The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part Three Page 21

  “If she’s set free.” Lawrence still wasn’t certain justice could be done. Not with Hoag and Bobbo striding into the courtroom with such smug grins on their faces. Not the way they nodded to the barrister who would be representing the prosecution, or with the way that prosecutor saluted the magistrate.

  “Oh, Havers.” The magistrate blinked in surprise when he saw the prosecutor. “Fancy seeing you here. Which case is yours?”

  Lawrence clenched his hands to fists at his sides, bile rising in his throat at the unfairness of so-called “blind-justice.”

  “The murder case, your honor,” the prosecutor, Havers, replied.

  “Yes, yes,” the magistrate said. “Nasty business, that. Let’s deal with the other cases first.”

  Lawrence was forced to spend the next hour clenched with worry, hearing piddling cases of petty theft, land disputes, and even a marital dispute. The whole while, Hoag and Bobbo sent snide, nasty looks in his direction. They were so full of themselves that Lawrence wanted to jump out of his seat, leap across the aisle, and throttle the both of them senseless. Instead, he had to sit patiently as one accused after another was dragged in and out of the dock for their own trials.

  When the magistrate finally sighed and said, “Very well, then. Let’s get to the nasty business of the murder,” Lawrence both sagged in relief and bristled in anticipation.

  A door beside the magistrate’s desk opened and a pair of guards led Matty in. Lawrence caught his breath. They hadn’t bothered to clean Matty up. Her dress was filthy and her hair matted and unkempt. Her face, at least, was clean, as if she’d done the best she could to make herself presentable. It was the stony determination in her eyes that gave Lawrence hope. Things had seemed so bleak just a fortnight ago, but once Connie had visited Matty at the prison, Matty’s will to fight had kicked in.

  “Should you go get Connie now?” Lawrence whispered to Beach behind his hand. He concealed as much of his face from Hoag as he could.

  In the two weeks since Lawrence had whisked the children right out from under Hoag, the police had been called in to investigate, Bobbo had followed Lawrence every second of every day, and a few suspicious sorts had arrived from Grasmere, hassling citizens of Kendal for information, but not a peep had been heard from Connie. And why should it be? No one in their right mind would have suspected that three dirty waifs were being hidden on the estate of one of the more important lords in Cumbria.

  Beach was convinced that Hoag bought the story that Connie had grabbed the children and run, that he hadn’t recognized Lawrence when he stole the younger two. Lawrence didn’t believe it for a moment. He expected to be jumped by Hoag’s thugs at any moment. But the attack never came, and in the end Lawrence wondered if Hoag really wasn’t as cunning as he gave the man credit for being.

  “Your friend Kent and the guards we hired should have them just in the other room,” Beach replied. “As soon as it’s time, I’ll slip out and bring them in.”

  Lawrence nodded, but didn’t say more. The prosecutor had risen from his spot beside Hoag and paced before the desk.

  “Now let’s see here,” the magistrate began, looking over his notes. “Philomena Hoag. Stabbed and strangled on the night of April 30, 1895. Murder reported by her husband, Trevor Hoag, who had been badly burned in a scuffle with the accused murderess, the deceased’s daughter, Mathilda Wright.” He glanced up at Matty. “You’re Mathilda Hoag?” The hint of doubt in his voice gave Lawrence hope.

  “I am, your honor,” Matty answered, nodding modestly. Her openness, the sweetness of her voice, the gravity of her demeanor—all of it had been suggested by Jason’s expensive barrister, Mr. Owings, as means to appeal to the magistrate’s heart.

  “Hmm.” The magistrate turned back to the prosecutor. “And which one is your client?”

  “I am, your honor, sir.” Hoag stood, swiping his hat from his head. He attempted the same smiling note of deference that Matty showed. Coming from Hoag, it felt forced. Another stroke in Matty’s favor, as far as Lawrence was concerned.

  “Hmm.” The magistrate hummed a second time, looked back to the prosecutor, and sighed. “Well, Havers, call your first witness.”

  “I would like to call Trevor Hoag.”

  There was a moment of bustle as Hoag lumbered forward and took his place on the witness stand. Lawrence glanced to Matty, who stared with wide-eyed fright at Hoag. Perhaps that could win them a few more points of sympathy in the magistrate’s favor.

  “Make it quick,” the magistrate said before Hoag was completely settled. “I’d like to catch the five o’clock train back to Manchester tonight, and as grave as murder is, it’s not like the victim was Lady Philomena or anything.”

  Lawrence clenched his jaw in anger. Even Beach fought to contain his snort of derision, and Owings, a row in front of them shook his head in disgust.

  “Quite, your honor.” Havers smiled with complete understanding. He cleared his throat, turned to Hoag, and asked, “Mr. Hoag. Would you please tell us what happened the night of April 30th?”

  “Oh, I’ll never forget it,” Hoag began, eyes downcast, wringing his hands in front of him. “It was a peaceful evening. Everyone was well behaved, the little ones were just getting ready to trundle off to bed, when out of the blue, that young wench and her mother get into a terrible row over who knows what.”

  He thrust out a finger to Matty. For her part, Matty held her head high, only her eyes lowering at the accusation. Grief was plain on her face, but so was caution.

  “Never had a kind thing to say for her poor, hard-working mother, that one. Ungrateful wretch. Used to beat her dear mum, my sweet Phil, around the head all the time. I tried to stop it, but what was I to do?”

  “The night of the murder, if you please, Mr. Hoag,” the magistrate hurried him along.

  “Oh. Right, your honor, sir. Terribly sorry. Whatever you want.”

  The magistrate sighed. Hoag went on.

  “The fight was a bad one. Phil wouldn’t let me intervene. Then that one lunged at her, grabbing her by the throat and strangling her. I pulled the little wench off, but she threw me against the stove. I burned my entire left side. You can see the marks.”

  He showed his left side to the magistrate, who recoiled in horror.

  “Well, when I woke up from the pain—it was so bad I blacked out, sir—my Phil was dead, stabbed through a dozen times or more, and that one there,” he thrust a finger at Matty once more, “was standing over her with the knife.”

  Lawrence caught his breath. Hoag couldn’t possibly have been so foolish as to sell that as his story. Blacked out from pain? Beach seemed to sense the flaw in the story as well, and in front of them, Owings straightened.

  “What happened next, Mr. Hoag?” Havers asked.

  “Why, I bellowed something fierce,” Hoag continued. “That murderess saw I wasn’t dead either, dropped the knife, and made a run for it. I was so injured that I couldn’t chase after her. But as soon as I could pull myself together, I went next door to fetch my good friend, Bobbo. Uh, that is, Robert Carlson.”

  “And what did Mr. Carlson do?”

  “He made certain I got to a doctor, that’s what he did. Then he called for the police to come and see what had happened to my sweet Phil.”

  “But Miss Wright was already gone by then?”

  “Yes, sir. She’d up and done a runner. Nearly managed to get away with it, too, hiding out with that gypsy there.” He pointed to Lawrence.

  Lawrence narrowed his eyes, clenching his jaw.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hoag, that will be all,” Havers said.

  “Mr.…Owings, was it?” the magistrate asked.

  “Yes, your honor.” Owings was already on his feet. He was young, but had a shrewd look about him. His lips were curled down in a grimace—likely for the mash that was being made of the trial. At least if the worst happened, they might be able to claim a mistrial. Then again, as far as Lawrence knew, sloppy though it was, procedure was being followed.


  “Mr. Hoag.” Owings approached the witness box to cross-examine. “You have three children of your own with Philomena Hoag, do you not?”

  Hoag’s obsequious smile flinched. “Yes, I do.”

  “And where are they?” Owings asked.

  Hoag frowned. “I don’t know. Stolen. Missing. I’m pretty sure that one ran off with them.” He pointed to Lawrence again.

  “Do you have proof of that?”

  Hoag scowled and kicked the inside of the witness box. “No. But I’ll get you proof,” he growled. So much for his benign demeanor.

  “Is it not possible that the oldest of your children, a girl, aged twelve, might have run away, taking the others with her?” Owings asked.

  “It might be, ungrateful wretch,” Hoag grumbled.

  Havers popped up from the chair he’d lounged in. “Your honor, these questions have no relevance to the murder.”

  “They do, your honor,” Owings assured him.

  Havers turned red, but the magistrate did no more than shrug.

  “Mr. Hoag,” Owings went on. “Is it not possible that your children ran away because they were being forced to beg in the streets? That your oldest, in spite of her age, was being prostituted in a back alley?”

  A gasp went through the few people who had lingered in the courtroom to hear the case. One of the ladies got up and fled the room. Hoag stammered, face red and splotchy.

  “If she was getting up to something like that, it was her own doing,” Hoag said.

  “Was it?” Owings asked. “Was the emaciated appearance and frequent bruising of your children—something several of the residents of Grasmere could attest to—also their own doing?”

  “This is preposterous,” Havers interrupted as Hoag continued to flap his jaw. “My client is not the one on trial here.”

  “Not yet,” Lawrence murmured.

  Beach reached out a hand to still him, but Owings had already moved on.

  “Your honor, I believe you will find if public record is examined is that Trevor Hoag has a history of being an abusive, negligent, bad-tempered man. That, in fact, his children frequently bore the marks of his cruelty, as did his wife.”

  “Hold on, that’s not fair,” Hoag bellowed. “She did all that too.” He pointed to Matty. “She had a heavy hand with the kids and with their ma.”

  “I have no further questions, your honor.” Owings walked away from the witness stand and resumed his spot.

  “That’s not fair,” Hoag repeated, but Havers rushed over to whisper something to him that silenced him.

  “Step down, Mr. Hoag,” The magistrate nodded for Hoag to go. He sat back in his chair, frowning and rubbing his pointy chin.

  “Your honor, next I would like to call Mr. Robert Carlson,” Havers went on, shaken.

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow as Bobbo shuffled past Hoag. The two men whispered something to each other before Bobbo continued on to the witness box. He wiped the dark frown off of his face and put on a sober expression.

  “And you are Robert Carlson, friend of the accuser?” the magistrate asked.

  “I am, my lord…uh…your honor. Sir,” Bobbo fumbled his answer.

  Havers cleared his throat. “Did Trevor Hoag come to you the night his wife was murdered?”

  “He did. He was a right mess too. That no-good daughter of his wife’s had shouted at him and pushed him into the stove. You could smell the stench of burning flesh even before he came across the alley to my place.”

  “And did you return to the scene of the crime with Mr. Hoag?”

  “I did,” Bobbo answered, grim and haunted. A genuine pall dropped over his face.

  “What did you see?”

  Bobbo swallowed. Lawrence inched forward on his chair. The man had been effected by what he’d seen, no matter who caused it. At last, the tiny sliver they might still be able to use to get past Bobbo’s loyalties to Hoag.

  “It was horrible,” Bobbo went on. “Blood everywhere. Phil’s tongue hanging out of her mouth, welts on her neck. Just horrible.”

  “And Miss Wright?”

  Bobbo shrugged. “I dunno.”

  Behind him, Hoag coughed loudly.

  Bobbo sat up as if someone had stuck him with a pin. “I mean, she was long gone. But I used to hear her talk about how much she hated her ma. The two fought like cats all the time.”

  Havers had flushed red at Hoag’s throat clearing. He glanced nervously to Owings, then mumbled, “That will be all.”

  Owings stood and approached the witness box. “You say that you could smell the stench of burning flesh from across the alley,” he began.

  “I…I could.” Bobbo shuffled in his spot.

  “That you could frequently hear Miss Wright and Mrs. Hoag arguing.

  “I could,” Bobbo answered with more confidence.

  Owings nodded. “Then what did you hear the night of the murder?”

  “I….” Bobbo stopped. He couldn’t look at Hoag without turning completely around, facing away from the magistrate. Instead, he stared at the window above the magistrate’s head. His mouth hung open, and his eyes glazed over, as if he was hearing it all again. His already drawn face took on a ghostly look. “Screaming,” he answered. He didn’t go on.

  “Is that all?” Owings prompted him.

  Another pause, then Bobbo nodded.

  “You may step down,” the magistrate said as Owings walked away.

  “No,” Lawrence whispered, tight with tension. “Make him say more. Make him tell more.”

  Beach shook his head. “He’s said enough by not saying anything. And look at your Matty.”

  Lawrence looked. His heart leapt out of his chest as he saw Matty leaning to one side of the dock. Tears streamed down her face—a face filled with terror and sorrow. It was not the face of a murdered, but the face of a young woman being forced to relive the horrible death of her mother.

  “I’m going to fetch the girls now,” Beach said, standing and stepping over Lawrence to head out of the room.

  “Do you have any further witnesses?” the magistrate asked.

  “No, your honor. The prosecution rests its case,” Havers answered.

  “Very well.” The magistrate shifted and looked to Owings. “Mr. Owings, what is your defense?”

  Owings rose once more. “The defense would like to call Mr. Lawrence Smith to the stand.”

  Lawrence was ready for this. He stood and walked boldly to the witness stand, sending Matty a reassuring look as he went. She seemed to gain a bit of energy and stood straighter, resting her hand on her abdomen.

  Owings waited until Lawrence was in place and until he’d taken his oath to ask, “Mr. Smith, who are you, what is your profession, and how did you become acquainted with the defendant, Miss Wright?”

  “My name is Lawrence Smith. I’m a blacksmith by trade in Brynthwaite. I first met Matty in very early May when she wandered into my blacksmith shop on a rainy night.”

  “And what was Miss Wright’s condition at the time?”

  “Poor,” Lawrence answered. “She was thin, ill-fed, and bruised with recent scars, as though she’d been in a fight.”

  “What else?”

  “She had no memory.”

  Another wave of murmurs passed through the room. Lawrence arched his brow. He didn’t think the simple fact would have that much of an impact.

  It wasn’t until he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see what it was that he understood the murmurs. Beach had returned to the courtroom with Constance, Willy, and Elsie, Kent, and the two guards. Lawrence shifted to glance over his other shoulder at Hoag. He was rewarded by the sight of Hoag, gone completely white with surprise.

  Lawrence grinned and turned back to Owings.

  “What did you do with Miss Wright?” Owings asked.

  “I took her in, fed her up, helped her to get her memory back.”

  “And what did she tell you as her memory returned?”

 
“That she was innocent. That yes, she and her mother had had a disagreement, but it was a long, ongoing disagreement.”

  “What was this disagreement about?”

  “About Trevor Hoag,” Lawrence answered. “He was abusive. He beat Matty and the other children and their mother. But he also had other aims and desires, you might say, on her directly.”

  “What did she have to say about the murder itself?”

  “That Hoag was the murderer.” A ripple went through the room. “That he struck his wife to keep her quiet, and when she continued to defend her daughter, he strangled her, then stabbed her repeatedly.” It wouldn’t matter at this point that Philomena Hoag was defending Connie and not Matty. The judge’s brow flew up all the same.

  “And did she say how Hoag sustained his injuries?” Owings went on.

  “He tried to attack Matty, tried to molest her once Mrs. Hoag was dead. Matty defended herself, pushing Hoag into the stove. After that, she fled the scene in shock.”

  “And were there any other witnesses to the murder?”

  At last, Lawrence had his chance to smile and gloat. “Yes.” He twisted to check on Hoag, who now bore a distinct resemblance to a cornered pig. “Constance Hoag.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

  Owings stepped away from the witness box. The magistrate raised his brow and looked to Havers, but it took Havers several long moments of sitting in shock before he so much as moved. He kept looking from Hoag to Matty, then across to Connie. Matty had dried her tears and was doing her best to send her siblings a reassuring smile. Connie looked as though she was about to go to the guillotine, but with great pride.

  Havers stumbled to the witness box at last. “Mr. Smith,” he began. Nothing followed. The man stared blankly at Lawrence as if he’d forgotten everything he was supposed to ask. “Are you a gypsy?”

  Lawrence would have laughed at the absurdity of the question if they had been in any other circumstances. “I am an orphan, so I do not know. I have always figured I might be.”

  “Oh.” Havers blinked. Another question failed to materialize, and he closed his mouth. When he opened it again, he asked, “Who is that?” pointing to Connie.

  “That is Constance Hoag,” he answered.