Don Gutteridge - Minor Corruption

“Do you know anyone else in yourneighbourhood who resembles Seamus Baldwin?”

“No, sir. I’ve never seen hair like that onsuch a little fella.”

“And you had seen Mr. Baldwin before Augustthe third?”

“All through July, sir. He come to angle fertrout up by the weir or down in the ravine.”

“Let us turn our attention to the girl. Didyou immediately recognize her?”

Broom blushed and sweated some more. “No,sir, all I could see – ”

“How far away were you, by the way?”

“It’s about twenty-five feet from the doorwayto the facin’ stall.”

“And there was plenty of light?”

“With the doors open on a sunny day, I couldsee easily. And the sun comes through the cracks in the barn-boardand a high window.”

“But the stall itself was in shadow?”

“With some sprinkles of sunlight.”

“Very good. Now, please tell us about thegirl you saw.”

“All I could see was her legs, kinda wavin’in the air. But they looked . . . they looked awful tiny.”

“She was hidden behind the rapist?”

“And the straw.”

“When did you suspect it was Betsy Thurgood?Did she cry out?”

Broom’s heavy frame drooped. “No, sir. Thatwas the queerest thing. All I heard was little gaspin’ sounds.”

“But you concluded at some point that it wasBetsy?”

“Yes. I saw her blue gingham dress drapedover the wall of the stall. And in the straw was the wicker basketshe brought the lunch in and a bit of her yellow apron showin’through – the clothes she had on when she first come into theoffice.”

Cambridge paused and appeared to be checkinghis notes. Behind and around him, not a limb stirred.

“Tell the court, Mr. Broom, what you didafter recognizing the pair and realizing you had stumbled across anolder man having illicit intercourse with a fifteen-year-oldfemale.”

“I know what I shoulda done, but I didn’t. Ishould’ve run over to the stall shoutin’ my lungs out. It was toolate to save Betsy from what’d already happened, but I could’vecaught the – the – ”

“Culprit?”

“Yes. But to my shame I didn’t. I decided torun fer help. I knew he hadn’t seen me, so I reckoned there’d betime to run to the office and get Mr. Whittle.”

“But he was at the weir with BurtonThurgood?”

“In my panic I’d forgot that. I got there andthe room was empty. Sol was in the mill where it was too noisy tocall to him. I looked down towards the ravine but didn’t see Joe. Iturned and raced back to the barn. This time I thought I’d saveBetsy myself. But when I got back there they were gone. The stallwas empty. I could see where the straw’d been mussed up, but thatwas all.”

“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Broom.You are a very young man, you had a moment of panic, but you didreturn determined to do your duty, to put yourself in danger.”

“Are you summing up, Mr. Cambridge?” thejudge said with an ironic tilt of an eyebrow.

“No, Milord.” Cambridge turned back to thewitness. “Did you now go looking for Mr. Whittle at the weir?”

Broom hung his large head again. “No, sir. Ishould have. But I got to thinkin’ that Mr. Whittle might notbelieve me. What if it wasn’t Mr. Baldwin, even though I wascertain it was? I’d be accusin’ a prominent gentleman with noproof, only my say so.”

“And you assumed, I’m sure, that the younglady herself would make a complaint.”

“And when she did, I could help her prove herclaim, couldn’t I?” Broom said eagerly.

Marc was about to interrupt this cozy,mutually satisfying dialogue, but he wasn’t quick enough: Cambridgegot in one last jab.

“And you had no way of knowing, as we now do,that the gentleman in question had been lurking in a ravine nearbywith a hidden route to that stall, did you?”

“Milord!”

“Mr. Cambridge, you’re summing up again. Thisis your last warning.”

Cambridge apologized without really doing so,then looked back at Broom.

“No, sir. I didn’t know he’d been around thatday.”

“Still, you had a duty to report acrime.”

“I know I did. And on my way home thatafternoon, I made up my mind to tell it all to Mr. Whittle the nextmornin’.”

“And why did you not have an opportunity todo so?”

“There was a letter waitin’ fer me. It saidmy father was dyin’ and the family needed me – in Port Talbot. Ileft at five o’clock the next mornin’.”

“And you did not return here until Octoberthe fifteenth?”

“That’s correct. Mr. Whittle, he took me backon at the mill, and I soon heard all about Betsy losin’ the babeand dyin’. I was very angry. I knew what had caused that babe andled to her dyin’. I went straight away to the police.”

“You’ve been a brave witness, young man.Thank you. Now I believe defense counsel may have one or twoquestions for you.” Cambridge smiled disingenuously at Marc as ifto say, I really haven’t left you much more.

Marc did not begin gently. “Mr. Broom youassumed what you saw was an illicit sexual encounter. But was it?You said you heard no scream or cry for help, is that right?”

“No. She didn’t cry out.” Broom lookedthoroughly frightened, like an overweight rabbit staring into theferret’s eyes.

“Did you not think that strange? A girlgetting raped and giving out nothing but little gasps? Did the manhave his hand over her mouth?”

“No – no, sir. They were both in the straw,holdin’ him up.”

“You described her legs as waving in the air.Did you mean to say she was thrashing about?”

“Yes . . . I mean, no. She wasn’t thrashin’at all.”

“I see. Strange behaviour, wouldn’t you say,if this was fifteen-year-old Betsy?”

“It was. I saw her dress and the basket andthe apron.”

“A gingham dress, yes. Tell me, do otheryoung ladies in your township wear gingham?”

“It was blue gingham.”

“My questions still stands.”

Broom dabbed hopelessly at his sweating browwith his right sleeve. “Yeah. Lots of girls wear gingham.”

“And you saw only a scrap of yellow cloth inthe straw and assumed it was part of an apron?”

“Well, it looked like – ”

“And it was an ordinary wicker basket thatyou observed from a distance of twenty-five feet, lying half-buriedin the straw?”

“She brung her pa’s lunch in it!”

“I submit, sir, that you made a quick, hastyand panic-stricken guess that you were looking at BetsyThurgood in that stall.”

“Who else could it’ve been?”

“You said in your statement that those rearbarn doors are always open?”

“To let in the breeze.”

“And below the barn is a screen of treesalong the shore of the creek?”

“Y – yes.”

“Could not anyone, local or stranger, havebeen walking along the creek with his lady love and a picnicbasket, sneaked up to the barn unobserved, and made ordinary, ifunorthodox, love in the straw of an empty stall? A lovemakingwithout cries for help or any sort of thrashing resistance?”

Broom hung his head. Reluctantly, because ananswer was expected, he mumbled, “I guess so.” Then he brightenedand said, “But nobody in the area has big grey hair!”

“Ah, let’s have a look at that, shall we? Youclaim the so-called attacker was older, short, and had a shock ofwhitish-grey hair. Are old people the only ones with scrawnylegs?”

“Usually, yes.”

“But Mr. Clift, for example, is a tall andvery slim man in his twenties. I’ll bet his legs might look scrawnyfrom a distance of twenty-five feet?”

One of the jurors tittered. They were allriveted to this critical dialogue.

“But he’s near bald!”

“Which brings us to this business of thehair, doesn’t it? You said the stall itself was in shadow exceptfor what you called ‘sprinkles’ of sunlight. Is that correct?”