“Well, sir,” said he, in a voice so small I felt it necessary to strain forward to listen. “I had every intention of doing what you said, but I could not.”
“And why was that?”
“I was drunk, sir.”
“A little louder, please.”
“/ was drunkr’ It came from him as a loud wail of despair.
His shout brought forth a great roar of laughter from those assembled in the courtroom. They came to be entertained and sought every least occasion for merriment. Sir John hammered them to silence.
“Mr. Millhouse, you were not the only drunk in that alley last night. Others managed to stagger out to Bedford Street, why not you?”
“Alas, Sir John, I was so lamentably besotted that I tripped over my own feet and could not then for the life of me rise up.”
“I regret to inform you, sir, that the penalty for public drunkenness is the same as that with which I threatened that unruly crowd last night — fine and imprisonment for not less than thirty days. Have you nothing more to say in your defense?”
“In truth, I have not.”
“Then I have but little choice — ”
“May I speak for him, sir?” It was a woman’s voice that rang out in the small courtroom. And it was a woman in the first row who stood up, a babe in her arms, and took her place beside Thaddeus Millhouse.
“And who might you be, madam?” asked Sir John.
“I am his wife,” said she. “My name is Lucinda Mill-house. And though you cannot see him, he may make himself heard to you,” said she, “and so I mention that I have in my arms our son, Edward Millhouse.”
Far from inciting laughter from the courtroom crowd, the sudden and dramatic interruption by Mrs. Millhouse hushed all present immediately. Even Mr. Marsden could but stare wide-eyed at the two of them together — or perhaps three, better put. I know not if anything such as this had ever happened in his memory; I know it had not in mine. All present simply waited to see what would happen next. Would Sir John countenance such an interruption? Or would he simply instruct Mr. Fuller to eject her from the room?
“What would you say, then, Mrs. Millhouse?” asked the magistrate.
“I would say, sir, that if he is fined, we cannot pay, and if he is imprisoned, Edward and I shall starve. This is no defense, to be sure, but a plea for mercy. Thaddeus has just been given employment. Do, please, let him work.”
There was a great murmur among the courtroom crowd, yet for once Sir John made no move to silence it. He sat quiet for near a minute.
“Mr. Millhouse, tell me, what sort of work do you do?”
“I am a scholar and a poet.”
“Oh, dear God!” gasped Sir John. It was a cry of exasperation.
“Formerly a schoolteacher,” added Mr. Millhouse.
“And no doubt you gave up that position to come to London where you would seek fame and fortune as a poet.”
“Yes, sir.” He hung his head. “That was some six months past.”
“And you have not yet found it.”
“No, sir, only mere occasional work in Grub Street.”
“But now, according to your wife, you have been granted steady employment, presumably of a long term nature. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, I have been employed by Mr. John Hoole to assist him in the translation of Lodovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso and to perform general secretarial duties for him. He is incapacitated with a broken knee. I … I was to begin Monday next. I went out last night with friends to celebrate our good fortune.”
“Friends who allowed you to drink far past your capacity.”
“I cannot blame them, sir. I fear that when I start drinking, I cannot stop.”
“Well, it would seem, Mr. Millhouse, that you would then be wisest never to start.”
“That would indeed seem to be the answer, sir.”
Again, Sir John fell silent. He clasped his hands before him and gave thought to the matter.
“This court is not in the business of starving mothers and babies,” said he at last. “Nevertheless, you, Mr. Mill-house, have admitted you culpability. You have declared that it was your intention to obey my order, but you could not because of your drunken state. Either way, sir, you are liable for punishment. What shall your punishment be?” He left us all in suspense for a moment. “I am willing to waive the jail term of thirty days in answer to your wife’s plea. However, I shall fine you one shilling to be paid each month for a time not exceeding one year from today. Can you manage that?”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Millhouse cried out at the same time, he offering his heartfelt thanks, and she blessing him in God’s name.
Sir John waved them quiet and continued: “However, Mr. Millhouse, if in that year you appear before me again for public drunkenness, you may expect little mercy from me. Is that understood?”
“Oh yes, sir, indeed it is. But, sir,” he added, “there is but one thing more.”
“And what is that?”
“That woman, out in the alley, the victim of the murder…”
“Yes, what about her?”
“I gathered from what I heard this morning as I waited to go before you that you have had difficulty fixing her identity.”
“That is correct.”
“I believe I know who she is.”
Mrs. Millhouse turned to her husband in surprise,
“Of course, it was dark there in the alley. The moon was near down by the time I arrived to look. And it’s been established I was in a drunken state …”
“Yes, man, out with it.”
“Nevertheless, I believe her to be one Priscilla Tarkin who lives in our court in Half Moon Street.”
“Oh, Tad,” wailed his wife. “Polly? Say it is not so.”
He could offer her little hope, for in spite of his reservations, having now spoken, he seemed quite sure.
“And why did you not come forward with this at the time?”
“I would have,” said he, “but I fear that when I tripped and fell, my mind went completely blank. I can recall nothing of that period afterwards.”
“Well and good,” said Sir John. “I must, however, ask you to remain, for the law requires a more formal identification than you have just made.”
Mrs. Millhouse insisted on accompanying us to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery on Tavistock Street. As I led the way, for I was the only one of our company who knew its exact location, she had poured out to Sir John all she knew of poor Polly Tarkin. Though I had no way of knowing, the story she told was one characteristic of many older women forced into prostitution — a husband who died leaving her in debt, a son who had disappeared into the American colonies, desperation, no way of earning her keep except by selling herself. She was neither young nor pretty, and so she frequently went hungry. The Millhouse family had often shared their little with her. By way of repayment, she would care for Edward when Mrs. Millhouse left on errands about the town.
“Had she no trade? no craft? no means of employment?” asked Sir John.
“She said not,” said Mrs. Millhouse. “The poor woman felt only shame for what she did. We had not the heart to turn our backs on her.”
Through it all, Thaddeus Millhouse had listened to his wife’s dreary tale as it was told across streets and down lanes. At the end of it, he commented only thus: “What she did or did not do is all the same now. We all feel shame before God.” He said it queerly, and in such a way that ended the discussion. Only young Edward Millhouse, who looked to be some months shy of a year in age, had much to say after that. He began carrying on rather fretfully, and by the time we reached the entrance to Mr. Donnelly’s building, he was in full cry.
“Teething,” explained his mother, as she bounced the babe in her arms.
Whatever it was that vexed Edward served to announce us to Mr. Donnelly, for by the time we reached his door, the surgeon had it open, so eager was he to welcome patients to his new office.