Hope arrived early on the morning of the trial, weighed down with boxes. It seemed such a ridiculous sight and my cell was so small that there was hardly room for us to stand. Undaunted, she set to organising where everything should go. She had put a great deal of thought into what costume would emphasise my innocence and had settled on a petticoat embroidered with buttercups. The gown was of a liquid grey silk that caught the light when I moved.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘considering the fabric, it looks modest and yet at the same time not without appeal.’
‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘How is Mercy?’
‘Better,’ said Hope. ‘But it will take a long time for her to get her strength back. She told me to tell you to speak clearly, for only the guilty mumble their words.’
‘I doubt that,’ I said. ‘Hope – do you remember the first time you dressed me? In Milk Street?’
‘Yes,’ said Hope. ‘You were such a lonely little thing, so pleased to have sisters.’
‘I still am.’
‘Oh, stop it, stop it.’ She blew her nose. ‘This is hard enough without feasting on memories.’
She pulled my stays tight.
‘Ouch,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m pregnant and I must show it. After all, I am pleading the belly.’
She loosened the laces and concentrated on making sure the gown fitted me to perfection. My kerchief high, my hair modestly pinned, and at last I began to recognise myself. I was paler of face, that was true, but I still had a glint in my eye, a speck of determination.
Mr Gately had told me that he would not call me to the witness stand unless it was absolutely necessary. One small comfort was that the constable had dropped his charges against me and now blamed his injury on an unknown person in the crowd. It seemed he had thought better of exposing himself to public ridicule by admitting that his arm had been broken by a woman.
I know now that nothing can prepare you for a courtroom; the noise of it, the smell of it and how small the space is. Theatre at its most intimate, the play is performed without an ending or rather with one that is at the jury’s discretion.
The moment I arrived in the dock a huge cheer went up mingled with booing. I was in a bear pit. The gallery was full to bursting and among the crowd, apart from Mr Attaway and Mr Tubbs, were Queenie, Mr Crease, Hope and Mofty, as well as Sir Henry Slater and, more surprisingly, the Duke of H.
A woman leaned over the rail and shouted, ‘London should be cleaned of harlots.’
There was much jostling and among the faces leering down on me I was certain I spied Cook. I was trying to catch another glimpse of her when I felt an icy chill on my right side. I shivered. Pretty Poppet stood beside me.
‘I ain’t leaving you,’ she whispered, lacing her bony fingers through mine.
The court rose as the judge took his seat. A small man, he was almost lost inside his ludicrously large wig. I remembered seeing him at one of Queenie’s assemblies. On either side of him sat gentlemen in equally large wigs and imposing robes. I couldn’t tell who they were, but all I knew was that they were intimidating, their well-fed faces lacking even a shadow of compassion. Above the judge’s bench, square, dirty windows threw gloomy light on the proceedings. The courtroom was airless, the atmosphere made worse by the constant waving of burning herbs that smelled of ink and pen nibs rather than anything beneficial to the health.
My indictment was read out – not one word of it lost on its eager audience.
‘Tully Truegood, of Queenie Gibbs’ house in Lincoln’s Inn Square, is indicted for the wilful murder of her husband, Captain Ralph Spiggot, on the first day of September, 1756. The incident took place in a certain chamber called the Club Room, belonging to an alehouse known as the Hedge Tavern. Here, it is alleged, she wilfully and with a malice aforethought did shoot the said Captain Spiggot. He was attended there by Mr Potts, a surgeon, and was then taken to Mr Wrattan’s lodgings at Great Ormond Street. The captain lived for a week and died there.’
Mr Barrow, the prosecution counsel, stood up and called for Mr Potts. He looked only marginally more sober than when I had last seen him.
On being questioned by Mr Barrow, he said that he had found Captain Spiggot conscious and the captain had stated that the prisoner had shot him.
Mr Gately started his cross-examination. ‘Is the accused here, Mr Potts?’
‘No,’ said Mr Potts, looking round the court. ‘I can’t see him.’
There was a roar of laughter from the gallery.
‘Miss Truegood was dressed as a young man, Mr Potts.’
Mr Potts peered at me, unconvinced.
The cross-examination continued and Mr Potts became more confused with every question.
Mr Gately said, ‘Would you say the bullet entered through the front or the back of the victim’s body?’
‘The back,’ said Mr Potts. ‘No, the front.’ He looked round the courtroom for guidance. ‘The front.’
The judge looked unimpressed and began to shuffle some papers that were set before him.
‘I ask you again, Mr Potts,’ said Mr Gately. ‘Where did the bullet enter the body?’
I could see perfectly well that it meant nothing to the jury whether the bullet went in the front or the back. It made little difference. The facts were that I had shot my husband dead and all that they had heard so far had only confirmed their suspicion that I was guilty as charged.
Mr Potts looked in need of a drink and was relieved when no more questions were asked of him.
Next, Mr Barrow called the landlord of the Hedge Tavern, followed by the constable, who both gave fairly damning evidence against me, identifying the pistol I was holding when I was apprehended by the silver engraving on the stock. Mr Gately had no questions.
Victor Wrattan took the stand and I could see that the licentious libertine was relishing this public performance. Here was a man who was auditioning for a part in a play. Like the jury, he was certain of the outcome. He painted an elegant portrait of Captain Spiggot as a most honourable man who had tried to save his wife from the whorehouse.
‘You are a liar, sir!’ shouted Queenie from the gallery. ‘A liar, a rapist and a murderer.’
Wrattan smiled. ‘That is rich coming from one of London’s most notorious brothel-keepers.’
A burst of laughter came from the court.
‘Silence,’ ordered the judge.
Victor Wrattan, seeing that he had the jury’s full attention, continued. ‘That woman,’ he said, and pointed at me, ‘manipulated a fortune out of the late Lord Barbeau, a sick and vulnerable man. By her wanton cunning she robbed Lord Barbeau’s nephew, a penniless parson, of his rightful inheritance.’
The jury gasped in horror and there were cries of ‘Shame on you!’ from the gallery.
‘Objection, my lord,’ said Mr Gately, on his feet. ‘This is immaterial to the case.’
Mr Barrow rose to his feet. ‘My lord, Mr Wrattan is illustrating the nature of the woman who is on trial today.’
‘Continue,’ said the judge.
‘My good friend,’ said Wrattan, ‘had a wife who was given to sudden fits of violent temper, a vicious and devious whore who…’
On he went, ending by saying it was in one of my rages that I had cold-bloodedly shot Captain Spiggot, and he, Wrattan, being afraid for his own life, had run onto the roof for safety.
The jury had enjoyed the performance so much I expected them to give Wrattan a standing ovation. On this testimony my case was lost. I was startled to find myself confronted by the prospect of my death.
‘Do you have any questions, Mr Gately?’ asked the judge.
‘Mr Wrattan,’ said Mr Gately, ‘was there anyone with you when you were on the roof of the Hedge Tavern?’
This one question ruffled Wrattan’s sleek feathers. ‘I didn’t see anyone,’ he said.
‘Let me help you,’ said Mr Gately. ‘There was, I believe, a young girl seen on the roof. Is that correct?’
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ repeated Victor Wrattan.
Pretty Poppet squeezed my hand. ‘Have the gentleman call me,’ she whispered.
Mr Barrow stood up. ‘Your honour, this has no relevance to the murder of Captain Spiggot.’
‘It is relevant if there is another witness,’ said Mr Gately.
Mr Barrow stood up again. ‘Your honour, the girl was never found and has, therefore, never given a statement. This line of questioning should be dropped.’
‘Mr Gately will concentrate on the facts of this case rather than hearsay,’ said the judge.
My barrister changed his line of attack. ‘Did Captain Spiggot tell you to take his pistol from his coat?’
‘No,’ said Wrattan. ‘Captain Spiggot was unarmed that night. I had a sword.’
Mr Gately made little progress. Mr Wrattan was playing to the gallery. The judge dismissed Mr Gately’s cross-examination, telling the jury that they should not consider it.
‘You need me if you ain’t to join me,’ Pretty Poppet whispered. ‘Make them see me and I will tell them what happened. When the occasion deserves it, I can dress myself as you do for society, in the habit of flesh and blood, well enough to deceive human sight. I won’t let you down.’
The law stops to eat and I was taken down to a cell. I have to admit to being full of dread. I had been far too light-hearted about the notion that I might be hanged but it now looked a reality, and an unavoidable reality. Mr Gately came to see me. He told me to take heart, and that it would go better in the afternoon. I didn’t think so.
‘I want you to call Poppet Gibbs,’ I said.
Mr Gately ignored my suggestion. ‘I will call Mr Albion Crease next,’ he said.
‘I beg of you, call Poppet Gibbs.’
‘Who is Poppet Gibbs?’ said my lawyer, looking at me as if I was a complete numbskull.
‘She is the girl who was seen on the roof of the Hedge Tavern and she is now willing to give evidence. I am paying you well for your services, Mr Gately, you will call her.’
The court reconvened after lunch and, just as in a game of chess, everyone took their places in the hope of seeing the queen taken by a knight.
‘Mr Gately,’ said the judge. ‘Your next witness.’
‘Your honour,’ said Mr Gately, ‘I call Miss Poppet Gibbs.’
What if she was to appear with her skin all ragged? What if she was not to appear at all? Mr Crease stared down at me with his painted eyes and gave me the courage I needed. I had never concentrated as hard as I did then on making a spirit visible. But she didn’t appear. The call went round the courtroom again. I looked up into Queenie’s face and I knew Pretty Poppet was there by an expression – a mixture of wonder and sadness – that came over Queenie’s features. Poppet had not only garnered flesh but seemed to have taken advantage of the years that had never been hers. She wore them well and stood in the stand, rosy-cheeked and calm.
Queenie stifled a sob. Poppet, the grown-up daughter she’d never seen, never known, smiled up at her. I could hear what she was thinking. Don’t cry, Mother, don’t cry.
‘Your name?’ said the judge.
‘Poppet Gibbs, your honour, of Mrs Gibbs’ house.’
Wrattan, who had stayed to see the rest of the trial, was lounging at the back of the courtroom, smiling to himself. I watched as slowly it dawned on him who it was who had taken the witness stand. All humour deserted him.
‘Miss Gibbs,’ said Mr Gately, ‘where were you when Captain Spiggot was shot?’
‘I was in the Club Room at the Hedge Tavern. I’d gone there with Miss Tully, looking for Miss Mercy, who that morning had been taken by Mr Wrattan and Captain Spiggot on the King’s highway. Miss Tully feared that they would do to Miss Mercy what they’d done to her.’
‘And what had they done to her?’
‘Raped, and beaten, and near murdered her. I knew of the ways of Mr Wrattan for when I was thirteen Mr Wrattan and some other gentlemen broke into Mrs Inglis’ school where I was a pupil, and four girls died that night due to those gentlemen’s attentions.’
There was uproar in the courtroom and for the first time I felt a shift in the jury’s opinion.
Mr Barrow stood up. ‘That has nothing to do with the case in hand.’
‘It has to do with Miss Gibbs going with the prisoner on the night of the shooting,’ said Mr Gately
‘Continue, Mr Gately,’ said the judge.
‘Miss Gibbs,’ said Mr Gately, ‘would you tell the court what happened in the Club Room at the Hedge Tavern.’
Pretty Poppet gave her testimony. She described exactly how we had found Mr Wrattan and Captain Spiggot in a state of undress. She went no further, implied no wrongdoing, but at the same time leaving little to the imagination of the well-versed citizen of this city of sin. Speaking clearly, so that all her words could be heard, she ended by telling the court that she had stood on the roof of the tavern while Wrattan clung to the chimney pots, having left his friend downstairs, mortally wounded.
‘He still had hold of Captain Spiggot’s pistol, the pistol he’d shot his friend with. And the Fleet being only the other side of the chimneys, Mr Wrattan dropped it in the river.’ She paused. ‘I have come forward, sir, because I want justice for all the wrongs gentlemen like Mr Wrattan and Captain Spiggot do to women, to young girls who have hardly put away their dolls before they’re thrown on the rubbish heap and left to become threepenny whores.’
It was the most impressive performance.
‘Lies – it’s all lies,’ shouted Wrattan.
‘But it isn’t, sir, is it?’
The judge brought down his gavel. ‘Order. Mr Wrattan, I will have you removed if you are not quiet.’
But nothing was going to keep Victor Wrattan quiet for he could see what few others in the courtroom could: Ralph Spiggot standing before him, the hole in his chest large and weeping.
As Mr Barrow stood up, Spiggot vanished. Wrattan, wild-eyed and sweating, leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
‘The problem, Miss Gibbs,’ said Mr Barrow, ‘is that all you have told us is hearsay. And the serious crimes that you have accused the witness of committing have no relevance to this case.’
I felt a chill run through me. I could not let Mr Barrow demolish Pretty Poppet’s testimony. With all my mind, I willed Spiggot to be visible to Wrattan again.
My dead husband appeared at the side of his friend and killer.
‘I’m sorry, Ralph, I’m sorry!’ whimpered Wrattan.
‘Order, order,’ called the judge. ‘Will you be silent, sir.’
Wrattan desperately fought through the crowd, pushing and stumbling towards the courtroom door.
‘Mr Wrattan,’ said the judge, ‘control yourself. This is the last warning I will give you.’
Mindless of the living, Captain Spiggot put himself between Wrattan and the door. Wrattan was frantic.
‘We should have finished her when we had the chance,’ he shouted. ‘I meant to kill the whore, Ralph, I didn’t mean to kill you!’
Spiggot leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. ‘Say that again, Victor,’ he said.
‘Will you stay with me, Ralph?’ cried Wrattan.
‘Say it again, and we will never be parted,’ said Spiggot.
Wrattan collapsed and the ghost disappeared.
‘Ralph!’ cried Wrattan. ‘Come back – I didn’t mean to kill you.’
The courtroom was brittle in its silence. From his own mouth, Victor Wrattan had condemned himself. Shaking and in tears, he was helped to his feet by two constables, arrested, charged and taken away.
The judge thanked Pretty Poppet for her testimony and, with her head held high, she walked from the court, never to be seen again.
The jury found me not guilty.
‘The prisoner will be discharged,’ said the judge.
It was all over.