to the murder of Captain Spiggot.’

  ‘It is relevant if there is another witness,’ said Mr Gately.

  Mr Barrow stood up again. ‘Your honour, the girl was never found and has, therefore, never given a statement. This line of questioning should be dropped.’

  ‘Mr Gately will concentrate on the facts of this case rather than hearsay,’ said the judge.

  My barrister changed his line of attack. ‘Did Captain Spiggot tell you to take his pistol from his coat?’

  ‘No,’ said Wrattan. ‘Captain Spiggot was unarmed that night. I had a sword.’

  Mr Gately made little progress. Mr Wrattan was playing to the gallery. The judge dismissed Mr Gately’s cross-examination, telling the jury that they should not consider it.

  ‘You need me if you ain’t to join me,’ Pretty Poppet whispered. ‘Make them see me and I will tell them what happened. When the occasion deserves it, I can dress myself as you do for society, in the habit of flesh and blood, well enough to deceive human sight. I won’t let you down.’

  The law stops to eat and I was taken down to a cell. I have to admit to being full of dread. I had been far too light-hearted about the notion that I might be hanged but it now looked a reality, and an unavoidable reality. Mr Gately came to see me. He told me to take heart, and that it would go better in the afternoon. I didn’t think so.

  ‘I want you to call Poppet Gibbs,’ I said.

  Mr Gately ignored my suggestion. ‘I will call Mr Albion Crease next,’ he said.

  ‘I beg of you, call Poppet Gibbs.’

  ‘Who is Poppet Gibbs?’ said my lawyer, looking at me as if I was a complete numbskull.

  ‘She is the girl who was seen on the roof of the Hedge Tavern and she is now willing to give evidence. I am paying you well for your services, Mr Gately, you will call her.’

  The court reconvened after lunch and, just as in a game of chess, everyone took their places in the hope of seeing the queen taken by a knight.

  ‘Mr Gately,’ said the judge. ‘Your next witness.’

  ‘Your honour,’ said Mr Gately, ‘I call Miss Poppet Gibbs.’

  What if she was to appear with her skin all ragged? What if she was not to appear at all? Mr Crease stared down at me with his painted eyes and gave me the courage I needed. I had never concentrated as hard as I did then on making a spirit visible. But she didn’t appear. The call went round the courtroom again. I looked up into Queenie’s face and I knew Pretty Poppet was there by an expression – a mixture of wonder and sadness – that came over Queenie’s features. Poppet had not only garnered flesh but seemed to have taken advantage of the years that had never been hers. She wore them well and stood in the stand, rosy-cheeked and calm.

  Queenie stifled a sob. Poppet, the grown-up daughter she’d never seen, never known, smiled up at her. I could hear what she was thinking. Don’t cry, Mother, don’t cry.

  ‘Your name?’ said the judge.

  ‘Poppet Gibbs, your honour, of Mrs Gibbs’ house.’

  Wrattan, who had stayed to see the rest of the trial, was lounging at the back of the courtroom, smiling to himself. I watched as slowly it dawned on him who it was who had taken the witness stand. All humour deserted him.

  ‘Miss Gibbs,’ said Mr Gately, ‘where were you when Captain Spiggot was shot?’

  ‘I was in the Club Room at the Hedge Tavern. I’d gone there with Miss Tully, looking for Miss Mercy, who that morning had been taken by Mr Wrattan and Captain Spiggot on the King’s highway. Miss Tully feared that they would do to Miss Mercy what they’d done to her.’

  ‘And what had they done to her?’

  ‘Raped, and beaten, and near murdered her. I knew of the ways of Mr Wrattan for when I was thirteen Mr Wrattan and some other gentlemen broke into Mrs Inglis’ school where I was a pupil, and four girls died that night due to those gentlemen’s attentions.’

  There was uproar in the courtroom and for the first time I felt a shift in the jury’s opinion.

  Mr Barrow stood up. ‘That has nothing to do with the case in hand.’

  ‘It has to do with Miss Gibbs going with the prisoner on the night of the shooting,’ said Mr Gately

  ‘Continue, Mr Gately,’ said the judge.

  ‘Miss Gibbs,’ said Mr Gately, ‘would you tell the court what happened in the Club Room at the Hedge Tavern.’

  Pretty Poppet gave her testimony. She described exactly how we had found Mr Wrattan and Captain Spiggot in a state of undress. She went no further, implied no wrongdoing, but at the same time leaving little to the imagination of the well-versed citizen of this city of sin. Speaking clearly, so that all her words could be heard, she ended by telling the court that she had stood on the roof of the tavern while Wrattan clung to the chimney pots, having left his friend downstairs, mortally wounded.

  ‘He still had hold of Captain Spiggot’s pistol, the pistol he’d shot his friend with. And the Fleet being only the other side of the chimneys, Mr Wrattan dropped it in the river.’ She paused. ‘I have come forward, sir, because I want justice for all the wrongs gentlemen like Mr Wrattan and Captain Spiggot do to women, to young girls who have hardly put away their dolls before they’re thrown on the rubbish heap and left to become threepenny whores.’

  It was the most impressive performance.

  ‘Lies – it’s all lies,’ shouted Wrattan.

  ‘But it isn’t, sir, is it?’

  The judge brought down his gavel. ‘Order. Mr Wrattan, I will have you removed if you are not quiet.’

  But nothing was going to keep Victor Wrattan quiet for he could see what few others in the courtroom could: Ralph Spiggot standing before him, the hole in his chest large and weeping.

  As Mr Barrow stood up, Spiggot vanished. Wrattan, wild-eyed and sweating, leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

  ‘The problem, Miss Gibbs,’ said Mr Barrow, ‘is that all you have told us is hearsay. And the serious crimes that you have accused the witness of committing have no relevance to this case.’

  I felt a chill run through me. I could not let Mr Barrow demolish Pretty Poppet’s testimony. With all my mind, I willed Spiggot to be visible to Wrattan again.

  My dead husband appeared at the side of his friend and killer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ralph, I’m sorry!’ whimpered Wrattan.

  ‘Order, order,’ called the judge. ‘Will you be silent, sir.’

  Wrattan desperately fought through the crowd, pushing and stumbling towards the courtroom door.

  ‘Mr Wrattan,’ said the judge, ‘control yourself. This is the last warning I will give you.’

  Mindless of the living, Captain Spiggot put himself between Wrattan and the door. Wrattan was frantic.

  ‘We should have finished her when we had the chance,’ he shouted. ‘I meant to kill the whore, Ralph, I didn’t mean to kill you!’

  Spiggot leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. ‘Say that again, Victor,’ he said.

  ‘Will you stay with me, Ralph?’ cried Wrattan.

  ‘Say it again, and we will never be parted,’ said Spiggot.

  Wrattan collapsed and the ghost disappeared.

  ‘Ralph!’ cried Wrattan. ‘Come back – I didn’t mean to kill you.’

  The courtroom was brittle in its silence. From his own mouth, Victor Wrattan had condemned himself. Shaking and in tears, he was helped to his feet by two constables,
arrested, charged and taken away.

  The judge thanked Pretty Poppet for her testimony and, with her head held high, she walked from the court, never to be seen again.

  The jury found me not guilty.

  ‘The prisoner will be discharged,’ said the judge.

  It was all over.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  I stood in the dock, unable to move. I recall a cacophony of noise and it seemed that the courtroom whirled around me; hands grabbing, faces grimacing. I had leapt the hangman’s drop from guilty bound to innocent. There was a future, there would be tomorrows, and in my belly I felt for the first time a flutter of new life. Both of us were eager to live.

  Mr Tubbs guided me from the courtroom. In the corridor, Ned was waiting, his face grey. He took my hand.

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ he said. ‘Thank the Lord.’

  We went up the stairs together to a chamber above the courtroom. It was a comfortable room with chairs and a desk, a safe harbour from the storms that raged below.

  ‘I want to go home,’ I said.

  ‘By all means,’ said Mr Tubbs, ‘but first Mr Attaway wants to speak to you.’

  I dreaded to think what the solicitor might have to say. I was impatient to be gone from this place less the truth about my witness be uncovered. Would I be re-arrested, retried? Was it possible?

  Mr Attaway entered, his face solemn.

  ‘Is everything in order?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, in measured tones. ‘The verdict stands.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ I said.

  Mr Attaway cleared his throat. ‘Poppet Gibbs is dead.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Dead and buried some fifteen years ago.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘She was murdered, along with three other girls, at Mrs Inglis’ school. A group of men were arrested for the crime, charged and found not guilty. Among them, as I discovered, was Victor Wrattan.’

  ‘I know that, too.’ And I knew what he was going to ask me. I said, quickly, ‘Will Wrattan hang?’

  ‘It appears that he is more likely to be sent to Bedlam than to the gallows. At present he is in the cells, plagued by ghosts.’

  The solicitor cleared his throat again but before he could question me, I said, ‘Mr Attaway, there is really nothing else to say on the matter. All I ask is that you accept there is more to this world than most people comprehend, just as there is more to the law than I will ever understand.’

  ‘I’ve seen many things inside a courtroom,’ said Mr Attaway, ‘but a ghost giving evidence – now, that is exceptional.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps there were others you didn’t recognise.’

  A smile crossed the severe planes of Mr Attaway’s face.

  ‘Am I free to go?’ I asked.

  ‘There is nothing to stop you.’

  ‘I’ll fetch the carriage,’ said Ned.

  As he opened the door I heard Cook’s unmistakable voice.

  ‘I must see her, it’s important.’

  Tubbs looked questioningly at me. I nodded and Cook was ushered in. She was exactly as she had been when I’d last seen her, the day I left Milk Street with Mercy: pasty skin and raisin eyes. In her hand she held a roll of paper, tied with string.

  ‘I’m Martha Longhorn,’ she said to Mr Attaway. ‘Longhorn’s my married name,’ she added, turning to me, as if that was all that was needed as an account of the intervening years.

  ‘I have been trying to see you,’ she said, ‘but that busy legal gentleman – ’ she pointed at Tubbs ‘ – would have none of it.’

  ‘Madam,’ said Mr Attaway, ‘my client has had a long and trying day, may I suggest – ’

  ‘No!’ said Cook, emphatically. ‘I have waited too long as it is and things left too long go mouldy.’ She sat down and adjusted her hat. ‘Whoever would have thought it would come to this – that Poppet girl in court and giving evidence. You never seemed to like her much when she came to Milk Street.’ She looked pleadingly at Tubbs. ‘You don’t have a drop of gin?’ She moistened her lips. ‘A little tipple would go a long way to easing the tongue.’ Mr Tubbs poured her a glass of gin and she downed it in one gulp. ‘That courtroom is a dusty place. The law gives you a right thirst, it does.’

  She held out her glass for it to be refilled and, after she’d finished it, she continued.

  ‘So I said to Mr Longhorn, “What am I to do?” Mr Longhorn is a man of determined principles.’

  ‘Can we not talk at the fairy house?’ I said. ‘I am sure Queenie – that is, Mrs Truegood – would be pleased to see you again.’

  ‘No,’ said Cook. ‘No, I can’t go there. Mr Longhorn, being a religious man, has forbidden it. It was his suggestion, and his carriage brought me to the court, and that’s as far as I am permitted me to go.’

  ‘Mrs Longhorn,’ said Mr Attaway, ‘may I suggest you give the document you are holding to either myself or Miss Truegood.’

  I was suddenly weary and could not for all the salt in the sea think what Cook might have to say that was so pressing that I should be prevented from returning home.

  ‘Cook, where are these ramblings leading?’ I asked.

  ‘I saw your name in all the papers,’ said Cook. ‘Then – ’ her voice dipped to a whisper ‘ – when Mr Longhorn said about you murdering Captain Spiggot and them calling him your husband…’

  She still held fast to the battered roll of paper. I assumed it was my lost marriage certificate and, fortunately, no longer of any importance.

  Mr Attaway said, ‘Tubbs will take the document, Mrs Longhorn.’

  I thanked Cook. ‘I don’t need it now,’ I said. ‘It’s too late.’ I rose to leave. ‘It is my marriage certificate, isn’t it?’

  Cook held even tighter to the roll of paper. ‘Let me speak without all of you flustering me.’ I sat down again. ‘I’ve been preparing these words and now they are well cooked and need to be said. You see, I’d put this paper in a drawer and then, when you got so famous and all, I showed it to Mr Longhorn and he read it to me. It has burned a hole in my conscience. I would have handed it over sooner, but I was in fear of my life.’

  ‘Why were you in fear of your life?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what I want to explain to you,’ said Cook. ‘Mr Truegood sent for me when he was in the Marshalsea. Such a terrible state he was in. He gave me this here paper and made me promise that I would never show another living soul, and said that if I wanted to keep my giblets, I’d better stay quiet. He said if anything happened to him, he’d haunt me. I thought the old fool was playing a part, as was his way. Then, the very next day, I was told he’d had his throat slit. I was in no doubt who’d done the slitting.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘That Mr Wrattan.’

  ‘Why did you suspect him?’ asked Mr Attaway.

  Cook sighed. ‘There are so many words and all of them need organising. Another little drop would help.’ She took a second glass of gin. ‘You know the master ran a gambling club?’

  ‘The Hawks’ Club,’ I said. ‘Yes, yes, of course I know. Please, Cook, I beg of you, come to the point.’

  ‘I would serve wine and vittles and nightly I saw your father losing money at cards. A great deal of money.’ Having started the story, she found that the gin had performed its miracle and loosened her tongue. ‘One night, after Mr Truegood had lost more than any one man should possess, he was nearing his wits’ end, for the debt had to be paid. One of the Hawks told him he had a friend who might be able to help. A gentleman came to see Mr Truegood and said there was a road out of his problems that didn’t lead to the Marshalsea. He had a name that sounded like Dribble.’

  ‘Quibble?’ I said.

  ‘That’s it – Mr Quibble. Now, I won’t say that I often listened at the door, though…’

  ‘Please, madam, could we arrive at the crux of the matter?’ said Mr Attaway.

  ‘Well, the short of it is, I overheard Mr Dribble tell Mr Truegood tha
t all his debts would vanish if he would agree to his daughter marrying his client’s stepson. Mr Truegood didn’t take much persuading, especially when he was told that the young gentleman in question was going abroad and, with any luck, you would soon be widowed. I took that to mean he was going to sea. You were married as agreed and Mr Nibble was true to his word. Your father’s plate was full. But the old drunk didn’t learn his lesson – once half baked, always half baked, I say. Then came the day, as certain as the day of judgement, when he hadn’t a penny left to pay any of his debts so he cooked up a liar’s pie. He told anyone who listened that when you were eighteen you would inherit a fortune.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, too,’ I said.

  ‘One who listened well was that Mr Wrattan. I didn’t like the look of him, or the smell of him – rotten to the core, he was – no amount of butter would make that man savoury. Mr Truegood owed him a great deal of money. But all the debts were paid off when your father married Mrs Gibbs.’

  Cook had, as usual, left out half the ingredients that would make a good dish.

  Out of impatience, I said, ‘I have no energy for this story,’ and again stood up. ‘Please, Cook, give Mr Attaway the certificate. I am going home.’

  Cook reluctantly handed the paper to my solicitor. He read it and his face became even more sombre.

  ‘One moment, Miss Truegood. I advise you to look at this.’

  I took the document to the light and read it. Then I read it again. The words began to dance, or rather my mind could make little sense of them. My husband’s name was written in an assured, if somewhat wobbly hand. My writing was that of the child I was.

  Tubbs caught me as I fell.

  When I had recovered, Cook was staring at me. ‘It’s the shock,’ she said.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ I said, anger welling up in me. ‘Did it never occur to you to send this to me? Have you any concept of the grief that was caused by your silence?’

  ‘Like I said, I was in fear of my life,’ said Cook. ‘I was in fear of my life right up until today.’