331. Cupid Rides Pillion, page 20
As Panthea sat alone, save for the warders on either side of her, unsupported by relations or friends, she had a sense not of loneliness, but rather of relief that at least she had no one to worry about save herself. She knew that had Lady Darlington been beside her she would have been distressed by every harsh and cruel defamation that was uttered, not because it hurt her, but because of the misery it must inflict upon her great-aunt.
She was glad now that her father was not alive to see this day, or that Richard had not been there to protest eloquently in her defence and to feel outraged and affronted by the lies that were being fabricated, skilfully and cleverly into a noose that would eventually be put round her neck. She was alone, and yet the note between her breasts made her feel as if she were protected and surrounded by a great company of those who loved her.
She had the love of one man and he filled the whole world. She wanted nothing more save that he should continue to love her. At the mere thought of him, her heart began to beat a little quicker and Lady Castlemaine, watching her, felt a sudden fury in that Panthea looked so happy. She turned to make some slighting, offensive remark to the man next to her, and deliberately raised her voice so that Panthea heard what she said. But, like a stone that fails to reach its mark, the words seemed meaningless and unimportant.
Lucius would save her. Panthea was certain of that as she was that she was sitting here, in fact far more certain.
Sir Balsombe Jones was coming to the end of his speech. With eloquent and flowery language, he described the details of Christian Drysdale’s death as the prosecution alleged it had taken place. He drew such an exaggerated picture of an evil, scheming woman marrying her infatuated suitor because she craved his wealth, that Panthea felt again that she must laugh. It was too ridiculous to believe that he spoke of her, and she could not believe that the twelve members of the jury, sitting bored and restive in the jury box, would recognise her in the guise of a murderess when they remembered that at the time she was but sixteen years of age.
Looking critically at the jury, though, she had her doubts. They were, she decided, most of them respectable tradesmen. Their faces gave one the impression of being curiously devoid of intelligence and Panthea had the uncomfortable feeling that they would accept the judge’s direction, whatever it might be. He would therefore be the deciding factor, and while she appeared to listen attentively to Sir Balsombe Jones, Panthea gave Lord Justice Dalrymple her close attention.
He was a man of some sixty summers, thin to the point of emaciation, his cheekbones prominent on his thin sardonic face. His eyebrows met across the bridge of his sharp, aristocratic nose and the eyes beneath them were shrewd and penetrating. His olive skin was a sharp contrast to the white wool of his wig, and the long pointed fingers of one of his hands cupped his sharp and somewhat protruding chin.
He sat very straight in his highbacked chair and he had an air of almost omnipotent power so that for the first time since she came into court, Panthea felt that here at least was someone with an air of reality, a man who personified all that was meant by both his title and his office, a man in fact who was a judge sitting in judgment.
As Sir Balsombe Jones finished, the judge spoke,
“Thank you, Mr. Attorney General, and who, may I ask, represents the prisoner?”
There was silence, while even those at the back of the Court seemed to wait breathless for the answer. The judge’s eyes roved from Panthea’s face to the empty bench behind her, then the clerk rose to answer.
“The prisoner has insisted, my Lord, that she conduct her own defence.”
“Indeed?”
The judge’s monosyllable held both incredulity and disdain – then he addressed Panthea.
“Lady Panthea Vyne, is it your wish that you have no counsel to defend you and that you will reply personally to the charges made against you?”
“That is my wish, my Lord,” Panthea said quietly.
“So be it!”
The judge spoke sharply and turned to Sir Balsombe Jones.
“You may continue, Mr. Attorney General.”
“I will then, if your Lordship will permit, call my witness,” the Attorney General replied. “Call Sergeant Higson.”
The Clerk of the Court echoed the name and Sergeant Higson was ushered into the witness box. Panthea knew that this was the coachman who had driven her that memorable night from the gates of Staverley to the church where she was married, and afterwards until the coach was stopped in the wood. She had told Mr. Dobson the truth when she said she had no memory of what he looked like, and she saw now a tall, stalwart man of nearly middle age with a good-humoured countryman’s face and a thick head of brown hair the colour of chestnuts.
He stood stiffly at attention and took the oath in an embarrassingly loud voice. He was frightened, Panthea thought, although he was making every possible effort not to show it – and then, as he began to answer the questions Sir Balsombe Jones put to him, he glanced across the court at Lady Castlemaine, as if seeking from her both inspiration and approval in everything he said.
It was then that Panthea understood all too clearly how the story for the prosecution had been built up against her. Sergeant Higson had originally told the truth when questioned about that night in the woods. Panthea had no grounds for assuming this and yet she was sure of it. It would have been no advantage then to the Sergeant to tell a lie, but afterwards it had been made worth his while to say, as he was replying now to the prompting questions of Sir Balsombe Jones, that he had known when he was hired that something unusual was going to happen on the drive.
It was quite clearly thought out, Panthea told herself as she listened. Just a few alterations of the truth and a very different story was presented. Sergeant Higson told the court that he knew very little of what to expect save that his friend, the other coachman, who was now conveniently dead, had told him that there was money in the journey if they did what they were told and kept their mouths shut.
Sergeant Higson said that when he went to the Four Fishermen Inn, where he was told by his friend that Mr. Christian Drysdale would be waiting, he had only the vaguest idea what was to happen or what lay ahead. Mr. Drysdale had asked the landlord to procure him two fresh coachmen. The landlord had spoken both to Higson and his friend, Drover, and they had agreed to drive Mr. Drysdale wherever he wished to go. It was before this happened, Higson said, that Drover had told him there was money in the trip.
The Attorney General had paused then.
“I want the members of the jury,” he said, “to make a special note of that point. It was before the unfortunate man who was so foully murdered engaged the coachmen that Drover told his friend there was money in the trip. These men were not yet engaged, and no one save two people in the whole world knew that the wedding trip was to take place. Of these two knowledgeable people one was Mr. Christian Drysdale, who was to be killed a few hours after the wedding ceremony, and the other was his Bride – the woman who sits now before you accused of contriving his murder.”
Sir Balsombe Jones spoke dramatically and waited for the theatrical effect to sink home, then continued his examination.
Sergeant Higson then told how he and Drover had picked up Panthea outside the gates of Staverley, how they had driven to the church and how, when the married couple had returned to the coach, their instructions were to travel as quickly as they could to Mr. Christian Drysdale’s home in the vicinity of Bishops Stortford.
They had set off and travelled at a quite reasonable speed until they had been brought suddenly to a halt by two highwaymen emerging from the shadows of the trees in the wood, which rose above a part of the countryside known as Drake’s Dyke. It was here that Panthea noticed Sergeant Higson glance towards Barbara Castlemaine and lick his lips. He had spoken quite fluently and without hesitation, but now he began to falter as Sir Balsombe Jones pressed him to explain clearly what happened.
The two highwaymen had held up the coach, he said. Mr. Christian Drysdale had been forced to alight, and he and Drover had been told to tie him to a tree. They had done this, but while they were doing it the highwayman and the lady had gone into the woods together carrying something.
“Did you see what they were carrying?” Sir Balsombe Jones asked.
“No, sir.”
“Was it large?”
Sergeant Higson hesitated.
“Who carried it?” the Attorney General asked.
“The highwayman, sir.”
“Did it look to you like a box or a bag that might contain money?”
“It might have been, sir.”
The Attorney General glanced towards the jury.
“Whatever was in this box or bag it was heavy enough to require the highwayman to carry it with two hands.”
He turned to Sergeant Higson again.
“It was taken to the wood, and you never saw it again?”
“No, sir.”
“When the highwayman and the lady came from the woods, he was not carrying it in his hands?”
“No, sir.”
“The highwayman and the lady appeared to you to be on friendly terms?”
Sergeant Higson did not answer.
“Let me put it this way,” the Attorney General said. “The lady went with him willingly. She was not screaming or protesting or appeared in any way frightened of this man?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you hear her scream on this or on any other occasion?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she seem inclined to rush to her husband or to you for protection?”
“No, sir.”
“They were talking as they went into the wood, the highwayman and the lady?”
“Yes, sir.”
Again, Sir Balsombe Jones paused so that the jury could appreciate the point he had made.
Sergeant Higson then went on to explain how the highwayman had come back from the wood, cut the bonds that bound Christian Drysdale and then, before the freed man could adequately defend himself, had stabbed him to death.
It was all too obvious to Panthea where the story was true and where it was distorted into lies. Sergeant Higson’s voice had, when he was not telling the truth, a very obvious apologetic note in it. He also hesitated or stumbled over his words, and yet she felt that no one but herself would notice it, because only she knew the truth of what he told and the untruths with which the story had been supplemented.
“When the highwayman had finished butchering this man and left him lying on the ground for dead, what did he do then?” Sir Balsombe Jones asked.
“He went back into the woods, sir.”
“To the lady?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did he say?”
“He told us to dig a grave and bury Mr. Drysdale’s body.”
“And you did that?”
“Yes, sir.”
There were a few questions as to where the shovels were obtained and the attitude of the other highwayman, and then the Attorney General asked, “What happened after that?”
“The highwayman and the lady came back from the woods together.”
“Were they walking separately?”
“Her hand was on his arm.”
“Did they seem friendly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So when the body of this poor murdered man was disposed of, his wife, or rather his widow, came from the woods on the arm of the man she had employed to murder him, to see that the deed had been truly and properly done. That, in your opinion, was why they came out together, is it not?”
The sergeant looked uncomfortable.
“I only knows that they came out, sir.”
“Was the lady smiling?”
“I, I think so, sir.”
“She seemed happy, pleased and relieved that her husband of but a few hours ago was dead?”
“I could not rightly say, sir, and yet she was smiling.”
“Gentlemen of the jury, you note that. It is a very important point. The lady was smiling. The woman who had watched a man foully and brutally killed, who had taken his money and hidden it in the wood, comes out afterwards smiling, and watches to see that no incriminating evidence is left.”
The sergeant then told how the highwayman had paid him and his companion, and told them to make their way back to the village.
“How much did he give you?” Sir Balsombe Jones enquired.
“Four guineas, sir, between us.”
“Four guineas! A big sum, was it not, for a coachman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“More than you expected?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You would, in fact, say it was fantastic wages for driving a coach for a few hours?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It was also more money than you expected to obtain from a highwayman?”
There was laughter in court at this and Sir Balsombe Jones continued.
“A highwayman, one always understands, takes money from people, not gives it, yet this highwayman had money to give away, throw away one might say, to two men who were expecting a few shillings for their night’s work.’
There was no need to belabour this point now that Sir Balsombe Jones had made it so obvious. He asked one more question.
“This lady, whom you drove from the gates of Staverley to be married, and who appeared on such friendly terms with the highwayman who was waiting so conveniently at a lonely point on the road, could you describe her?”
There was a pause.
“But there is no need, can you recognise her? Is she here in court?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you point her out to me?”
It was hard for Panthea not to shudder, as the Sergeant’s finger went out unswervingly in her direction.
“Thank you, Sergeant Higson,” Sir Balsombe Jones said. “You may step down.”
The Sergeant stumped somewhat noisily from the witness box to be replaced by a man who had dug up Christian Drysdale’s body, a doctor who had examined it, a relative who had identified it by the dead man’s ring and personal possessions, and the landlord of the Four Fishermen Inn. When the last of these witnesses had left the box, breathing wheezily with the exertion of giving evidence, the Attorney General bowed to the Judge.
“The prosecution rests, my Lord.”
“Thank you, Mr. Attorney General.”
The judge glanced towards Panthea.
“Lady Panthea Vyne, as you have no one to represent you, are you prepared to go into the witness box and answer any such questions as the Attorney General may be pleased to put to you?”
Panthea felt her heart sink, but steadily she rose to her feet.
“I am, my Lord.”
It was then, as the judge opened his mouth to say something further, as everyone in court bent forward as if to have a closer look at the prisoner, that a loud, clear voice from the doorway resounded.
“I must ask you, my Lord, and all those in court, to keep quite still.”
There was an audible gasp, which seemed to echo round the very walls. All turned their heads as it were simultaneously, to see standing in the doorway a black-masked figure with a pistol in either hand. Behind him was another masked figure and two others appeared in the other doorway through which the counsel entered the court. Then, as the heads turned from one to the other in open-mouthed stupefaction, a fifth masked figure entered the court quietly from the door by which the jury retired, and stood with his pistols levelled on the astonished jurors. No less than ten primed and cocked pistols pointed at an unarmed, weaponless crowd. There was a silence in which no one seemed able to draw his breath, and then a voice from the gallery cried, “Lawd save us, if it isn’t White Throat!”
A sudden spontaneous cheer went up from at least a dozen throats. White Throat glanced up at them and smiled.
“Yes, I am White Throat,” he said, “and I have come as usual to right a wrong. Are you prepared to hear me?”
“We’ll hear ye right enough,” a man shouted.
“And believe anythin’ ye tells us,” yelled a woman.
“Thank you, that is what I wanted to know,” White Throat said.
He advanced until he was standing in front of the judge and facing the jury. Panthea, watching him with both hands raised to quell the tumult in her breast, thought that he held everyone present magnetised, as if there was a hypnotic quality about him. He stood there weaving a spell over the whole court. Everyone was listening and he did not even have to raise his voice to make himself heard.
“Good people, do you really credit all this nonsense to which you have been listening?” he asked. “Have you looked at the prisoner? Have you seen her? If so, do you imagine her capable for one moment of plotting the death of a man, however bestial, however brutal he might be? You see her now, but I wish you could have seen her as I saw her five years ago when she was but sixteen years of age, only a child, with a child’s simplicity and innocence shining forth from her face, and a child’s gentle and sweet love of all living things, especially animals.
“You have heard that she was married to Mr. Christian Drysdale, this man for whom the prosecution is ready to weep so many tears because he is no longer on this Earth. Surely, some of you in this court today remember Christian Drysdale, the worst, the cruellest and the most tyrannical tax-collector that ever walked the length and breadth of England? He extorted money from everyone he knew, he levied his own taxes as well as those that had been passed by Parliament, he took bribes from those who had something to hide and then denounced them when they could pay nothing more. He was especially severe with women, the women who were afraid that their sons or husbands might be taken from them or denounced as having Royalist sympathies. He sucked the last farthing from those who were his victims and, when they cursed him, he laughed – laughed and handed them over to the authorities so that they could be hanged or sent to the galleys for crimes, that in many cases they had never committed. That was Mr. Christian Drysdale, a man who with every breath he drew defamed the very name of manhood.”
