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Title: Martin's Close
Author: James, Montague Rhodes (1862-1936)
Date of first publication: 1911
    [included in "More Ghost Stories of an Antiquary"]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   "The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James"
   (New York: Longmans, Green;
   London: Edward Arnold, 1931)
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 30 January 2010
Date last updated: 30 January 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #469

This ebook was produced by:
David T. Jones, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




MARTIN'S CLOSE


Some few years back I was staying with the rector of a parish in the
West, where the society to which I belong owns property. I was to go
over some of this land: and, on the first morning of my visit, soon
after breakfast, the estate carpenter and general handy man, John
Hill, was announced as in readiness to accompany us. The rector asked
which part of the parish we were to visit that morning. The estate map
was produced, and when we had showed him our round, he put his finger
on a particular spot. "Don't forget," he said, "to ask John Hill about
Martin's Close when you get there. I should like to hear what he tells
you." "What ought he to tell us?" I said. "I haven't the slightest
idea," said the rector, "or, if that is not exactly true, it will do
till lunch-time." And here he was called away.

We set out; John Hill is not a man to withhold such information as he
possesses on any point, and you may gather from him much that is of
interest about the people of the place and their talk. An unfamiliar
word, or one that he thinks ought to be unfamiliar to you, he will
usually spell--as c-o-b cob, and the like. It is not, however,
relevant to my purpose to record his conversation before the moment
when we reached Martin's Close. The bit of land is noticeable, for it
is one of the smallest enclosures you are likely to see--a very few
square yards, hedged in with quickset on all sides, and without any
gate or gap leading into it. You might take it for a small cottage
garden long deserted, but that it lies away from the village and bears
no trace of cultivation. It is at no great distance from the road, and
is part of what is there called a moor, in other words, a rough upland
pasture cut up into largish fields.

"Why is this little bit hedged off so?" I asked, and John Hill (whose
answer I cannot represent as perfectly as I should like) was not at
fault. "That's what we call Martin's Close, sir: 'tes a curious thing
'bout that bit of land, sir: goes by the name of Martin's Close, sir.
M-a-r-t-i-n Martin. Beg pardon, sir, did Rector tell you to make
inquiry of me 'bout that, sir?" "Yes, he did." "Ah, I thought so much,
sir. I was tell'n Rector 'bout that last week, and he was very much
interested. It 'pears there's a murderer buried there, sir, by the
name of Martin. Old Samuel Saunders, that formerly lived yurr at what
we call South-town, sir, he had a long tale 'bout that, sir: terrible
murder done 'pon a young woman, sir. Cut her throat and cast her in
the water down yurr." "Was he hung for it?" "Yes, sir, he was hung
just up yurr on the roadway, by what I've 'eard, on the Holy
Innocents' Day, many 'undred years ago, by the man that went by the
name of the bloody judge: terrible red and bloody, I've 'eard." "Was
his name Jeffreys, do you think?" "Might be possible
'twas--Jeffreys--J-e-f--Jeffreys. I reckon 'twas, and the tale I've
'eard many times from Mr. Saunders,--how this young man Martin--George
Martin--was troubled before his crule action come to light by the
young woman's sperit." "How was that, do you know?" "No, sir, I don't
exactly know how 'twas with it: but by what I've 'eard he was fairly
tormented; and rightly tu. Old Mr. Saunders, he told a history
regarding a cupboard down yurr in the New Inn. According to what he
related, this young woman's sperit come out of this cupboard: but I
don't racollact the matter."

This was the sum of John Hill's information. We passed on, and in due
time I reported what I had heard to the Rector. He was able to show me
from the parish account-books that a gibbet had been paid for in 1684,
and a grave dug in the following year, both for the benefit of George
Martin; but he was unable to suggest anyone in the parish, Saunders
being now gone, who was likely to throw any further light on the
story.

Naturally, upon my return to the neighbourhood of libraries, I made
search in the more obvious places. The trial seemed to be nowhere
reported. A newspaper of the time, and one or more news-letters,
however, had some short notices, from which I learnt that, on the
ground of local prejudice against the prisoner (he was described as a
young gentleman of a good estate), the venue had been moved from
Exeter to London; that Jeffreys had been the judge, and death the
sentence, and that there had been some "singular passages" in the
evidence. Nothing further transpired till September of this year. A
friend who knew me to be interested in Jeffreys then sent me a leaf
torn out of a second-hand bookseller's catalogue with the entry:<sc>
Jeffreys, Judge</sc>: <i>Interesting old MS. trial for murder</i>, and so forth,
from which I gathered, to my delight, that I could become possessed,
for a very few shillings, of what seemed to be a verbatim report, in
shorthand, of the Martin trial. I telegraphed for the manuscript and
got it. It was a thin bound volume, provided with a title written in
longhand by someone in the eighteenth century, who had also added this
note: "My father, who took these notes in court, told me that the
prisoner's friends had made interest with Judge Jeffreys that no
report should be put out: he had intended doing this himself when
times were better, and had shew'd it to the Revd. Mr. Glanvil, who
incourag'd his design very warmly, but death surpriz'd them both
before it could be brought to an accomplishment."

The initials W. G. are appended; I am advised that the original
reporter may have been T. Gurney, who appears in that capacity in more
than one State trial.

This was all that I could read for myself. After no long delay I heard
of someone who was capable of deciphering the shorthand of the
seventeenth century, and a little time ago the typewritten copy of
the whole manuscript was laid before me. The portions which I shall
communicate here help to fill in the very imperfect outline which
subsists in the memories of John Hill and, I suppose, one or two
others who live on the scene of the events.

The report begins with a species of preface, the general effect of
which is that the copy is not that actually taken in court, though it
is a true copy in regard to the notes of what was said; but that the
writer has added to it some "remarkable passages" that took place
during the trial, and has made this present fair copy of the whole,
intending at some favourable time to publish it; but has not put it
into longhand, lest it should fall into the possession of unauthorized
persons, and he or his family be deprived of the profit.

The report then begins:

      This case came on to be tried on Wednesday, the 19th
      of November, between our sovereign lord the King, and
      George Martin Esquire, of (I take leave to omit some
      of the place-names), at a sessions of oyer and
      terminer and gaol delivery, at the Old Bailey, and the
      prisoner, being in Newgate, was brought to the bar.

      <i>Clerk of the Crown.</i> George Martin, hold up thy hand
      (which he did).

      Then the indictment was read, which set forth that the
      prisoner "not having the fear of God before his eyes,
      but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the
      devil, upon the 15th day of May, in the 36th year of
      our sovereign lord King Charles the Second, with force
      and arms in the parish aforesaid, in and upon Ann
      Clark, spinster, of the same place, in the peace of
      God and of our said sovereign lord the King then and
      there being, feloniously, wilfully, and of your malice
      aforethought did make an assault and with a certain
      knife value a penny the throat of the said Ann Clark
      then and there did cut, of the which wound the said
      Ann Clark then and there did die, and the body of the
      said Ann Clark did cast into a certain pond of water
      situate in the same parish (with more that is not
      material to our purpose) against the peace of our
      sovereign lord the King, his crown and dignity."

      Then the prisoner prayed a copy of the indictment.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> (Sir George Jeffreys). What is this? Sure
      you know that is never allowed. Besides, here is a
      plain indictment as ever I heard; you have nothing to
      do but to plead to it.

      <i>Pris.</i> My lord, I apprehend there may be matter of
      law arising out of the indictment, and I would humbly
      beg the court to assign me counsel to consider of it.
      Besides, my lord, I believe it was done in another
      case: copy of the indictment was allowed.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> What case was that?

      <i>Pris.</i> Truly, my lord, I have been kept close
      prisoner ever since I came up from Exeter Castle, and
      no one allowed to come at me and no one to advise
      with.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> But I say, what was that case you allege?

      <i>Pris.</i> My lord, I cannot tell your lordship precisely
      the name of the case, but it is in my mind that there
      was such an one, and I would humbly desire----

      <i>L. C. J.</i> All this is nothing. Name your case, and we
      will tell you whether there be any matter for you in
      it. God forbid but you should have anything that may
      be allowed you by law: but this is against law, and we
      must keep the course of the court.

      <i>Att.-Gen.</i> (Sir Robert Sawyer). My lord, we pray for
      the King that he may be asked to plead.

      <i>Cl. of Ct.</i> Are you guilty of the murder whereof you
      stand indicted, or not guilty?

      <i>Pris.</i> My lord, I would humbly offer this to the
      court. If I plead now, shall I have an opportunity
      after to except against the indictment?

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Yes, yes, that comes after verdict: that
      will be saved to you, and counsel assigned if there be
      matter of law: but that which you have now to do is to
      plead.

Then after some little parleying with the court (which seemed strange
upon such a plain indictment) the prisoner pleaded <i>Not Guilty</i>.

      <i>Cl. of Ct.</i> Cul-prit. How wilt thou be tried?

      <i>Pris.</i> By God and my country.

      <i>Cl. of Ct.</i> God send thee a good deliverance.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Why, how is this? Here has been a great
      to-do that you should not be tried at Exeter by your
      country, but be brought here to London, and now you
      ask to be tried by your country. Must we send you to
      Exeter again?

      <i>Pris</i>. My lord, I understood it was the form.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> So it is, man: we spoke only in the way of
      pleasantness. Well, go on and swear the jury.

So they were sworn. I omit the names. There was no challenging on the
prisoner's part, for, as he said, he did not know any of the persons
called. Thereupon the prisoner asked for the use of pen, ink, and
paper, to which the L. C. J. replied: "Ay, ay, in God's name let him
have it." Then the usual charge was delivered to the jury, and the
case opened by the junior counsel for the King, Mr. Dolben.

The Attorney-General followed:

      May it please your lordship, and you gentlemen of the
      jury, I am of counsel for the King against the
      prisoner at the bar. You have heard that he stands
      indicted for a murder done upon the person of a young
      girl. Such crimes as this you may perhaps reckon to be
      not uncommon, and, indeed, in these times, I am sorry
      to say it, there is scarce any fact so barbarous and
      unnatural but what we may hear almost daily instances
      of it. But I must confess that in this murder that is
      charged upon the prisoner there are some particular
      features that mark it out to be such as I hope has but
      seldom if ever been perpetrated upon English ground.
      For as we shall make it appear, the person murdered
      was a poor country girl (whereas the prisoner is a
      gentleman of a proper estate) and, besides that, was
      one to whom Providence had not given the full use of
      her intellects, but was what is termed among us
      commonly an innocent or natural: such an one,
      therefore, as one would have supposed a gentleman of
      the prisoner's quality more likely to overlook, or, if
      he did notice her, to be moved to compassion for her
      unhappy condition, than to lift up his hand against
      her in the very horrid and barbarous manner which we
      shall show you he used.

      Now to begin at the beginning and open the matter to
      you orderly: About Christmas of last year, that is the
      year 1683, this gentleman, Mr. Martin, having newly
      come back into his own country from the University of
      Cambridge, some of his neighbours, to show him what
      civility they could (for his family is one that stands
      in very good repute all over that country),
      entertained him here and there at their Christmas
      merrymakings, so that he was constantly riding to and
      fro, from one house to another, and sometimes, when
      the place of his destination was distant, or for other
      reason, as the unsafeness of the roads, he would be
      constrained to lie the night at an inn. In this way it
      happened that he came, a day or two after the
      Christmas, to the place where this young girl lived
      with her parents, and put up at the inn there, called
      the New Inn, which is, as I am informed, a house of
      good repute. Here was some dancing going on among the
      people of the place, and Ann Clark had been brought
      in, it seems, by her elder sister to look on; but
      being, as I have said, of weak understanding, and,
      besides that, very uncomely in her appearance, it was
      not likely she should take much part in the merriment;
      and accordingly was but standing by in a corner of the
      room. The prisoner at the bar, seeing her, one must
      suppose by way of a jest, asked her would she dance
      with him. And in spite of what her sister and others
      could say to prevent it and to dissuade her----

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Come, Mr. Attorney, we are not set here to
      listen to tales of Christmas parties in taverns. I
      would not interrupt you, but sure you have more
      weighty matters than this. You will be telling us next
      what tune they danced to.

      <i>Att.</i> My lord, I would not take up the time of the
      court with what is not material: but we reckon it to
      be material to show how this unlikely acquaintance
      begun: and as for the tune, I believe, indeed, our
      evidence will show that even that hath a bearing on
      the matter in hand.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Go on, go on, in God's name: but give us
      nothing that is impertinent.

      <i>Att.</i> Indeed, my lord, I will keep to my matter. But,
      gentlemen, having now shown you, as I think, enough of
      this first meeting between the murdered person and the
      prisoner, I will shorten my tale so far as to say that
      from then on there were frequent meetings of the two:
      for the young woman was greatly tickled with having
      got hold (as she conceived it) of so likely a
      sweetheart, and he being once a week at least in the
      habit of passing through the street where she lived,
      she would be always on the watch for him; and it seems
      they had a signal arranged: he should whistle the tune
      that was played at the tavern: it is a tune, as I am
      informed, well known in that country, and has a
      burden, "<i>Madam, will you walk, will you talk with
      me?</i>"

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Ay, I remember it in my own country, in
      Shropshire. It runs somehow thus, doth it not? [Here
      his lordship whistled a part of a tune, which was very
      observable, and seemed below the dignity of the court.
      And it appears he felt it so himself, for he said:]
      But this is by the mark, and I doubt it is the first
      time we have had dance-tunes in this court. The most
      part of the dancing we give occasion for is done at
      Tyburn. [Looking at the prisoner, who appeared very
      much disordered.] You said the tune was material to
      your case, Mr. Attorney, and upon my life I think Mr.
      Martin agrees with you. What ails you, man? staring
      like a player that sees a ghost!

      <i>Pris.</i> My lord, I was amazed at hearing such trivial,
      foolish things as they bring against me.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Well, well, it lies upon Mr. Attorney to
      show whether they be trivial or not: but I must say,
      if he has nothing worse than this he has said, you
      have no great cause to be in amaze. Doth it not lie
      something deeper? But go on, Mr. Attorney.

      <i>Att.</i> My lord and gentlemen--all that I have said so
      far you may indeed very reasonably reckon as having an
      appearance of triviality. And, to be sure, had the
      matter gone no further than the humouring of a poor
      silly girl by a young gentleman of quality, it had
      been very well. But to proceed. We shall make it
      appear that after three or four weeks the prisoner
      became contracted to a young gentlewoman of that
      country, one suitable every way to his own condition,
      and such an arrangement was on foot that seemed to
      promise him a happy and a reputable living. But within
      no very long time it seems that this young
      gentlewoman, hearing of the jest that was going about
      that countryside with regard to the prisoner and Ann
      Clark, conceived that it was not only an unworthy
      carriage on the part of her lover, but a derogation to
      herself that he should suffer his name to be sport for
      tavern company: and so without more ado she, with the
      consent of her parents, signified to the prisoner that
      the match between them was at an end. We shall show
      you that upon the receipt of this intelligence the
      prisoner was greatly enraged against Ann Clark as
      being the cause of his misfortune (though indeed there
      was nobody answerable for it but himself), and that he
      made use of many outrageous expressions and
      threatenings against her, and subsequently upon
      meeting with her both abused her and struck at her
      with his whip: but she, being but a poor innocent,
      could not be persuaded to desist from her attachment
      to him, but would often run after him testifying with
      gestures and broken words the affection she had to
      him: until she was become, as he said, the very plague
      of his life. Yet, being that affairs in which he was
      now engaged necessarily took him by the house in
      which she lived, he could not (as I am willing to
      believe he would otherwise have done) avoid meeting
      with her from time to time. We shall further show you
      that this was the posture of things up to the 15th day
      of May in this present year. Upon that day the
      prisoner comes riding through the village, as of
      custom, and met with the young woman; but in place of
      passing her by, as he had lately done, he stopped, and
      said some words to her with which she appeared
      wonderfully pleased, and so left her; and after that
      day she was nowhere to be found, notwithstanding a
      strict search was made for her. The next time of the
      prisoner's passing through the place, her relations
      inquired of him whether he should know anything of her
      whereabouts; which he totally denied. They expressed
      to him their fears lest her weak intellects should
      have been upset by the attention he had showed her,
      and so she might have committed some rash act against
      her own life, calling him to witness the same time how
      often they had beseeched him to desist from taking
      notice of her, as fearing trouble might come of it:
      but this, too, he easily laughed away. But in spite of
      this light behaviour, it was noticeable in him that
      about this time his carriage and demeanour changed,
      and it was said of him that he seemed a troubled man.
      And here I come to a passage to which I should not
      dare to ask your attention, but that it appears to me
      to be founded in truth, and is supported by testimony
      deserving of credit. And, gentlemen, to my judgment it
      doth afford a great instance of God's revenge against
      murder, and that He will require the blood of the
      innocent.

[Here Mr. Attorney made a pause, and shifted with his papers: and it
was thought remarkable by me and others, because he was a man not
easily dashed.]

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Well, Mr. Attorney, what is your instance?

      <i>Att.</i> My lord, it is a strange one, and the truth is
      that, of all the cases I have been concerned in, I
      cannot call to mind the like of it. But to be short,
      gentlemen, we shall bring you testimony that Ann Clark
      was seen after this 15th of May, and that, at such
      time as she was so seen, it was impossible she could
      have been a living person.

[Here the people made a hum, and a good deal of laughter, and the
Court called for silence, and when it was made]----

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Why, Mr. Attorney, you might save up this
      tale for a week; it will be Christmas by that time,
      and you can frighten your cook-maids with it [at which
      the people laughed again, and the prisoner also, as it
      seemed]. God, man, what are you prating of--ghosts and
      Christmas jigs and tavern company--and here is a man's
      life at stake! (To the prisoner): And you, sir, I
      would have you know there is not so much occasion for
      you to make merry neither. You were not brought here
      for that, and if I know Mr. Attorney, he has more in
      his brief than he has shown yet. Go on, Mr. Attorney.
      I need not, mayhap, have spoken so sharply, but you
      must confess your course is something unusual.

      <i>Att.</i> Nobody knows it better than I, my lord: but I
      shall bring it to an end with a round turn. I shall
      show you, gentlemen, that Ann Clark's body was found
      in the month of June, in a pond of water, with the
      throat cut: that a knife belonging to the prisoner was
      found in the same water: that he made efforts to
      recover the said knife from the water: that the
      coroner's quest brought in a verdict against the
      prisoner at the bar, and that therefore he should by
      course have been tried at Exeter: but that, suit being
      made on his behalf, on account that an impartial jury
      could not be found to try him in his own country, he
      hath had that singular favour shown him that he should
      be tried here in London. And so we will proceed to
      call our evidence.

Then the facts of the acquaintance between the prisoner and Ann Clark
were proved, and also the coroner's inquest. I pass over this portion
of the trial, for it offers nothing of special interest.

Sarah Arscott was next called and sworn.

      <i>Att.</i> What is your occupation?

      <i>S.</i> I keep the New Inn at ----.

      <i>Att.</i> Do you know the prisoner at the bar?

      <i>S.</i> Yes: he was often at our house since he come
      first at Christmas of last year.

      <i>Att.</i> Did you know Ann Clark?

      <i>S.</i> Yes, very well.

      <i>Att.</i> Pray, what manner of person was she in her
      appearance?

      <i>S.</i> She was a very short thick-made woman: I do not
      know what else you would have me say.

      <i>Att.</i> Was she comely?

      <i>S.</i> No, not by no manner of means: she was very
      uncomely, poor child! She had a great face and hanging
      chops and a very bad colour like a puddock.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> What is that, mistress? What say you she
      was like?

      <i>S.</i> My lord, I ask pardon; I heard Esquire Martin say
      she looked like a puddock in the face; and so she did.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Did you that? Can you interpret her, Mr.
      Attorney?

      <i>Att.</i> My lord, I apprehend it is the country word for
      a toad.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Oh, a hop-toad! Ay, go on.

      <i>Att.</i> Will you give an account to the jury of what
      passed between you and the prisoner at the bar in May
      last?

      <i>S.</i> Sir, it was this. It was about nine o'clock the
      evening after that Ann did not come home, and I was
      about my work in the house; there was no company there
      only Thomas Snell, and it was foul weather. Esquire
      Martin came in and called for some drink, and I, by
      way of pleasantry, I said to him, "Squire, have you
      been looking after your sweetheart?" and he flew out
      at me in a passion and desired I would not use such
      expressions. I was amazed at that, because we were
      accustomed to joke with him about her.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Who, her?

      <i>S.</i> Ann Clark, my lord. And we had not heard the news
      of his being contracted to a young gentlewoman
      elsewhere, or I am sure I should have used better
      manners. So I said nothing, but being I was a little
      put out, I begun singing, to myself as it were, the
      song they danced to the first time they met, for I
      thought it would prick him. It was the same that he
      was used to sing when he came down the street; I have
      heard it very often: "<i>Madam, will you walk, will you
      talk with me?</i>" And it fell out that I needed
      something that was in the kitchen. So I went out to
      get it, and all the time I went on singing, something
      louder and more bold-like. And as I was there all of a
      sudden I thought I heard someone answering outside the
      house, but I could not be sure because of the wind
      blowing so high. So then I stopped singing, and now I
      heard it plain, saying, "<i>Yes, sir, I will walk, I
      will talk with you</i>," and I knew the voice for Ann
      Clark's voice.

      <i>Att.</i> How did you know it to be her voice?

      <i>S.</i> It was impossible I could be mistaken. She had a
      dreadful voice, a kind of a squalling voice, in
      particular if she tried to sing. And there was nobody
      in the village that could counterfeit it, for they
      often tried. So, hearing that, I was glad, because we
      were all in an anxiety to know what was gone with
      her: for though she was a natural, she had a good
      disposition and was very tractable: and says I to
      myself, "What, child! are you returned, then?" and I
      ran into the front room, and said to Squire Martin as
      I passed by, "Squire, here is your sweetheart back
      again: shall I call her in?" and with that I went to
      open the door; but Squire Martin he caught hold of me,
      and it seemed to me he was out of his wits, or near
      upon. "Hold, woman," says he, "in God's name!" and I
      know not what else: he was all of a shake. Then I was
      angry, and said I, "What! are you not glad that poor
      child is found?" and I called to Thomas Snell and
      said, "If the Squire will not let me, do you open the
      door and call her in." So Thomas Snell went and opened
      the door, and the wind setting that way blew in and
      overset the two candles that was all we had lighted:
      and Esquire Martin fell away from holding me; I think
      he fell down on the floor, but we were wholly in the
      dark, and it was a minute or two before I got a light
      again: and while I was feeling for the fire-box, I am
      not certain but I heard someone step 'cross the floor,
      and I am sure I heard the door of the great cupboard
      that stands in the room open and shut to. Then, when I
      had a light again, I see Esquire Martin on the settle,
      all white and sweaty as if he had swounded away, and
      his arms hanging down; and I was going to help him;
      but just then it caught my eye that there was
      something like a bit of a dress shut into the cupboard
      door, and it came to my mind I had heard that door
      shut. So I thought it might be some person had run in
      when the light was quenched, and was hiding in the
      cupboard. So I went up closer and looked: and there
      was a bit of a black stuff cloak, and just below it an
      edge of a brown stuff dress, both sticking out of the
      shut of the door: and both of them was low down, as if
      the person that had them on might be crouched down
      inside.

      <i>Att.</i> What did you take it to be?

      <i>S.</i> I took it to be a woman's dress.

      <i>Att.</i> Could you make any guess whom it belonged to?
      Did you know anyone who wore such a dress?

      <i>S.</i> It was a common stuff, by what I could see. I
      have seen many women wearing such a stuff in our
      parish.

      <i>Att.</i> Was it like Ann Clark's dress?

      <i>S.</i> She used to wear just such a dress: but I could
      not say on my oath it was hers.

      <i>Att.</i> Did you observe anything else about it?

      <i>S.</i> I did notice that it looked very wet: but it was
      foul weather outside.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Did you feel of it, mistress?

      <i>S.</i> No, my lord, I did not like to touch it.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Not like? Why that? Are you so nice that
      you scruple to feel of a wet dress?

      <i>S.</i> Indeed, my lord, I cannot very well tell why:
      only it had a nasty ugly look about it.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Well, go on.

      <i>S.</i> Then I called again to Thomas Snell, and bid him
      come to me and catch anyone that come out when I
      should open the cupboard door, "for," says I, "there
      is someone hiding within, and I would know what she
      wants." And with that Squire Martin gave a sort of a
      cry or a shout and ran out of the house into the dark,
      and I felt the cupboard door pushed out against me
      while I held it, and Thomas Snell helped me: but for
      all we pressed to keep it shut as hard as we could, it
      was forced out against us, and we had to fall back.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> And pray what came out--a mouse?

      <i>S.</i> No, my lord, it was greater than a mouse, but I
      could not see what it was: it fleeted very swift over
      the floor and out at the door.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> But come; what did it look like? Was it a
      person?

      <i>S.</i> My lord, I cannot tell what it was, but it ran
      very low, and it was of a dark colour. We were both
      daunted by it, Thomas Snell and I, but we made all the
      haste we could after it to the door that stood open.
      And we looked out, but it was dark and we could see
      nothing.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Was there no tracks of it on the floor?
      What floor have you there?

      <i>S.</i> It is a flagged floor and sanded, my lord, and
      there was an appearance of a wet track on the floor,
      but we could make nothing of it, neither Thomas Snell
      nor me, and besides, as I said, it was a foul night.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Well, for my part, I see not--though to be
      sure it is an odd tale she tells--what you would do
      with this evidence.

      <i>Att.</i> My lord, we bring it to show the suspicious
      carriage of the prisoner immediately after the
      disappearance of the murdered person: and we ask the
      jury's consideration of that; and also to the matter
      of the voice heard without the house.

Then the prisoner asked some questions not very material, and Thomas
Snell was next called, who gave evidence to the same effect as Mrs.
Arscott, and added the following:

      <i>Att.</i> Did anything pass between you and the prisoner
      during the time Mrs. Arscott was out of the room?

      <i>Th.</i> I had a piece of twist in my pocket.

      <i>Att.</i> Twist of what?

      <i>Th.</i> Twist of tobacco, sir, and I felt a disposition
      to take a pipe of tobacco. So I found a pipe on the
      chimney-piece, and being it was twist, and in regard
      of me having by an oversight left my knife at my
      house, and me not having over many teeth to pluck at
      it, as your lordship or anyone else may have a view by
      their own eyesight----

      <i>L. C. J.</i> What is the man talking about? Come to the
      matter, fellow! Do you think we sit here to look at
      your teeth?

      <i>Th.</i> No, my lord, nor I would not you should do, God
      forbid! I know your honours have better employment,
      and better teeth, I would not wonder.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Good God, what a man is this! Yes, I <i>have</i>
      better teeth, and that you shall find if you keep not
      to the purpose.

      <i>Tb.</i> I humbly ask pardon, my lord, but so it was. And
      I took upon me, thinking no harm, to ask Squire Martin
      to lend me his knife to cut my tobacco. And he felt
      first of one pocket and then of another and it was not
      there at all. And says I, "What! have you lost your
      knife, Squire?" And up he gets and feels again and he
      sat down, and such a groan as he gave. "Good God!" he
      says, "I must have left it there." "But," says I,
      "Squire, by all appearance it is <i>not</i> there. Did you
      set a value on it," says I, "you might have it cried."
      But he sat there and put his head between his hands
      and seemed to take no notice to what I said. And then
      it was Mistress Arscott come tracking back out of the
      kitchen place.

Asked if he heard the voice singing outside the house, he said "No,"
but the door into the kitchen was shut, and there was a high wind: but
says that no one could mistake Ann Clark's voice.

Then a boy, William Reddaway, about thirteen years of age, was called,
and by the usual questions, put by the Lord Chief Justice, it was
ascertained that he knew the nature of an oath. And so he was sworn.
His evidence referred to a time about a week later.

      <i>Att.</i> Now, child, don't be frighted: there is no one
      here will hurt you if you speak the truth.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Ay, if he speak the truth. But remember,
      child, thou art in the presence of the great God of
      heaven and earth, that hath the keys of hell, and of
      us that are the king's officers, and have the keys of
      Newgate; and remember, too, there is a man's life in
      question; and if thou tellest a lie, and by that means
      he comes to an ill end, thou art no better than his
      murderer; and so speak the truth.

      <i>Att.</i> Tell the jury what you know, and speak out.
      Where were you on the evening of the 23rd of May last?

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Why, what does such a boy as this know of
      days. Can you mark the day, boy?

      <i>W.</i> Yes, my lord, it was the day before our feast,
      and I was to spend sixpence there, and that falls a
      month before Midsummer Day.

      <i>One of the Jury.</i> My lord, we cannot hear what he
      says.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> He says he remembers the day because it was
      the day before the feast they had there, and he had
      sixpence to lay out. Set him up on the table there.
      Well, child, and where wast thou then?

      <i>W.</i> Keeping cows on the moor, my lord.

But, the boy using the country speech, my lord could not well
apprehend him, and so asked if there was anyone that could interpret
him, and it was answered the parson of the parish was there, and he
was accordingly sworn and so the evidence given. The boy said:

      "I was on the moor about six o'clock, and sitting
      behind a bush of furze near a pond of water: and the
      prisoner came very cautiously and looking about him,
      having something like a long pole in his hand, and
      stopped a good while as if he would be listening, and
      then began to feel in the water with the pole: and I
      being very near the water--not above five yards--heard
      as if the pole struck up against something that made a
      wallowing sound, and the prisoner dropped the pole and
      threw himself on the ground, and rolled himself about
      very strangely with his hands to his ears, and so
      after a while got up and went creeping away."

Asked if he had had any communication with the prisoner, "Yes, a day
or two before, the prisoner, hearing I was used to be on the moor, he
asked me if I had seen a knife laying about, and said he would give
sixpence to find it. And I said I had not seen any such thing, but I
would ask about. Then he said he would give me sixpence to say
nothing, and so he did.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> And was that the sixpence you were to lay
      out at the feast?

      <i>W.</i> Yes, if you please, my lord.

Asked if he had observed anything particular as to the pond of water,
he said, "No, except that it begun to have a very ill smell and the
cows would not drink of it for some days before."

Asked if he had ever seen the prisoner and Ann Clark in company
together, he began to cry very much, and it was a long time before
they could get him to speak intelligibly. At last the parson of the
parish, Mr. Matthews, got him to be quiet, and the question being put
to him again, he said he had seen Ann Clark waiting on the moor for
the prisoner at some way off, several times since last Christmas.

      <i>Att.</i> Did you see her close, so as to be sure it was
      she?

      <i>W.</i> Yes, quite sure.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> How quite sure, child?

      <i>W.</i> Because she would stand and jump up and down and
      clap her arms like a goose (which he called by some
      country name: but the parson explained it to be a
      goose). And then she was of such a shape that it could
      not be no one else.

      <i>Att.</i> What was the last time that you so saw her?

Then the witness began to cry again and clung very much to Mr.
Matthews, who bid him not be frightened. And so at last he told this
story: that on the day before their feast (being the same evening that
he had before spoken of) after the prisoner had gone away, it being
then twilight and he very desirous to get home, but afraid for the
present to stir from where he was lest the prisoner should see him,
remained some few minutes behind the bush, looking on the pond, and
saw something dark come up out of the water at the edge of the pond
farthest away from him, and so up the bank. And when it got to the top
where he could see it plain against the sky, it stood up and flapped
the arms up and down, and then run off very swiftly in the same
direction the prisoner had taken: and being asked very strictly who he
took it to be, he said upon his oath that it could be nobody but Ann
Clark.

Thereafter his master was called, and gave evidence that the boy had
come home very late that evening and been chided for it, and that he
seemed very much amazed, but could give no account of the reason.

      <i>Att.</i> My lord, we have done with our evidence for the
      King.

Then the Lord Chief Justice called upon the prisoner to make his
defence; which he did, though at no great length, and in a very
halting way, saying that he hoped the jury would not go about to take
his life on the evidence of a parcel of country people and children
that would believe any idle tale; and that he had been very much
prejudiced in his trial; at which the L. C. J. interrupted him, saying
that he had had singular favour shown to him in having his trial
removed from Exeter, which the prisoner acknowledging, said that he
meant rather that since he was brought to London there had not been
care taken to keep him secured from interruption and disturbance. Upon
which the L. C. J. ordered the Marshal to be called, and questioned
him about the safe keeping of the prisoner, but could find nothing:
except the Marshal said that he had been informed by the underkeeper
that they had seen a person outside his door or going up the stairs
to it: but there was no possibility the person should have got in. And
it being inquired further what sort of person this might be, the
Marshal could not speak to it save by hearsay, which was not allowed.
And the prisoner, being asked if this was what he meant, said no, he
knew nothing of that, but it was very hard that a man should not be
suffered to be at quiet when his life stood on it. But it was observed
he was very hasty in his denial. And so he said no more, and called no
witnesses. Whereupon the Attorney-General spoke to the jury. [A full
report of what he said is given, and, if time allowed, I would extract
that portion in which he dwells on the alleged appearance of the
murdered person: he quotes some authorities of ancient date, as St.
Augustine <i>de cura pro mortinis gerenda</i> (a favourite book of
reference with the old writers on the supernatural) and also cites
some cases which may be seen in Glanvil's, but more conveniently in
Mr. Lang's books. He does not, however, tell us more of those cases
than is to be found in print.]

<tb>

The Lord Chief Justice then summed up the evidence for the jury. His
speech, again, contains nothing that I find worth copying out: but he
was naturally impressed with the singular character of the evidence,
saying that he had never heard such given in his experience; but that
there was nothing in law to set it aside, and that the jury must
consider whether they believed these witnesses or not.

And the jury after a very short consultation brought the prisoner in
Guilty.

So he was asked whether he had anything to say in arrest of judgment,
and pleaded that his name was spelt wrong in the indictment, being
Martin with an I, whereas it should be with a Y. But this was
overruled as not material, Mr. Attorney saying, moreover, that he
could bring evidence to show that the prisoner by times wrote it as it
was laid in the indictment. And, the prisoner having nothing further
to offer, sentence of death was passed upon him, and that he should be
hanged in chains upon a gibbet near the place where the fact was
committed, and that execution should take place upon the 28th December
next ensuing, being Innocents' Day.

Thereafter the prisoner being to all appearance in a state of
desperation, made shift to ask the L. C. J. that his relations might
be allowed to come to him during the short time he had to live.

      <i>L. C. J.</i> Ay, with all my heart, so it be in the
      presence of the keeper; and Ann Clark may come to you
      as well, for what I care.

At which the prisoner broke out and cried to his lordship not to use
such words to him, and his lordship very angrily told him he deserved
no tenderness at any man's hands for a cowardly butcherly murderer
that had not the stomach to take the reward of his deeds: "and I hope
to God," said he, "that she <i>will</i> be with you by day and by night
till an end is made of you." Then the prisoner was removed, and, so
far as I saw, he was in a swound, and the Court broke up.

I cannot refrain from observing that the prisoner during all the time
of the trial seemed to be more uneasy than is commonly the case even
in capital causes: that, for example, he was looking narrowly among
the people and often turning round very sharply, as if some person
might be at his ear. It was also very noticeable at this trial what a
silence the people kept, and further (though this might not be
otherwise than natural in that season of the year), what a darkness
and obscurity there was in the court room, lights being brought in not
long after two o'clock in the day, and yet no fog in the town.

<tb>

It was not without interest that I heard lately from some young men
who had been giving a concert in the village I speak of, that a very
cold reception was accorded to the song which has been mentioned in
this narrative: "<i>Madam, will you walk?</i>" It came out in some talk
they had next morning with some of the local people that that song was
regarded with an invincible repugnance; it was not so, they believed,
at North Tawton, but here it was reckoned to be unlucky. However, why
that view was taken no one had the shadow of an idea.




[End of _Martin's Close_ by M. R. James]
