Page 198 of The Armor of Light
The jury knew the story already. Tommy’s committal to the assizes had been reported in theKingsbridge Gazette, and men who had not been at the quarter sessions had heard the details from those who had. The jurymen had probably made up their minds long ago.
In any case, it did not take them many minutes to come to their decision. They found Tommy guilty.
Then the judge spoke.
‘Gentlemen of the jury, you have reached a decision which, in my judgement, is the only possible one.’ His voice had a dry rasp. ‘You have discharged your duty, and it is now my responsibility to sentence the guilty person to the appropriate punishment.’
He paused and coughed into his hand. The room was silent.
‘It has been suggested that Thomas Pidgeon is in some way the victim, rather than the perpetrator, in this case. There has been an attempt to blame the press gang, and those responsible for the administration of poor relief, and even His Majesty’s government, for the crime in question. But the press gang is not on trial here, nor is the system of poor relief, still less the government. This is the trial of Thomas Pidgeon and no one else.’
He looked at Elsie. ‘We may feel compassion for those who sufferunfortunate circumstances, but we do not give them permission to steal from the rest of us – such a suggestion is nonsense.’
He paused again and did something with his hands, something that was hidden from view. When he raised his arms everyone saw that he was wearing black cotton gloves.
Jenn Pidgeon screamed.
Spade said aloud: ‘Oh, God save us.’
The judge produced a black cap and put it on his head over his wig.
Jenn sobbed uncontrollably, and there were loud, hostile comments from the public, but the judge was unperturbed. In the same rasping voice he said: ‘Thomas Pidgeon, in accordance with the law, you shall return to the place whence you came, and be taken from there to a place of execution, where you shall hang by the neck until your body be dead.’
Several people were crying now. But he had not finished.
‘Dead,’ he repeated; and then a third time: ‘Dead.’
Finally he said: ‘And the Lord have mercy on your soul.’
As Jenn Pidgeon was being half led, half carried out of the room, Spade stood up and said loudly: ‘My lord, please be informed that an appeal against this sentence will be made to the king.’
There were noises of approval from the crowd.
‘Noted,’ the judge said with little interest. ‘The sentence will not be carried out before His Majesty’s response has been received. Next case.’
Spade left.
He went to his manufactory and checked on the work, but he found it hard to concentrate. He had never before been involved in an appeal to the king. He was not sure where to start.
At midday he went to the High Street Coffee House. He drank some coffee and managed to get his brain to focus. He would need help in drafting the appeal, and it would be best to have it signedby several leading citizens. As he was mulling this, men began to come in for their midday dinner. Spade spotted Alderman Drinkwater. He was in his seventies and walking with a cane, but his limping walk was sprightly, and there was nothing wrong with his brain. Spade joined him.
Drinkwater ordered a beefsteak and a tankard of ale. He had been in court, and now he said to Spade: ‘Hornbeam and that judge are jackals. Sending a child to the gallows!’
Spade said: ‘Will you put your name to the appeal to the king? It will have a better chance if it comes from a former mayor.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The only Christian thing that judge said was: “The Lord have mercy on your soul.” I don’t know what this world is coming to.’
Spade was glad someone else shared his anger. ‘We should get more people to sign the appeal.’
‘My son-in-law Charles will, I’m sure. Who else shall we ask?’
Spade considered. ‘Amos will do it. But we can’t have all Methodists. I’ll ask Mrs Bagshaw.’
‘Good. That will give us two Kingsbridge traders, who would not be expected to go easy on a thief.’
