Mr. Timothy: A Novel (28 page)

As for the policeman's tale, it is notable only for its brevity. An unconscious woman...an unconscious man...a vague and general suspicion that something was amiss...an arrest. He looks embarrassed, frankly, at having so little to impart, and the magistrate's voice, though still encrusted, sounds quite consoling during the ensuing interview.

--An excellent accounting, Officer. Truly a
credit
to...to...now, if you wouldn't mind my asking, why was the accused struck down in such a fashion?
--I believe it were to keep him from escapin', your worship. However, the person as done it was not on the scene when I arrived.

--And correct me if I am wrong, Officer, but you did not actually see the crime in question?

--No, your worship, I did not. Whatever as happened happened, and there's an end to it.

--And were there any witnesses?

--Yes, your worship. A lady saw it all as it was occurrin' and has very kindly stepped forwards.

--Ah. Call her, please. And swear her, my good Fairweather.

Miss Binny's uniform is squarely in place: the plain white bonnet, the misshapen black dress that gives her the look of an inexpertly wrapped parcel. Intact, too, is her wheedling manner, that way she has of inclining her whole body towards the dignitary in question. She even performs this obeisance with Mr. Fairweather, whose satisfaction is abruptly cancelled by the sight of a rival Bible smothered in her armpit.
Bigamy
, his startled expression seems to say. But Miss Binny, for her part, appears to relish the superfluity, hugs her own Bible all the more tightly to her as she strokes Mr. Fairweather's. Sails through her oath and even adds a closing benediction:

--May God's mercy guide us all!

She then moves on to the divine work of burying me. A tale of sorrow and pity, and to her credit, she never looks too eager to tell it. Indeed, under the courteous questioning of the magistrate, she gives the impression of someone being dragged, against every instinct of her nature, towards a dire and unavoidable conclusion.

--I couldn't, of course, say exactly what was happening, your worship. By which I mean, I saw the gentleman in question tear the young lady's dress, but I could not tell you what he hoped to gain by it. I rather hoped he was plucking a burning ember from her person, but not seeing any fires in the immediate vicinity...why, I didn't know what to think.

--And was it then you screamed, Miss Binny?

--Yes, your worship. I blush to admit that the weakness of my sex overcame me in that instant, and not feeling fit to settle judgement myself, I preferred to leave it to minds wiser than my own.

An especially pronounced bow in the direction of the magistrate, and then a final homily:

--I must say, your worship, the good Lord has more than once seen fit to use me as His instrument in averting unspeakable crimes. I only pray that today, we may also be an instrument of salvation for the wretched gentleman who stands accused before us.

With that, the magistrate ends his questioning, and Miss Binny settles into a silence as impervious as steel. It is enough to quell my good lawyer, who remains rooted in position, breathing labouriously, until nudged into action by Peter's elbow.
--Well, now. Well, now, your worship. My young client here seems to believe that Miss Binny is not, perhaps, the person best suited to appearing against him.

--And why is that, Mr. Sheldrake?

--On account of the fact that he and the aforementioned Miss Binny, the emissary of that admirable organisation, the Bible Flower Mission...on account of the fact that he and Miss Binny had an altercation of sorts.

--Yes?

--This altercation having to do with the welfare of a young girl of Mr. Cratchit's acquaintance.

--Is that true, Miss Binny?

The missionary's hand flutters to her chest.

--Oh, your worship, we come across so many girls in our mission work. They droppeth as does the gentle rain from heaven. Twice blessed.

--It was a particular girl, your worship. By the name of Wilhelmina. Sorry,
Philomela
.

--Why, I'm afraid I don't recall such a girl, your worship. By either name. Perhaps this gentleman has confused me with another of God's handmaidens.

And with that, the tether of Mr. Sheldrake's brain snaps taut. Nothing now but dribbling expostulation:

--Yes. Well. Be that as it may. Yes....

But he has reserves, does Mr. Sheldrake. Enough, at any rate, for one last burst of advocacy.

--Your worship, I ask you to dredge up the deepest wellsprings of seasonal charity and regard my poor client here.
Behold
him in yon godforsaken pen. Behold him, as the steadfast Christian you are, and tell me true. He don't look so dangerous, does he?

To this, the magistrate has no response. He never even drops the hand that screens him from view, or clears away the gravel that obscures his voice. Miss Binny seizes this moment to deliver her own verdict.

--It may be that the good Lord has seen fit to fill this young man with a cleansing spirit. In which event, your worship, I hope that the punishment you see fit to bestow will but further him along on the path to full redemption.

And now Mr. Sheldrake really is done. All done. Although that doesn't stop him from sputtering on for a few seconds more:

--Redemption, yes. All very fine, but there's...there's... A long stretch of silence then. And over the course of this interval, I am cognizant of two things: the undisguised contempt with which everyone, the clerk above all, regards my lawyer; and the kindly disposition of the magistrate when at last he interposes.

--Thank you very much, Mr. Sheldrake. And thank you, Miss Binny. You may stand away.

He lowers his head, and I fear we are once again on the verge of losing him to his game of patience. His hand surreptitiously places one card atop another, another card on that...and then he looks up, shocked to see the room still occupied.

--Yes, yes. Helter-skelter, lickety-split. Please call the young lady who is preferring the charge.

Seldom has a wronged woman made so triumphal an entrance. Her hair has been swept back into a virginal chignon. Her head is arranged at an angle of virtue. Her eyes fix on a point in the upper ether as she advances with tiny, brave steps. To my mind, the one thing that spoils the effect is her decision to wear yesterday's dress. The rent has been ostentatiously fastened with pink ribbon, and from time to time, her hand flies to it, as though it were a scabbing wound.

--Your name, please.

--Miss Sally Grenville.

--Please state your complaint against this man.

--Well, it were like this, your lordship. Picture it, if you will. A young girl, out for a stroll on a brisk December afternoon. Walkin' 'long the thoroughfare, takin' the air, hummin' a bit of seasonal ditty to herself....

--Evocative, thank you.

--Well, if you were her--and believe me, I
were
her...well, then, wouldn't you be surprised--I mean, taken all the way aback--to see this particular gentleman comin' right alongside you?

--In fact, why
were
you surprised?

--Well, he were a stranger, weren't he? And then, your grace, it weren't so much the comin' up, it were what he said
after
he come up. If you must know, he made an indecent suggestion. Actually whispered it in my ear in broad daylight, if you can stand it.

--And what was his suggestion?

--Oh, I couldn't
speak
it, your grace. Not in front of all these good people.

--Why don't you whisper it in my ear, then?

With a rueful smile, she shuffles to the magistrate's desk, drops a most becoming curtsy, and cups her hand around his right ear. A brief pause, followed by the magistrate's dry voice:

--Very colourful. You may return. How vexing not to be able to gauge his expression. All I can detect is a slight tilting of his head, but whether he is appreciating her effect or trying to assay it, I cannot determine.

--And after this suggestion was whispered in your ear, Miss Grenville?

--Why, I let him know I was not the sort as would take him up on a proposition like that. My sainted mother never raised such a girl, is what I told him. And that's when he grabbed a-hold of me. Grabbed with all his force and tore at my dress. Which you can see it yourself, Your Grace, is tore clean all the way down t'here.

--Yes, I do see.

--Well, that's when I started in to screaming. And the horror must've grown so upon me, why, I fainted dead in the street. Which is not my custom. And after I come to, they told me the man in question were in custody, and Lor', was I grateful! Preying on defenseless women such as myself, it's a wonder anyone can walk the streets these days, may God defend us all!

Until now, Annie has stood with great forbearance against the back wall, arms folded across her chest. But this pious oration is more than she can abide. Ignoring Peter's restraining hand, she takes two strides forwards and, in her most trumpeting tone, declares:

--Your worship, this is the ripest form of nonsense!

--Silence!

The sheer volume of the clerk's voice sends veins of bright purple shooting across his bald crown. Annie presses on as though he were living in another county.

--My brother-in-law is the gentlest man alive, your worship, and anyone who says else is a barefaced liar.

The clerk is beside himself now.

--Turn this woman out! Clear the office!

--You shall not turn me out. I will be sworn.

From there, matters get quite out of hand, and the wonder is that in the midst of all the cacophony, something so quiet as the magistrate's clearing his throat should even register. And yet register it does, for the assailants disarm at once--subsiding into dagger looks-- while the magistrate carries on in the same unruffled tone as before.

--Mr. Fairweather, with all due respect, I believe the decision to clear the office is mine to make. Good Mrs.....

--Cratchit.

--I must beg you, please, to be silent for the time being. Otherwise, I really shall have to turn you out, and that would distress me to no end. As it is, I have just a few more questions for this young lady, and until I am finished, I must beg everyone's kind indulgence. Thank you very much. Now, Miss Grenville.
--Yes, your lordship?

--If I'm not mistaken, you and I have met before. In this very room, in fact, on at least two or three previous occasions.

--Have we? I don't recall, your holiness.

--I nearly failed to recall it myself. You were dressed rather differently then.

--Was I?

--It is fortunate I have a tolerably good memory for faces. And for names, too. Yours, if I remember correctly, was Sweet Sally.

The eyes enlarge ever so slightly. A titter, a swatting of the hand.

--Oh, I've had coves call me lots of different names. They meant no harm by 'em, I'm sure.

--No, indeed. Although on your last two visits here, I believe you were charged with annoying passersby.

--Well, that's as in the eye of the beholder, ain't it? It were my contention they was annoying
me
.

--As it is your contention today. Let me see--before that, there was a charge of public drunkenness. Public lewdness prior to that. And beyond that, I lose track. The mists of memory and all that....

Oh, this is not part of her intended effect, surely. That heavy lower lip, that drooping jaw.

--Of course, we are always happy to see you, Miss Grenville. But I am afraid your past conduct has not left you with a sterling reputation for veracity.

Visibly quivering now, eyes flashing from side to side, Sweet Sally wheels about and, in one last beseeching gesture, points towards the black-garbed missionary.

--
She
saw it, too!

--I'm sure she did, Miss Grenville. Handmaidens of God are always seeing something, aren't they?

And now it is Miss Binny's turn to express surprise: a reeling motion that evokes the (now dear) memory of Colin feinting a punch to her head. The magistrate pauses, wondering, perhaps, if water or smelling salts are in order, and then bears onwards.

--As it happens, I myself have some personal acquaintance with the accused, and I can testify to his character quite as well as his admirable sister-in-law. I therefore declare these charges groundless, and I herein discharge him.

It is the first crack I have seen in the formidable Binny facade: a slackening of the face, like a wax doll left too long in the sun. She has poise enough, however, to give a peremptory shake of the head to Sweet Sally, who, thus chastened, shoves one fist all the way into her mouth to stifle her outrage.

But no one is more put out than the clerk, Mr. Fairweather, who turns grape from crown to collarbone and begins leaping up and down like a splenetic troll.

--Your worship! This is peculiar, this is
erratic
....

--Clear the office, Fairweather. There's a good chap.

Only one thing keeps me from quitting the room posthaste: the desire to know my saviour. But the way to him is still blocked, and when I try to crane my head, I am met by the incoming tide of my lawyer, who is already jacking my hand.

--Sheldrake came, Mr. Cratchit. Sheldrake saw. Sheldrake conquered.

He must take my mumbling for agreement, for his chest swells as he says:

--None of that, Mr. Cratchit, justice is my reward. Dame Justice, in whose temple I am but a lowly hierophant. Now then. To whom shall I send the invoice?

I am just about to suggest a proper receptacle when I am interrupted by the voice of the magistrate.