Агата Кристи: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 53, No. 12, December 2008

The bailiff nodded vigorously in agreement.

“Now I would like to take a look at the prisoners and I’d like to meet with the jury and the oath helpers, if any. It’s a rainy day, it shouldn’t be hard to round them all up.”

The bailiff nodded again, but with less enthusiasm. “Where do you want to meet them?”

“The biggest building you’ve got. It’s where we’ll hold the trial, too, if the sun doesn’t come out tomorrow.”

The bailiff scratched his head. “There really isn’t any place big enough for the trial unless we use the manor house. For now, I guess we can cram you and the jury into the headman’s house.”

“That will do for now,” I agreed. “Now, are there any more crimes for Lord William to pass judgment on?”

“No,” the bailiff answered. “Isn’t one murder enough?”

Lord William arrived with his retinue just before dark. I was back at Sir Gerald’s home to greet him. The preparations were barely adequate, especially for a man of my lord’s station, but we had endured worse since beginning this circuit.

I held the bridle of my lord’s horse while he dismounted. “Welcome to Alving, my lord.”

Lord William was a gruff man, but not above sharing the occasional pleasantry with his retainers. “Not as welcoming as I remember it,” he grumbled. “This miserable rain has soaked me thoroughly. I hope Corbin has kept the parchments dry.”

He turned toward the house and saw Sir Gerald waiting for him at the doorway.

“Sir Gerald,” my lord said, “it’s been a good many years. I hope you have a fire going and good food on the table.”

The fire my lord would find. The food, unfortunately, looked barely passable.

Sir Gerald bowed at the appropriate angle to show his deference to the king’s official. “I’m afraid this visit won’t be as enjoyable as your last one, Lord William,” the knight said. “We were celebrating Michaelmas then, as I recall. There’s no feast planned on this occasion.”

“No feast?” my lord asked. “Ah well, you can change that. I won’t go back and report to King Henry that his justices did not receive proper hospitality. But as for Michaelmas,” he added with a grin, “those were the days, weren’t they?”

“We were younger then, Lord William,” Sir Gerald agreed.

“With far more time for having fun,” my lord said. “Now everywhere I journey, work and unpleasantness await me.”

“You have risen high,” the knight replied, with what might have been a tinge of jealousy. “Won’t you come inside?”

Lord William nodded his consent and a servant opened the main door for them.

The meal, as I have noted earlier, was meager, and Lord William was not hesitant about informing Sir Gerald of his disappointment.

“This will not do!” he insisted. “My people and I cannot perform our duties on such scanty provisions. Make no mistake, Sir Gerald, at breakfast and at all future meals, you will do better, or I will have my man, Edgar, here, do better for you.”

Sir Gerald glowered at Lord William’s threat. “There was very little time—”

“I will not hear it!” Lord William insisted, smacking the palm of his hand down on the table to emphasize his point. “You will do better!”

Sir Gerald swallowed his next comment and then tried another tack. “I am just a poor knight—”

Lord William cut him off again. “You will do better!”

Sir Gerald ceased to try and voice his protests, but his eyes clearly showed how bitterly he resented my lord’s imposition.

“Now, Edgar,” Lord William continued, turning toward me in a manner that suggested he was excluding Sir Gerald from the conversation. “What dark crimes await me in the village tomorrow?”

“Just one, my lord,” I informed him, still noting the resentment on Sir Gerald’s face. “It’s a murder.”

“A murder?” Lord William repeated with some gusto. “Well, that’s something interesting, at least.” He shifted his attention back to the knight. “Nothing else, Gerald? No property disputes or thefts to occupy me?”

Sir Gerald bristled under the implied suggestion that he was suppressing crimes from the notice of the king. “It’s a small village. They’re mostly good people.”

Lord William harrumphed at that notion. We’d seen more than our share of the dregs of the kingdom. It affected our outlook on the rest of the peasants.

“At least it should be over quickly then,” Lord William said. “Is the jury assembled? The oath helpers?”

“All is in readiness, my lord,” I assured him.

“That sounds well,” he said. “What do you say to that, Sir Gerald? We will have the trial tomorrow and hang the criminal the day after. You’ll be rid of us the day after that.”

“As you say, Lord William,” Sir Gerald replied.

The sun was out the next day. By midday the ground would likely be dry, but I couldn’t delay the trial that long. I was up before dawn to eat some watery gruel and drag John the bailiff back down to the village as soon as the sun appeared over the horizon.

“We’ll hold the trial out of doors,” I told him, “here on the green. Lord William will sit here under this tree with his scribe and servants behind him. You’ll need to find a chair for him — make it big and sturdy. That one he sat in at table last night will do.

“The scribe will also need a chair, although he carries his own writing board. I presume Sir Gerald will also wish to attend. His chair should be set halfway back from Lord William’s to emphasize my lord’s station and office. But it should still be close enough that Lord William can turn to speak to him. He may pretend to consult with Sir Gerald as a sign of the king’s respect.”

The bailiff took in these instructions without comment or expression. I kept right on explaining what needed to happen.

“The jury will stand over there to my lord’s right. The accused will stand directly before him some ten paces away. Part of our duty is to make certain that they don’t lunge forward and touch my lord, either in violence or in begging for forgiveness.

“We will want your village priest to say a prayer for justice and the king’s health before we begin. Tomorrow, of course, we will want him to walk beside the women as we take them to the gallows, praying loudly for the salvation of their souls.”

The bailiff shuddered ever so slightly at the callous way in which I had said this. I felt a moment of sympathy for him. “Have you had many hangings here?” I asked him.

“No,” he answered quietly.

“Well, let me tell you what to expect,” I said. “Today, the villagers will turn out to watch the trial. They’ll probably start out quiet and respectful, but later it is likely they’ll turn raucous and rowdy, especially if the trial lasts a long while. I assume that both victim and killer have a lot of family in the village?”

The bailiff nodded as I knew he would. Everyone was pretty much related to everyone else in a small village. “Well, we’ll have to be prepared for trouble. Wear your sword. It looks bad if we let a mob kill the murderers before we can hang them, or worse, if we let them hurt Lord William or Sir Gerald.”

“Does that happen often?” the bailiff asked. “The crowd getting violent, I mean.”

“No,” I told him truthfully, “it doesn’t. Mostly they will see this trial as a spectacle — a wonderful chance for unusual entertainment. And tomorrow will be worse. They may even come in from other villages. After all, how often do you see two women hang?”

The bailiff shuddered again.

“It’s a fallen world,” I reminded him. “We each can only do the best we can.”

Lord William and Sir Gerald rode into town on their horses. They made a fine procession of it with Corbin the scribe, the two man servants, and the members of Sir Gerald’s household coming up behind them.