Touched by Angels (7 page)

The courtroom had high windows, and fleetingly, it was lit up in bright yellow as lightning struck somewhere over Victoria Dock.

The ensuing bang sounded like a furious demon thumping the sky and Robert stumbled and nearly fell.

The Clerk of the Court steadied him, to murmurings from the gallery, and Robert found himself looking down at a Bible, as the Clerk said, “Please repeat after me. I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

“I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and everything but the truth, so…”

Laughter roared from the jury and public gallery, while Lil closed her eyes, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.

She noticed they weren’t
all
laughing though, which somehow made it worse.

Sir Rupert King was slowly shaking his head, whilst polishing his monocle, while Mrs O’Brien’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

Then there was another bang, though not of thunder. The judge’s gavel.

“I will have silence in this court!” he hissed. The laughter petered out. “Need I remind the Court,” he added, glaring around through watery blue eyes, “that a man’s life may be at stake here?”

Robert watched his father turn from white to very pale green. He was made to repeat the oath, and this time he fumbled through, just, while Lil watched on, inwardly praying.

The Counsel for the Prosecution then stood, gripped his black gown in both hands and said, “Please tell the court,
precisely
what you saw.”

“Well,” Robert said, “he were drunk, my dad, I mean, and he didn’t mean to do it and Mr King was annoying him…”

“That may be so, but my question was not to establish his
motive
…”

“His what?”

“His reason for committing the offence.”

“Objection, your honour!” snapped the Defending Counsel, standing ramrod straight and turning in a swirl of black. “It has not been ascertained yet, whether
any
offence has been committed.”

“Sustained,” said the judge. “Please do not lead the witness, Mr Pettigrew. The jury will disregard the Prosecuting Counsel’s inference.”

Mr Pettigrew bowed briefly to the judge and turned his attention back to Robert, smiling to reassure him.

“So, what
did
you see? Please take your time. Cast your mind back. Any detail, however small it may seem.”

“Well, it were after Mr King came for the rent. Mum was in the kitchen doin’ some…”

“Lies!” his father growled suddenly. “It’s all lies. It were
that
lyin’ cah! I’m tellin’ yer. I never touched ’im.” He pointed a shaking finger at Lil, and the gavel banged down once more.

“If you do not rein in your tongue, Sir,” the judge grated, “you will be held in contempt of court.”

“But yer lordship, yer ’ighniss, I didn’t do
nuffink
, as God’s me witness.”

He crossed himself, something he had seen the Irish do innumerable times, and Mrs O’Brien whispered to herself, “Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus!”

“Please continue,” the barrister said.

“Dad was drunk. He didn’t know what he were doin’, I swear, and he threw mum’s crystal ball at Mr King, and it hit his head and he went down, makin’ funny gruntin’ noises, an’ he was bleedin’, and… well, that’s… how it was.”

“And only your father, yourself, and Mr King were in the room at the time?”

“Yeah, like I said. Mum was in the kitchen.”

Bob was shaking his head in disbelief and for once he was speechless.

“I apologise for my next line of questioning,” said the barrister, “but it is relevant. Would you say your father is a violent man?”

“Objection!” snapped the Defence. “This line of questioning is
not
relevant to the case in hand.”

“Over-ruled,” said the judge. “I consider it
most
relevant and so must the gentlemen of the jury. Please continue.”

Robert was silent for a while, before saying quietly, “Yeah, s’pose he is.”

“And is your father a dishonest man too, given for instance, to lying, stealing and cheating?”

“Yeah,” Robert said, hanging his head.

“Please speak up, so the court may hear.”

“Yes!” said Robert firmly, while his father gaped.

“Very good. No further questions, your honour.”

He sat, picked up his fountain pen and now Lil began to really sweat, as it was the Defence Counsel’s turn.

The barrister was a smallish man, with an eagle nose, topped by two of the bushiest eyebrows Lil had ever seen. He looked as keen as Sheffield steel. He looked at Robert for quite some time before speaking, rather
like
a bird of prey, sometimes consulting his notes diligently and then making marks with his pen.

“Do you understand, young man,” he began at last, with an indulgent smile tugging his lips, “the meaning of the term
perjury
?” He said the word slowly and with deliberation.

“Yeah, it means tellin’ fibs.”

The barrister was rather taken aback.

“Well, actually, it doesn’t
just
mean that, you know. No indeed! Not naughty little white lies in school over marbles or catapults.” He punched the air playfully. “It means something
much
more serious, and indeed, unforgivable. It means lying under
oath.
” He grinned condescendingly, and added, “
Fibbing
, if you prefer, before God himself.”

“Yeah, I know,” Robert retorted, remembering how his father had once knocked his mother down the stairs and how he had stamped on one of Robert’s few toys, a carved wooden steam engine, smashing it to bits. “And that’s why I
didn’t
lie.”

“I sincerely hope not,” he said, seeing his client standing there, glassy-eyed. “Perjury is a very serious crime and you would not go to heaven either.” He paused. “You have asserted that only three persons were in the parlour when the altercation… the fight between your father and the landlord, Mr King, took place.”

“Yeah, there were.”

“Who was the third person?”

Robert gulped and said, “It were me. Mum was in the kitchen, like I said. She was cookin’ or some’ing an’ she didn’t come in ’til after it had happened.”

The barrister scratched his head.

“Are you aware that your father may be
hanged
?” he asked, looking suitably appalled at such a dreadful prospect.

Lil started squirming.

“Yeah,” Robert said. “But only if he killed Mr King on purpose and he didn’t. It were an accident, I swear.”

The barrister’s lips thinned and Lil could see his agile mind working, but in the end he shook his head and said, “No further questions, your honour.”

***

As the jury were returning, nearly two hours later, the whole of the courtroom was lit in hues of ochre and flame through the windows, while the warm spring sunshine broke through the clouds. Lil felt cautiously optimistic at last, as the Clerk of the Court asked the Foreman, “Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have.”

“And is your verdict unanimous?”

“It is.”

“Do you find the accused, Robert Smith, guilty, or not guilty of the wilful murder of Mr Horace King?”

“Guilty…”

Lil swayed with horror, though a great cheer came from the gallery, and somebody piped up, “Hang the bastard!”

“Yeah”, cried another, “Slowly, so he feels it!”

“
Please, no!”
Lil thought, as Robert steadied her,
“Not this. Anything but this!”

The gavel banged like a drumstick and then the foreman finished his sentence, “…with a recommendation for clemency.”

Thirteen

Bob wasn’t the only the only one to get a life sentence that day. There were the Inkpens too. All eleven of them.

Scared to death, they were sitting on hard benches in the cold Receiving Rooms of Marylebone Workhouse, under the chilly grey eyes of Miss Beckersdeth, the Matron, and Alistair King, here as always to watch as they removed their clothes. Mr Pocket stood in the background, muttering, Bible in hand. It was he who had received them at the doors. The family shivered in their nakedness, the older ones feeling their skin crawling as King’s eyes wandered over them.

There was an assortment of other internees too, who couldn’t cope any more. Some were hopping with fleas and lice, as Mr Parsons, the Medical Officer, started counting boils and carbuncles.

Miss Beckersdeth was pacing up and down, tapping her thigh with a strap as they donned their blue serge uniforms.

“Silence is the rule,” she barked.

Her voice was like a reed, her mousy hair tied back in a bun.

“The penalties for laziness and disobedience are solitary confinement, on bread and water, for adults, and flogging for any brood. There will be no nonsense. There will be no appeal. Clear?”

There were nervous murmurs of agreement, but then grasping hands appeared from nowhere, plucking away her children, and Mrs Inkpen screamed, flying at her, “You’ll not take me kids, you bitch! Give ’em back! You give ’em back!” Her hands were locked into claws. Spit flew from her lips. Her eyes burned with hate.

Her husband tried to pull her back, soothing, “We’ll be together again soon, love. Promise…”

“Let me go. I want me kids!”

“We’re a family,” he assured her, “we’re united. Soon as I can get work we’ll…”

“You stupid damn fool!” She tore herself away from him. “It’s cos o’ you we’re ‘ere, you an’ yer ale, yer good fur nuthin’…” She started slapping his face and he put his arms up to shield himself.

Beckersdeth nodded at two of the orderlies, who calmly restrained her.

She kicked and scratched to be free, hollering as her kids were dragged away, one carrying the screaming baby, as urine trickled down her legs. She tore at Beckersdeth once more, shrieking, and managed to kick her before the orderlies held her back, while Alistair watched on in fascination.

Her screams echoed down the dreary corridors, and out into the work yards, where the women plied the washboards, the men smashed flint and the boys picked oakum. Few but the idiots in the infirmary stirred, who simply grinned back stupidly.

Mrs Inkpen had seen paupers before, with their pallid skin, lank hair and thousand-yard stares, and she made the same oath that most of them had, when they were interned here, years before. That she would never end up like them.

Fourteen

Lil only had a vague idea of what it was like in these places, but even so, she had seen so many people go there and never come back, she would sell herself if necessary to keep herself and her boy from it. For her, life wasn’t so bad after all.

Yes, she thought of Bob from time to time, knowing she would have to face visiting him at some point, but at least he hadn’t hanged, and her guilt was largely tempered by the many scars, both mental and physical, that accompanied it.

The money wouldn’t last forever and she knew it important to maintain a veneer of normality, so she carried on reading fortunes, determined that at some point soon, Robert would have to find work too, to supplement their income. However it was done, she knew they must never follow in the footsteps of the Inkpens.

Without the corrosive effect of having Bob around, her health and nerves were improving, together with Robert’s behaviour, and soon, she hoped, she might find proper work herself, as a seamstress. Things could only improve.

On this particular day, Robert was somewhere indoors. He no longer played with those rough boys, thank God! His swearing had diminished considerably and even his diction had improved. He had taken to scanning the newspapers, as well as the Bible, more and more, taking an interest in the world beyond the borders of their grubby street. It was as though the whole experience had forced him to grow up. She even caught peeks of him flicking through the dictionary when he came across a word he couldn’t understand and this gladdened her all the more.

Lil’s eyes were flicking from side to side as she gazed deeply into the ball. After telling sixteen-year-old Annie Pearson she would meet a ‘sailor from the Empire’, for instance, she had met, fallen in love with, and married a Canadian merchant shipman called Johnnie Preston. Lil had already surmised he would come along, after hearing Annie’s mother saying to a neighbour, rather snobbishly, that as none of the lads around here were good enough, she would take her daughter down to the docks, where she knew the ships from the colonies came in, undoubtedly with fantasises of her marrying a ship’s captain.

Now, both mother and daughter had spread the news that Lil was ‘touched by angels’ and Lil was busier than ever.

She glanced up at Mrs Cuthbertson, who was wrapped in a shawl, wheezing over a cigarette clamped between a nicotine-stained finger and thumb.

Her wrinkled face was framed with frizzy grey hair and she had a coughing fit as she took another drag, before asking between gasps, “You mean my Sid’s got a few bob stashed away?” She grinned in anticipation, flashing the pink of her toothless gums.

“Through the clouds of despair, shines the majesty of prosperity,” Lil had said, a prophecy that could be understood in so many ways, it was impossible to contradict.

Mrs Cuthbertson coughed some more and Lil let the fit pass before adding, gravely, “I see a man through the mist, a man once lost, a tall man, a wealthy man…”

Mrs Cuthbertson’s son had been released early from prison and word had it that he had recovered the loot he had salted away from a mansion he had burgled five years before.

She was about to carry on, when an icy finger traced its way down her spine. A man, exactly as she had described, stopped before her. She saw his shoes were buffed, and he wore an expensive, tailored suit and bowler hat.

He looked around slowly and gripped the Gladstone bag he was carrying harder.

“May I speak with you in private, Mrs Smith?” he asked.

Mrs Cuthbertson, leaning forward towards Lil to hear the rest about the tall, wealthy man, snapped, between coughs, “You wait yer turn. It ain’t manners to butt in!”