Tried for Revenge

“Now, Mrs. Sawyer, would you please repeat to the jury the same story you told me.” Mr. Carson instructed the fearful woman cowering in the witness stand. He gazed reassuringly into her eyes before turning and scanning the room. There was the symbol of the crown up on the wall. The judge’s head was bald as ever. Everything was how it should be. Every wooden row, all the Jury’s attention, everything, right in its place. Every eye in the maple benches was on the accused. 

He stuck his hands in his coat pockets and nonchalantly balanced on his heels. There was the prosecutor, Mr. Dean, glaring at him, his thin eyebrows stretched across his forehead like little worms. He gulped angrily, violently rubbing the palm of his hand with his thumb. Mr. Carson winked at him. That gave the old goat a fit.

“I was in the kitchen, I was, when it all started I mean.” Mrs. Sawyer shook with fear. “I had just put more wood in the stove, when there came a knock at the door, see. I answered it, and in came a man. I was shocked of course, for I’d never seen ‘im sir, in me whole life, I never. He asked if I was Mrs. Sawyer and I tells him yes. Then he slaps me, right ‘ere he did.” She pointed to the unmissable bruise on her left cheek. “Then he just stormed out.”

“Tell us about the next night Mrs. Sawyer.” Mr. Carson pulled out his pocket watch. “Ten til two. Brilliant!” He looked around at the odd looks. He coughed a bit. “Mrs. Sawyer.”

“Yes, Mr. Carson. Well, you see, the next night, after he struck me, he came back, burstin’ in like a beast he did. He kept sayin’ something about papers—wait, no, it was letters. He just kept repeatin’ it over and over like ‘e was mad. I’d say he was mad. Well, I told ‘im to get out, to get out or I’d kill ‘im. It was only a threat, for I’d not a weapon in me house and Mr. Sawyer wouldn’t be home from the barber’s until pretty near six o’clock, and it was but four, or pretty near round. Well, he believed me and left and that was the end of the whole thing. Next I ‘eard of ‘im was when the Coppers came for me and brought me to jail.”

“Thank you Mrs. Sawyer.” Mr. Carson placed a hand to his smooth chin and gazed at the ceiling. He dropped his head to the side and looked at her. “A few questions please, Mrs. Sawyer.” He paused. “I heard that you have no alibi, but I ask you, where were you on August 10 at 6:59 in the evening?”

“At home, I swear it!” She shrieked.

“Men of the jury.” Mr. Dean stood up with a cough. “If I may, being at home is hardly a provable alibi, in my opinion—”

“In your opinion we should all walk on our heads and drink cough syrup; no one cares what you think!” Mr. Carson interrupted. “As a matter of fact, I have the floor, so sit your useless self back in your chair and shut up!” He looked back at Mrs. Sawyer. “Please continue ma’am.”

“Well that’s about all, you see. I was just makin’ meself some tea, Twinings, I believe, and I had me window open and was listening to the piccolo player that always plays at the street corner in the afternoon. I had just got the sugar out of the cupboard when the police came knocking.”

“Very good, very good. Now about this Piccolo player.” Carson had that look in his eye, that glint that always appeared when his mind had picked up on something. He stroked his chin faster. “About what time would you say he usually plays?”

“I’m not sure, just the afternoon.”

“That night, was he late?”

“I’m sorry sir, but there’s no way for me to remember.”

“Was he there at say, 6:47?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I need you to think Mrs. Sawyer.”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before they popped back open. “No he wasn’t. I remember remarkin’ that it was very quiet for a Summer’s evenin’. But why?”

“It was at 6:47 that Richard Bradshaw was murdered, Mrs. Sawyer.” Carson ran to one of the officers stationed in the room. “I need you to find the Piccolo player that usually plays on Bradford Street. Bring him in now! Do you understand!”

“Piccolo player sir?” The officer tugged at his bushy mustache.

“Don’t give me that. You live on that street, Mr. Candywiig.”

“Sir.” The officer straightened up. “How do you know where I live?”

“Please, I know where everyone lives. Now go!” Mr. Carson made his way back to the witness stand, mumbling all the way. He took a deep breath. “You may step down Mrs. Sawyer, if the prosecutor doesn’t wish for further questions.” 

He glanced at Dean, who just huffed, “No further questions.”

Carson helped Mrs. Sawyer off the stand before whipping around. “I call the next witness. Mr. Sawyer!”

An oddly built man in the back of the room nearly fell off his bench.

“You heard me, Mr. Sawyer. Come up.”

Mr. Sawyer nervously stroked his mustache as he made his way to the front. He placed his hand on the offered Bible.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.” Mr. Sawyer whimpered before seating himself on the witness stand.

“Mr. Sawyer.” Carson paused, looking the witness up and down. “Do you smoke?” He smiled.

Mr. Sawyer looked confused. “Um, no…no sir.”

“Very good. Nasty habit once you get into it. Too bad I did.” Carson gazed around the room before refocusing on Sawyer. “Where were you at 6:47 P.M. on August 10?”

“Well, I was at work.”

“Incorrect my good sir, or your dear wife is. It has been previously stated that you, Mr. Sawyer, end your work day at 6:00. Isn’t that right?”

“Well, it usually is, you see, it’s just that I, um, was working late. A customer wouldn’t shut ‘is trap, you know?”

“Is that so, Mr. Sawyer?” Carson spun round. “Let me see, your apartment is about ten blocks away, that is about a six to ten minute walk is it not? What time did you head home?”

“About 6:40 sir. I stopped by the pub next door for a drop o’ Scotch and was there a bit longer than I intended. When I got home, my wife was being arrested.” He looked around mournfully.

“Must’ve been nice listening to the piccolo player on the way home, wasn’t it?” Carson stared at him, the usual look of dogged determination in his eyes.

“Yes, it was.” He nodded.

“False!” Carson wagged a finger under his nose. “According to your wife, there was no piccolo player on the street until long after seven! Either you or your wife is lying, and here’s how we’ll find out who.” Carson pointed towards the doors. As if on cue, Candywiig burst through the door with one very distraught looking street musician.

Candywiig forced him down into the witness stand. Carson was on him in an instant. “Where were you on August 10 around seven o’clock?”

“What day was that?” His eyes darted around in confusion.

"It was a Tuesday.”

“Well let me see.” He thought for a moment. “Well, as I remembers it, I was in the pub with me friends and was playin’ quite a jig for ‘em. I got carried away, and lost track of me time. I left the pub at around 7 o’clock.”

“And what pub was that?”

“The Iron Lion of course.”

“Very fascinating. It seems that this Iron Lion is a very busy place; is it not, Mr. Sawyer?” He spun round, gazing cleverly at Mr. Sawyer who was attempting to loosen his tie. “Candywiig, I need the keeper of said pub immediately!”

“Yes sir.”

“I also need Richard Bradshaw’s house keeper.”

“Aye, sir.”

Carson watched him leave, tugging at his chin. “Wait! Candywiig!”

“Aye sir?”

“Do you smoke?” He smiled.

“Aye sir. Cigars.”

“Remind me to buy you a box.” He spun round. “Now Mr.—what did you say your name was?”

“Um, I didn’t. I’m Mr. Pasón, sir.”

“Italian?”

“My parents were, yes sir.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s all.”

“I’d like to examine the witness, Mr. Carson.” Dean spat. He walked over, a sneer on his face. Their gazes met, each attempting to stare the other down. They looked away with a huff. “Now, Mr. um—”

“Pasón, sir.”

“You typically play on the corner of Burkley and Commons correct?”

“Aye sir.”

“Do you know Mrs. Sawyer well?”

“I’ve never met Mrs. Sawyer. Only ‘eard of ‘er.”

“Where do you live?”

“As interesting as it would be to find that out,” Mr. Carson interrupted. “I cannot see the relevance of this question to the case.”

“Judge!” Dean whined.

“Overruled!” The judge shouted. “Carson go ahead.”

“I call Mr. Sawyer back to the stand.”

The moment Sawyer’s rump hit the seat, Carson was on him. “Bradshaw was searching for something, something that was important to him. Letters. What were they? Why did he want them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sawyer huffed.

“Really? Nothing at all. Nothing about a Mr. Eglestan?”

Sawyer jumped. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“You were in debt to him weren’t you?”

“Sir, please. I have—”

“Those letters, they were proof of blackmail weren’t they? He wanted his money, but you were going to turn him in? Eglestan needed those letters, so he sent Bradshaw, but Bradshaw failed. Eglestan wanted revenge on you, so he murdered Bradshaw and framed your wife.”

“What fantasy have you come up with now, Carson?” Dean stood up with a laugh. “You would make a mockery of this court with your tall tales?”

“Quiet Dean!” The Judge hollered before looking back to Carson. “He does have a point. We don’t even know that this Eglestan fellow even exists.”

“Aside from the blackmail letters with his name on them, I have seen Mr. Eglestan myself.”

“I got the housekeeper.” Candywiig entered the room with a little frail old woman. She was looking around confused.

“Very good Candywiig. Ladies and Gentlemen of the court, I call to the stand Officer Candywiig.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the officer.

“What!” He shouted. “This is outrageous!”

“To the stand Candywiig.” The judge ordered.

Candywiig sweatily took his seat.

“Candywiig, is this Bradshaw’s housekeeper?” He pointed at the old woman.

“Yes sir.”

“Were you part of the team that studied Bradshaw’s murder?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how, sir, did you know where he lived? You left before I told you.”

He looked trapped. “Bradshaw and I were old pals.”

“Old pals indeed, P.T. Eglestan.”

“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously. 

“Yes you do, Eglestan.”

“Carson, this is a very serious accusation.” The judge interrupted.

“Candywiig knew exactly where Bradshaw lived. Give me a cigar.” He extended a hand to the fearful officer. He obliged. “This exact brand of cigar was found, still smoking, in Bradshaw’s apartment.”

“So what?” 

“Bradshaw didn’t smoke. Besides, you match Eglestan’s descriptions pretty well. Besides, if the murderer was really Mrs. Sawyer, the police found out it was her pretty—”

“Nobody move.” Candywiig lept up. He pulled a pistol from his pocket. He aimed it at Carson. Carson gazed down the shiny barrel, aimed directly between his eyes. Eglestan sneered. “You’re good. Better than they say. Too bad. Now you have to die.” He was struck from behind. The gun went off at the ceiling. Eglestan fell to the floor.

“Stupid.” Pasón put away his piccolo.

“Good job Carson.” The judge shook his hand as the two exited the courthouse. “How did you do it?”

“What?”

“Make such a connection. I still don’t see it.”

“Neither did I. I just guessed. It was a lucky one I’d wager. I just kept talking. I knew someone would slip up eventually.” He looked at his pocket watch. “Holy smokes! I’ll be late! Elizabeth is waiting for me. See you next time Judge.”

“See you my boy.” He watched the young detective make his way through the busy London streets. “What a lad.” He shook his head. “What a lad.”