The Tale of Timber Town

“And to think,” Rachel continued, “that I was almost engaged to him.”

“I never heard that,” said Rose, coldly.

“My dear, I’m thankful to say nobody did, but he used to come regularly to our house when he was in town, and my stupid old father used to encourage him. Such an escape I never had. Fancy being married to a murderer. Ugh!”

“There’s no need to fancy anything of the sort. You couldn’t have married him till he asked you.”

“But, dear, if he had, I should have accepted him. You know, he is so handsome. And he is awfully rich. My father wouldn’t have heard of my refusing him. Certainly, he’s not of our religion, but then we’re not very orthodox. I’m afraid I should have accepted him: I’m sure I should. And then, think of poor Isaac. I really was fond of him. I know it now; but he was so slow in making money – I couldn’t waste all my life in waiting.”

“You must feel his death dreadfully,” said Rose.

“But it doesn’t comfort me very much, when my friends go to see his murderer.”

“I haven’t been to see a murderer.”

“Good gracious! If that awful Scarlett didn’t murder him, who did?”

“I haven’t the least idea, but I feel sure there’s been a mistake on the part of the police.”

“There’s no mistake: they found the bodies yesterday in the bush.”

As Rachel spoke, the two girls saw a strange procession coming down the street.

“Look!” cried Rachel, seizing Rose’s arm for support. “Look what is coming.”

In single file, slowly the searchers were carrying the bodies of the murdered men, wrapped in canvas and strapped to poles cut from the forest trees. As they advanced, a crowd, bare-headed and at every step increasing, accompanied the doleful procession. They passed the spot where stood the two girls, the one supporting the other, and so disappeared out of sight.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Benjamin’s Redemption

The Supreme Court sat in the large hall of the wooden building, ornate with all the decorations of the Elizabethan style, which has been referred to in these pages as the Red Tape Office.

The hall was divided by a barrier, on one side of which were arranged the bench, dock, jury-box, and everything else appertaining to the functions of Justice; and on the other side stood the general public. But as yet the Court was not assembled, save for half-a-dozen be-wigged barristers and a few policemen; and the public, crowded like cattle in a pen, discussed in suppressed tones such matters as seemed good.

Presently, a door beside the bench opened, and a very fat bailiff, preceding the Judge himself, who was followed by many minions of the law, advanced into the body of the court, and cried, “Silence for His Honor the Queen’s Judge!” struck the butt of his long staff upon the floor, and proceeded to deliver a long rigmarole, couched in early English, the tenor of which was that the proceedings about to take place were most solemn and dignified, and all men must keep silence in order that His Honour the Judge might hear himself speak.

Then the Judge seated himself on the bench, nodded to all the barristers, who thereupon immediately sat down likewise, and then the policemen, looking fiercely at the harmless, herded public, cried in angry tones for “Silence! Silence! Silence!” though not a man had so much as coughed since the great Judge had entered.

There seeming to be no fear of a demonstration against Law, Order, and Justice, a be-wigged gentleman who sat immediately in front of the Judge, in the manner that the clerk used to sit before the parson in the days of the three-decker pulpit, stood up, and after consulting various little bits of paper, called and empanelled the Grand Jury, a most important body of men, comprising all that was substantial and wealthy in Timber Town – short, fat men; tall, thin men; men of medium height; bullet-headed men, long-headed men, bald-headed men, and one man who was known to dye his hair; men whose stomachs rested on their knees as they sat; men who looked as though they had not had a full meal for a month; men dressed in tweeds; men dressed in black broad-cloth as if for a funeral; men with gay flowers in the button-holes of their coats; bearded men, and shorn men; as varied an assortment of men as could pronounce opinion on any case.

Each member of this queer company having been furnished with a little testament, the legal luminary administered the oath, and they kissed the book literally like one man, and sat down with a shuffling of feet that was truly disgraceful in so sedate an assembly.

They having chosen the fattest man of them all as their foreman, the Judge addressed them: “Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the Grand Jury,” he said, “give me your attention. Great crimes have been committed in your district,” – and not a man of them all but dropped his eyes and looked as if he felt himself guilty – “and great excitement has been caused in the public mind. But it is one of the highest triumphs of civilisation that we possess a wholesome system of procedure, whereby time is afforded to elapse for the abatement of popular excitement,” – here he glanced searchingly at the exemplary public on the other side of the barrier, as though he challenged one of them to move – “before such cases as those which will come before you, are heard.” Here the Judge paused, and the jurymen looked at each other, as much as to say that after all they might escape. “But,” continued His Honor, “we must take all proper precautions in such grave affairs as we are here to consider, lest the eye of reason should be jaundiced by prejudice, or become dazzled by passion, or lest the arm of Justice should smite wildly and without discrimination.” Every juryman looked at the Judge, to see if the state of his eye was clear and in keeping with this grave injunction. “The first case which will come before you is that of John Richard Scarlett, who is charged with the murder of Isaac Zahn and others. I am not sure as to what will be the form of the indictment, but I should suppose there will be four separate indictments, that is to say, the prisoner will be charged with the murder of each man killed. I now ask you to retire and consider this grave case with that perspicacity and unbiassed judgment which I feel sure you are capable of exercising in so large a degree.”

The Judge had made every juryman’s breast swell with pride, and from their box they poured in a long stream, and clattered over the floor of the Court to the jury-room, the door of which stood ajar, ready to receive them.

The public portion of the hall was now crowded to excess, and the gallery above the main entrance was quickly filling. The people maintained perfect order, but on every face was an eager look which showed the intense interest that was being taken in the proceedings. But when the Judge retired, pending the decision of the Grand Jury, there broke out a hum of conversation, subdued but incessant. On the public side of the barrier there was nothing to be seen but a sea of faces, the faces of all sorts of men, and of not a few women, all waiting for the appearance of the prisoner. Suddenly at the back of this tightly-packed throng there arose a slight commotion, caused by a wild, unkempt man pushing his way through the doorway into the middle of the crowd. His hair was long and matted, his clothes were torn and covered with clay, his face was anxious yet determined. Having wedged himself into the living mass, his identity soon became merged and lost in the multitude of men, work-stained and way-worn like himself. For almost the entire population of Canvas Town was assembled to hear the case against Scarlett; the aristocratic members of the League had come to see what fate awaited their president; solitary “hatters” had come to witness the discomfiture of “the boss of the toffs”; the female portion of the concourse had been attracted by the romance which was believed to underlie the tragedy; while the townsmen were there out of sympathy with the young banker whom they had all known. Filling all available space in the hall and overflowing into the great quadrangle outside, this motley crowd discussed the case against Scarlett in all its bearings, though there was a dense ignorance on the part of the critics as to the evidence that would be called. To everything he heard the wild, unkempt man turned a deaf ear; regarding, as he undoubtedly did, the self-appointed judges around him with silent contempt and some degree of amusement.

At length the door of the jury-room opened, and the head of a Grand Juror was thrust out. To him a constable immediately whispered. The Grand Jury had come to a decision, and the Judge was summoned from his room.

No sooner had the great man taken his seat, than amid a murmur of excitement the prisoner was placed in the dock. He looked thin and care-worn. On his legs were heavy irons, and handcuffs were upon his wrists. Otherwise he was as when first arrested; he wore the same riding-breeches and leggings, and the same tweed coat.

Then the Grand Jury filed solemnly in, and stood in a big semicircle between the barrier and the Court, the foreman standing a little in front of his fellows.

“Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the Grand Jury, how do you find in the case of John Richard Scarlett, charged with the murder of Isaac Zahn?”

“A true bill, Your Honour,” answered the foreman.

“How do you find in the case of John Richard Scarlett, charged with the murder of James Kettle?”

“A true bill, Your Honour.”

A like answer was returned in respect to the other three charges, and the Judge then discharged the Grand Jury, who promptly filed out of Court, only to reappear in the gallery above the Judge’s bench.

A Special Jury – which, the Judge was careful to tell Jack, was a great privilege extended to him by the Court – was empanelled to try the case, but not without a great deal of challenging on the part of the Crown Prosecutor and of Jack’s counsel.

“Prisoner at the bar, you are charged with the wilful murder of Isaac Zahn. How do you plead, Guilty or Not Guilty?”

“Not Guilty!”

Scarlett’s voice rang clear through the hall.

There was a shuffling amongst the barristers on the floor of the Court; papers were rustled, law-books were opened or placed neatly in rows, and a general air of business pervaded the scene.

Then the Crown Prosecutor rose and, after clearing his throat several times, declared that he would call certain witnesses to prove that the prisoner was on the road between Timber Town and Canvas Town on the day of the murder, that he was at open variance with the murdered man, Isaac Zahn, that he possessed when arrested certain property belonging to the murdered man, and certain other important facts, all of which went to prove the prisoner’s guilt.

First, he called a constable who deposed as to the finding of the bodies; next, a doctor, who gave evidence as to how Zahn met his death. Then followed a member of the search-committee, who supplied various details respecting the track, the position of the body of Zahn when found, and of the effects found upon it.

These three witnesses but fulfilled the formalities of the Law in proving that the dead man was murdered and robbed, but there was a great stir in the hall when the next witness entered the box.

This was a corn-stalk of a man who wore a long yellow beard, and seemed to consist of legs, arms, and head; his body being of such small importance in the scheme of his construction as to be hardly noticeable.

“John Rutherford,” said the Crown Prosecutor, “kindly tell the jury your trade or calling.”

“Digger,” answered the witness, as laconically as possible.

“The witness means,” said the barrister, turning to the jury, “that he mines for gold,” an explanation which nobody needed. “But be so good as to inform the Court if you know a hostelry named The Lucky Digger.”

A smile stole over the lean witness’s face. “I reckon I’ve bin there,” he said.

“Were you there on the afternoon of Saturday, the 25th of February, last?”

“I might ha’ bin.”

“You can’t be certain?”

“You’ve hit it, mister – I can’t be certain.”