The Defense

Porticus rose ponderously to his feet and glanced around the hall. Scrutinizing the crowd who had gathered to watch the foul murderer of a village girl they all had known from her birth brought to justice and hung. His eye moved from peasant to peasant, pausing a moment on an old crone who sat huddled on a bench, wrapped in a cloak too heavy for the warmth of the day. A large bonnet covered her features and her head was bowed, as though in prayer.

'A relative of the poor girl?' Porticus wondered and then returned to the Judge at the sound of him clearing his throat, noisily. Nodding in understanding, Porticus picked up two large parchments and stepped forward. "I have in my hand two identical documents indicating that on the day in question, to wit, the 5th day of the month of July, 1813, the accused spoke before Parliament on a bill being considered by that body on the question of ceasing all commerce between England and any and all countries that engage in the evil practice of slavery. He spoke in place of his uncle, Earl Lord Matlock, who was indisposed and whose son, Colonel Richard Matlock, could not speak in his place, being overseas fighting with his regiment."

Porticus handed the parchments to a bailiff to give to the judge and the prosecution. Both men quickly perused their parchments. The prosecutor waved his parchment and then tossed it carelessly to the floor, saying, with a sneer, "Objection, your honor. This worthless piece of lies could have been written and signed by the defense themselves."

The judge rose to his feet, leaning with both fists planted on the table before him. His face vacillated from the pale white of shock to the deep red of outrage. His whole body was shaking.

"Do you know my name?" he growled at the stunned prosecutor. "Why… why, of course," the man stammered in confusion. "You are the honorable Judge Rutherford Bartholomew. But I…"

"And do you know the name of the speaker of the Parliament who has signed these documents attesting to the presence of the Lord Darcy at the Parliament a hundred miles away at the time the poor girl was murdered?"

"Why… why, yes," the man stammered again, then hesitated. The judge continued, "And that name is…?" "Why, uh, His Lordship James Bartholomew," the prosecutor said, weakly.

"Exactly," the Judge said, calmly. "Bartholomew… the same as mine, by coincidence."

Then he all but shrieked, "Do you think I do not know the signature of my own brother, Lord James Bartholomew, the Speaker of the House of Parliament? How did you dare to bring a Gentleman of the land to trial and never once ask where he was at the time of the crime," he continued, his whole body shaking in rage. He turned towards the prisoner. "Bailiff!" he barked. "Remove those chains from Lord Darcy at once. He is innocent of the charges!"

The crowd was in an uproar. The Prosecutor was conferring with his colleagues as the bailiff set Lord Darcy free.

"I protest the release of that man," the prosecutor cried. "As representative of the crown, I cannot stand by and allow the testimony of a witness who saw the murder done and identified the murderer ignored," he protested.

"You have a drunken sot paid by a vindictive old woman to send an innocent man to the gallows," Porticus rasped out in a voice matching the Judge's for indignation.

"You are a fool and a disgrace to your profession," the Judge continued when Porticus paused for breath. "A clay brained, knotty pated fool… a sodden-witted fool … a… a…. Help me out here, Porticus," Bartholomew stammered at a loss for more insults from the Bard.

Porticus rasped, "A vacant, lean-witted manikin."

"Ah, yes. 'The Tempest'! Perfect," the Judge grinned. "A vacant, lean witted manikin," he shrieked. The Prosecutor reeled as though struck.

"I will not stand here and be insulted," he all but shrieked back.

"You will never stand again in a court of law as a prosecutor in this land," the Judge roared back at him. "Not if I or my brother have anything to say about it! Get out of my sight!" he finished. The prosecutor gathered his robes and fled from the hall, white-faced. His assistants snatched up the papers on his table and hurried after him.

As he fled another voice was raised in shrill outrage. "You mean he is not to be hung?" All eyes turned to Lady Catherine de Bough, on her feet and pointing white faced at the former defendant. "He is not to pay with his life for ignoring pledges between me and his mother that he was to marry my daughter. This is not to be tolerated,' she screamed in a voice that made the chandeliers ring.

The Judge rapped his hammer. "Get that banshee out of here," he ordered his bailiffs who moved at once in the direction of the woman and her daughter who was pulling at her mother's sleeve in a vain effort to quiet her. Finally, the woman collapsed back into her chair and the bailiffs and her daughter half carried, half guided her out of the hall.

The Judge gave his attention to the jury. "Members of the jury, it is with much chagrin"… he stared at their blank faces, then amended… "with much embarrassment that I sincerely apologize on the part of the Crown for subjecting you to this imposition on you time and attention."

He was interrupted by an uproar in the crowd at the rear of the hall. All faces turned to watch as two huge men pushed their way through the doorway. Any indignant protests from the people being shoved aside were stifled the moment they looked up at the intruders and saw their massive size. The crowd parted before them like the waters before the fleeing Hebrew slaves. The two giants came to a stop and seemed to nod towards Porticus who turned back to the Judge with a satisfied look on his face.

"Please do not dismiss the jury just yet, your honor, for they are needed for another trial. This one of the actual murderer of that poor girl!"

"Very irregular, the Judge growled. "I hope this is not another farce such as we just endured."

"Irregular, true," Porticus rasped, "but I can guarantee your Honor a hanging at the end of it if you will allow me to continue."

"Who then is to be put on trial?" the judge asked.

"Let me answer by returning to our schooldays," Dr. Porticus began in his hoarse voice. "You are familiar, I am sure, your honor, with the copy book heading: 'The dog returns to its vomit and the pig returns to its sty'?"

Sir Bartholomew nodded, frowning. "Of course. I had to copy it a thousand times until my tutor was satisfied with my penmanship. But the relevance to this hearing escapes me."

The barrister's face twisted under its beard in a grimace that might have been a smile. "That proverb is the reason for the promised hanging, Your Honor. To mix my metaphors for a moment… I knew this pig of a murdering dog could not resist wallowing in the mire he so ruthlessly created by slaughtering an innocent girl. He had to return to the vomit that spewed from his evil soul. He had to attend to watch the public spectacle of his enemy, a Lord of the land, being dragged out from here; humiliated, bound and helpless, to be hung as a murderer. Indeed that was his sole reason for committing the crime of murdering that poor innocent child. He is here now wallowing in his filth before our very eyes!"

There was a stir in the packed courtroom and people looked from one to another as though asking, 'Is it you? Are you the one?' Towards the rear, the old bonneted crone, rose from her chair, crouched over, her face still swathed in the large scarf that covered her features, and began slowly moving towards the exit. She found her way blocked by two huge forms that stood like a wall she could not pass around. She tried to force her way through but the men in front of her were unyielding. Her fist crept under her long shawl, but she was seized by two pairs of massive hands. A brief struggle in which she was shaken and cuffed about the head, and she slumped in surrender.

Dr. Porticus had turned and watched the brief struggle, a smile playing over lips all but invisible behind the white beard.

"Order in my court' Bartholomew bellowed. "What is that racket now?"

"That racket, your honor, is a murderer being seized as he was attempting to escape," Dr Porticus rasped. Then, in a still louder voice, "But there is no escape for him, your honor. For he did not realize when he attacked a young kitchen maid in the dark, that she had most recently come from the scullery bearing the slops to throw into the pig sty. There she found a sow having difficulty in casting her litter. Being the kind heart she was, she assisted as she could in the birth of a dozen or so piglets. She left the sty to walk home with her hands covered with mud, blood and such refuse as pigs love to wallow in."

Porticus paused dramatically to swallow water from a flask, noting with satisfaction that the judge, the jury as well as the public, were waiting in rapt attention for his continuation of the narrative.

"And so, when she was seized from behind by those cruel hands, she reached up and clawed at the face and neck of her attacker as she was being dragged off the path. Not only did that result in the blood and flesh under her finger nails the good women found as they cleaned her body for burial, but it also resulted in grooves and furrows in the face and neck of the murderer. "That man!" Porticus bellowed, pointing at the shawled figure clutched in the beefy hands of the thief takers.

"Unknown to Jewel, all the newly born piglets died the next day from swine fever. Indeed, when the fever was discovered, all the hogs at that sty were slaughtered and their bodies reduced to ashes to halt the spread of the contagion to other pig sties at Rosings Park and to other farms in the area.

"And so it was, even as that poor girl was abused and murdered, she passed a sentence of death on the miscreant that abused and murdered her. Look at his swathed face. It is not covered merely to hide his identity which we have discovered despite his disguise; it is swathed to hide the torn flesh, swollen and red from disease… the very disease that his victim passed to him as she vainly defended her life against his predations."

Porticus gestured to the thief takers and commanded in loud hoarse tones, "Uncover the scoundrel's head, but be careful not to touch the diseased flesh!"

The big men, their hands wrapped in strips of cloth began carefully undressing their prisoner. First the bonnet was cast aside, then the shawl. Then the peasant dress was stripped off by a giant hand. Without those articles of clothing all could see it was a man, struggling futilely against his captors, and garbed in the red army uniform of his ripped away a pistol and a large dagger, all hidden under the cloak.

Wiggins stood suddenly, pointing a trembling finger at the newly unveiled 'Crone'.

"Georgie!" he cried. "It were you! Not Fitzie… not Richie! It were you killed that poor girl. I were fuddled before, but I see you now! You always wuz a mean one, Georgie!"

"And if I had seen you, you old drunk, I'd have wrung your neck like I did with that little trollop,"the diseased face growled.

Turning to the judge, who sat forward on his bench, watching in rapt fascination, Porticus bellowed, "A confession of murder, your Honor, from the once handsome and now polluted features of George Wickham: army deserter… the red of his uniform is what confused the muddled mind of our drunken witness into thinking the murderer was covered in his victim's blood… late of His Majesty's regiment at Newcastle which he deserted after murdering his wife, Lydia Wickham, nee Bennett."

"Yes", hissed Porticus, turning to Wickham. "We found poor Mrs. Wickham's body where you and Captain Denny had buried her. He confessed to sending the letters you forged and to abetting your crimes to repay his gambling debts to you. He has already been hung for his crimes! Your regiment wants us to send you to them for hanging as soon as we find you, but I think His Honor has his own plans for you."

Wickham sneered at those words. "I slapped my silly cow of a wife and she struck her head, falling. It was an accident, not murder. And I sent my commander I letter of resignation, so I didn't desert." Wickham's face was red and sweating, but not as a result of his struggles against his captives, which was long over. Fever stood out clearly from eyes shining with hate and rage, all focused on the small, bearded figure of the lawyer, who could hardly restrain from flinching at the malice flowing from those twin orbs. Porticus tuned away from the evil glare and addressed the judge once more.

"You may sentence him to hang for his crimes, your honor, but if you wish to enjoy the ending of this murderer's life at your decree, you must hurry… for he is near the death bestowed on him by his victim. It may be that the cruelest punishment would be to allow the fever to take its course for I understand from my research that its victims die screaming in torment. In this case, the torments he might suffer are only a precursor to the torments that await him in Hell."

"No!" the judge cried. "He is mine!" Turning to the jury, he shouted; "What say you gentlemen of the jury?" As one voice they roared, "Guilty! "

"He is to hang at once!" the Judge bellowed. "When he is dead, let his body be burned along with the gallows to prevent the spread of the contagion. The ashes shall be cast into the river's waters… to obliterate the memory of his existence for eternity."

The public, which had been growing louder in its cries of outrage against the murderer, added their voices in a loud 'Huzzah!' when one of the huge men holding the miscreant produced a noose and slipped it over Wickham's head. Half dragging, half pushing, they squeezed through the door with their captor to the hanging square outside the courthouse. The crowd followed, leaving a courtroom emptied of all but the former defendant, his lawyers, and the Judge with his bailiffs.

The Judge busied himself with signing documents and didn't notice when Porticus doubled over in pain, grabbing at his stomach. But Mr. Darcy did and came hurrying over. A short whispered conference and Darcy half led and half carried the small lawyer from the room. By the time the Judge looked up, his courtroom was empty save for his bailiffs. "I hope they know not to hang the fellow until I get out there to witness it," he growled. "Nothing I like better than to see a murderer hung." He made his way down to the floor and asked, "Where's that Porticus and Lord Darcy," he asked one of his bailiffs?"

"They hurried out earlier, your honor," was the reply. "Humpf," the Judge growled. "They do not want to miss the miscreant's hanging either," as he stalked out of the room.


Next chapter is the last one.