The Tale of Timber Town

“Indeed,” said the counsel, as though this fact was quite new to him. “What was it like?”

“It weighed close on two ounces, an’ was shaped like a kaka’s head.”

“What is a kaka, my man, and what shape is it’s head?”

“I thought you’d ha’ known – it’s a parrot, mister.”

“Would you know the nugget, if you saw it again?”

“’Course, I would,” replied the witness with infinite contempt. “I got eyes, ain’t I, an’ a mem’ry?”

“Is that it?” The barrister handed a bit of gold to the witness.

“That’s the identical nugget,” replied the witness: “you may make your mind easy on that. I sold it to Zahn soon after he come to the field.”

“Thank you,” said the Crown Prosecutor, and, turning to the jury, he added, “That nugget, gentlemen, is an exhibit in the case, and is one of the effects found on the prisoner at the bar, when he was searched after his arrest.”

The witness left the box amid a murmur of excitement, and from the gestures of the jurymen it was clear that his evidence had impressed them. The case against Scarlett wore a serious aspect, and the Crown Prosecutor, smiling, as though well pleased with his work, was preparing to examine witnesses to prove the prisoner’s arrival at Canvas Town on the night of the murder, when there arose a considerable commotion amongst the public, by reason of a wild, unshorn man pushing his way violently towards the barrier. The Police Sergeant and his constables cried, “Silence in the Court!” but amid noisy protestations from the crowd, the ragged, struggling figure reached the barrier, vaulted over it, and stood on the floor of the Court. The barristers rose to stare at the extraordinary figure; the Judge, open-mouthed with astonishment, glared at everybody generally; the Sergeant made three strides towards the intruder, and seized him roughly by the arm.

“I desire to give evidence!” cried the disturber of the proceedings. “I wish to be sworn.”

With his clothes in tatters and earth-stained, his boots burst at the seams and almost falling to pieces, his hair long and tangled, his beard dirty and unkempt, thus, in a state of utter disreputableness, he unflinchingly faced the Court; and the crowd, forgetful of the prisoner, Judge, and jury, gave its whole attention to him.

Beckoning with his hand, the Judge said, “Bring this man forward. Place him where I can see him.”

The Police Sergeant led the would-be witness to the space between the dock and the jury-box.

“Now, my man,” said the Judge, “I imagine that you wish to say something. Do you wish to give evidence bearing on this case?”

“I do, Your Honour.”

“Then let me warn you that if what you have to say should prove frivolous or vexatious, you will be committed for disturbing the Court.”

“If what I have to say is irrelevant, I shall be willing to go to gaol.”

The Judge looked at this ragged man who used such long words, and said sternly, “You had better be careful, sir, exceedingly careful. What is your name?”

“Benjamin Tresco.”

“Oh, indeed. Very good. T-r-e-s-c-o-e, I presume,” remarked the Judge, making a note of the name.

“No, T-r-e-s-c-o.”

“No ’e’?”

“No, Your Honour; no ’e’.”

“Benjamin Tresco, of what nature is the evidence you desire to give?”

“It tends to the furtherance of Justice, Your Honour.”

“Does it bear on this case? Does it deal with the murder of Isaac Zahn?”

“It does.”

“Would it be given on behalf of the Crown, or on behalf of the prisoner?”

“I can’t say. It has no bearing on the prisoner, except indirectly. It affects the Crown, perhaps – the Crown always desires to promote Justice.”

“Let the man be sworn.”

So Benjamin was placed in the box, and stood prominent in his rags before them all. After he had been sworn, there was a pause; neither the prosecution, nor the defence, knowing quite what to make of him.

At length the counsel for the Crown began, “Where were you on March the 3rd, the supposed day of the murder of Isaac Zahn?”

“I don’t keep a diary. Of late, I haven’t taken much account of dates. But if you refer to the date of the thunderstorm, I may state that I was in my cave.”

“Indeed. In your cave? That is most interesting. May I ask where your cave may be?”

“In the mountains, not far from the track to Canvas Town.”

“Dear me, that’s very novel. When you are at home, you live in a cave. You must be a sort of hermit. Do you know the prisoner?”

“Slightly.”

“Did you meet him in your cave?”

“No; but there I saw the men who ought to be in the dock in his stead.”

“Eh? What? Do you understand what you are saying?”

“Perfectly.”

“Perfectly? Indeed. Have you come here to give evidence for the Crown against the prisoner at the bar?”

“I have nothing to do with the prisoner. I have come to disclose the guilty parties, who, so far as I am aware, never in their lives spoke two words to the prisoner at the bar.”

“Your Honour,” said the bewildered barrister, “I have nothing further to ask the witness. I frankly own that I consider him hardly accountable for what he says – his general appearance, his manner of life, his inability to reckon time, all point to mental eccentricity, to mental eccentricity in an acute form.”

But the counsel for the defence was on his feet.

“My good sir,” he said, addressing the witness, with an urbanity of tone and manner that Benjamin in his palmiest days could not have surpassed, “putting aside all worry about dates, or the case for the Crown, or the prisoner at the bar, none of which need concern you in the slightest degree, kindly tell the jury what occurred in your cave on the day of the thunderstorm.”

“Four men entered, and from the place where I lay hid I overheard their conversation. It referred to the murder of Isaac Zahn.”

“Exactly what I should have imagined. Did you know the four men? Who were they? What were their names?”

“I knew the names they went by, and I recognised their faces as those of men I had met in Timber Town.”