June 1889
In the little garden behind his father’s cottage, the spiraea shoots had rooted. Walter could see the little green buds, emerging here and there up the length of the canes that stood in a row before him like soldiers on parade. In some cases, the buds were a little larger than the rest, and were just beginning to unfurl. Walter turned to survey the bench with its dozens of pots of soil and the new life contained within them. Strawberry plantlets growing stronger day by day; pansy, geranium and snapdragon seedlings showing their first ‘true’ leaves, dahlia shoots just beginning to push their tips above the surface of the soil, and beside the bench, in the border, the tall sweet peas had already reached the first wire.
He smiled and felt as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders. These small beginnings would change his life. He would be his own man someday, with his own thriving business, no longer at the beck and call of His Lordship. He could ask Hetty Miller to be his wife. They could be married by Christmas.
It was as if his every dream was on the point of coming true.
September 1896
Walter Jenkins stood in the dock of the court. He gave the clerk his name, date of birth and his abode. His voice quavered a little and he cleared his throat to continue. He had never been in a court before. He’d never been accused of anything before.
The clerk of the court told him to remain standing as everyone else took their seats. He felt clumsy, naked, as all eyes turned on him. His cheeks burned with shame as the clerk read out the charge.
“The plaintiff, His Lordship the Lord Branchley, accuses you of building an independent and thriving concern as a market gardener upon the theft of plants from His Lordship’s grounds, where you worked as an under-gardener until five years ago when you began working on your own account. How do you plead?”
Walter licked his lips. He fidgeted with his jacket hem as he stammered his response. Then he had to repeat himself in order that everyone could hear him.
“Not—not guilty, Your Worship—um—your—um, sir.”
“Hmm.” The judge peered over his glasses at Walter and fixed him with a hard look. “So noted.” He made a mark on the paper in front of him with his fountain pen.
And so it began. Walter was permitted to take his seat and he sank down in relief, clutching at the wooden rail in front of him, his head swimming. He was a bag full of nerves.
At erudite length, the prosecution set forth their case: that the accused had stolen plants and seeds from the grounds of eminent philanthropist Lord Branchley, and had thus been able to set himself up as a market-gardener, with considerable success. Furthermore, it was stated that the accused had traded on knowledge he had gained during his employment by His Lordship and turned it to his advantage. There was more but these were the key points upon which their case hinged. His Lordship himself was in court and sat with his team of the finest attorneys at the front of the court. It was His Lordship’s desire to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.
For three hours, the prosecution set forth their case. Walter couldn’t take in what was happening. The legal jargon washed over him, leaching away his confidence, his pride, everything he knew. All he could think was, would he hang/ or be transported? Or…? Punishments too harsh to be considered with a calm mind. All he wanted was to be home again with his family.
When at last the judge declared a two-hour break for lunch, Walter was already wondering if it was too late to change his plea. Perhaps that might bring him some leniency from the court.
As soon as he reached the cool solitude of his cell, relief filled him. Out in the world beyond the court, the attorneys were enjoying a lavish four-course lunch, served on fine china. For Walter, lunch was a pot of small beer and some bread and cheese. But Walter didn’t feel much like eating. He took a little of the cheese, and perhaps half of the beer. He thought about his case.
If he changed his plea to guilty, he wouldn’t just go to prison, he would lose everything—his business, his little home and most importantly, his family. Hetty had married him, against her parents’ advice, on the understanding that he was able to support a family. Walter felt completely without hope. Lord Branchley’s case was too strong against him, his attorneys were too learned and powerful.
But what would happen if that was no longer the case? Even if he didn’t go to prison, he would have to pay damages. What if he lost everything and had to return to his old room at Mrs Clark’s? Hetty would not go with him, he was certain of that, and why should she bring the two babes to live in such a crowd? No, she would go home to her mother, and if that happened, he would never see her again. With His Lordship bound to win the action, Walter knew his life was finished even if he, by some marvel, escaped a prison sentence. Walter cleared his throat a couple of times and dashed away a tear.
At that moment, his defence attorney arrived. Although lacking the flair and aura of success of his opponents, he was all Walter had been able to afford. In fact, Walter suspected he couldn’t really afford this man either, but the attorney had agreed to represent him, and Walter would simply pay what he could when he could manage it. The man had said it was an interesting case. Right now, he was beaming as if there wasn’t a worry in the world. Walter repressed an urge to punch him on the nose.
“Well, Jenkins, I feel it’s going very well. Very well indeed, young sir. We’ll soon have you out of here, don’t you worry about that.” He paused, clearly expecting Walter to thank him. His remarks met with silence and the attorney continued with a slight frown. “Now, now, young fellow, chin up. No cause to be down in the dumps, you know.”
“They seem to have all the right with them,” Walter said. “I thought there would be a jury?”
“No indeed, it isn’t that kind of trial. It will be His Honour who will make the judgment based on the evidence.”
“Just that one judge? We may as well give up now. I have no chance of success.”
“It may seem so now, but we will not give in! No, no, we must cling to our beliefs and hope for the best. Now, once we resume after luncheon, I will have the opportunity to put your side of the story, and then we shall see, eh? What do you think to that?”
Walter said, “I think I shall go to prison. Or be transported to the Antipodes. I shall never see my wife or my children again.”
The attorney frowned at him again. He slapped him on the shoulder.
“Come, come, man, there’s no need for such talk. We have an excellent case. We’ll have you back with your family in no time. Right! Now, I’m just off for a spot of lunch and I will see you in court later on.”
The cell seemed emptier after the attorney left, but all the same Walter was glad he was gone.
*
After lunch the prosecution began by calling the first of their two witnesses, Lord Branchley’s head gardener. He gave a sworn statement that he had seen the defendant remove plant material from the compost heap for unknown purposes on no fewer than three occasions. That seemed to satisfy the prosecutor, who resumed his seat with a grave look and pursed lips.
Walter’s defence attorney stood. “Have you ever seen the defendant removing plants or any other items from anywhere other than the compost heap?”
The head-gardener, an aged gentleman with weak eyes, stood turning his hat round and round in his hand and avoiding Walter’s eye, and finally he admitted he had not.
“And can you elucidate for the officers of this court, the function of this compost heap?”
“Er, beg pardon?” the head-gardener leaned forward, looking puzzled.
“Yes, of course,” said the defence attorney with a broad smile round the court. Leaning on the rail of the witness box, he turned back to the witness with a matey grin. “Er, just tell us, old chap, what’s it for?”
“The compost heap? Well, it’s a kind of rubbish tip for all the unwanted bits and bobs from the grounds and it rots down to make a rich soil you can put back on the garden. Very good stuff it makes. Very good for roses, fruit and vegetables of course, and…” he was counting them off on grimy fingers.
“That is sufficient information, thank you, Mr Duffy,” said the judge.
“Sir, sorry sir,” said Duffy and he seemed surprised by the laughter that filled the court. The judge rapped his gavel and the amusement was silenced.
“And was it His Lordship who asked you to create this compost heap?”
“Well no, not as such. His Lordship leaves the day-to-day running of the grounds to me, and I always has at least one compost heap on the go. You see, it makes very good…”
“Er, yes, quite so,” said the defence attorney hastily. “So the creation of a compost heap is part of your normal gardening practice, which experience has taught you is beneficial to your work?”
“Er, yes, it has, it is, I mean. Er—yes.”
Again a ripple of laughter was heard but quickly died away under the judge’s frowning looks. The defence attorney gathered his papers. He directed a nod to the judge.
“No more questions, your honour.”
The prosecution attorney immediately leapt to his feet and asked to put a further question. The judge inclined his head, and the prosecutor stepped forward.
“I believe it’s true to say the accused has learned all his skills from the employment His Lordship has so generously granted?”
The head-gardener struggled to fathom the sentence, his old forehead even more crinkled than usual with the effort. The prosecution attorney attempted to clarify his meaning in simpler terms.
“The job of under-gardener gives many opportunities to learn new skills and to gain experience, I imagine?”
The head-gardener wavered. “Well it does and it doesn’t.”
The prosecution attorney tried to hide his annoyance. His chance to prove the case based on this testimony would dwindle if he couldn’t get the old fool to say the right things.
“I see. But I imagine that when Mr Jenkins left His Lordship’s employ, he knew a lot more than he did when he first started?”
“It’s possible,” conceded the old man. “Young Wally had such an enquiring nature. He was always bringing in books and such and telling me all his high-falutin’ ideas about this and that. Never one to be content with doing things the way them’d always been done. Always wanting to try summat new. He fair drove me wild at times.”
Seeing that continuing with the witness was likely to actually harm his case, the prosecutor decided to take his seat with a crisp bow. “No further questions, your honour.”
The prosecution then called the second witness, Matthew Styles, under-gardener.
Matthew Styles took the stand, saying his oath loudly and looking around smiling. He appeared to be relishing the experience, and even waved to a young lady seated near the front. After posing a few general questions as to the age and occupation of the witness, the prosecution attorney then asked, “Have you ever seen anyone removing items from the compost heap or anywhere else?”
“Including me?” Styles asked, eagerly.
The prosecutor, a little surprised, nodded. “Er, yes, Mr Styles, including yourself.”
“We all ‘ave.”
“All?”
“Oh yes, indeed. And even His Lordship’s butler, he’s very fond of sweet peas, you know, so even he, when they’re there, he comes down and cops ‘em off Mr Duffy. Then there’s cook, she likes a bit of lavender or rosemary…”
“Thank you, Mr Styles, no further questions.” The prosecutor withdrew, frowning. The defence attorney leapt to his feet.
“Excuse me, Mr Styles. Am I correct in thinking that other servants than those who work in the gardens also avail themselves…?”
“Oh yes. The butler, Mr Stephens the butler, he likes his sweet peas, so at the end of the season, when they is dug out from the side border and chucked on the heap, he comes down for the pods to get the seeds. Then he can grow sweet peas in his own garden. Won a prize, he did, last year at the village show. I think the first prize was a guinea, and if I remember aright, the second prize was a leg of mutton. Very good he is with sweet peas, Mr Stephens. And then there’s Mavis. She works in the kitchen. She takes the flowers from the summer pruning for her mother’s grave. They’re not actually dead. The flowers I mean,” Styles explained to the tittering audience, provoking a further outburst as he added, “Her mother’s dead right enough, God rest her, but the flowers is just a bit past their best, though still quite nice looking, rather like Mavis herself.”
The judge banged his gavel six times and stunned everyone to silence. “I think we’ve heard enough to consider the question answered.”
The defence attorney inclined himself in a courtly bow. “As you wish, your honour.” He turned back to the witness. “And so, it seems acceptable and indeed commonplace for employees to remove items from the compost heap, as it is clear that anything placed thereupon is unwanted, that is the case, is it not?”
“It is.” Styles agreed. The defence attorney resumed his seat. The prosecution attorney stood and said,
“It appears as though there is wholesale theft going on within His Lordship’s premises. It almost sounds as though every servant is cheating His Lordship. Disgraceful.” He bowed to the bench. “No further questions for this witness, your honour.”
Styles was dismissed. The prosecution rested, his expression one of dissatisfaction. The defence attorney called the accused to the stand. Walter Jenkins took his oath on the Bible, his voice low.
“Mr Jenkins, how long had you been employed by His Lordship as an undergardener before you left to pursue your own business?”
“A little over six months, sir. I think it was about eight months altogether.”
“Really?” the defence attorney infused his voice with surprise. “From the testimony we have heard today, I had thought it had been a much longer period than that.”
“Oh no sir. I worked for my father from the age of fourteen until he passed away when I was twenty-five.”
“And then you went to work for Lord Branchley?”
“Yes sir.”
“What line of work was your father in?”
“He was a market-gardener, sir.”
“Indeed. How interesting. But one imagines that you had far greater opportunity to learn your trade in your employment at Lord Branchley’s?”
“I learned a great deal about digging, sir. And about cutting grass. Those were my main duties as an under-gardener.”
“I see. And I have no doubt these skills were useful to you when you set up your own market garden?”
The judge silenced the few sniggers around the courtroom with a single look.
Walter Jenkins hesitated then said, “Well sir, I don’t cut grass in my market garden, seeing as I don’t have a lot of room for grass. But it’s true I do occasionally dig.”
“Thank you, Mr Jenkins. And after your father passed away, what was the reason you did not continue in your father’s market garden but instead came to take a position with Lord Branchley?”
Walter bowed his head. Those in the court could see him biting his lip.
The judge spoke. “Mr Jenkins, I must urge you to answer the question.”
Walter’s head came up. “Yes sir, Your—um. It was just—I hadn’t wanted to say, but it was because of the business being sold to pay off my brother’s debts. There was no money left and so I was forced to find myself a position with the old business gone.”
“Thank you, Mr Jenkins, I do appreciate that this is not easy for you. And is your brother still in debt?” 
“No sir.” Walter said. He looked down at the floor. Only the few people at the front of the court heard him as he said, barely above a whisper, “My brother was hanged last year on account of killing a man in a brawl.”
The judge tsked and shook his head. He scratched another note on his paper. Walter felt a wave of despair wash over him but on glancing up, met what appeared to be sympathy in the judge’s eyes.
The defence attorney continued. “I am very sorry to hear of your troubles. We will turn away from all that. Perhaps I could ask you to explain just how you came to provide yourself with the means to set up your business?”
This was easier ground for Walter after the previous question. He relaxed a little and his voice was clear.
“Well sir, I took a few things from the compost heap, as you know. There was a few canes from His Lordship’s spiraea in the shrubbery. It’s a good big patch of it at the back, and you has to prune it back hard every year. I was in charge of the shrubbery as Mr Duffy didn’t care for shrubs. Now, my father used to grow spiraea and the trick is to cut it right down after flowering, it makes it come back all the stronger in the next year, and it makes a nice rosy-coloured background to the other plants. The cuttings, like long canes they are, they root really easy. So I took a dozen of them and I rooted them. When His Lordship was in the grounds, sir, taking a look around with Mr Duffy, I approached him and said to him, would he like to have more of the spiraea in the shrubbery as it was dead easy to root and it would make a nice display of pinky-red flowers when it came out, and I knew as Her Ladyship was much taken with the colour.”
“And what did Lord Branchley say?”
“He said, begging your pardon for the cursing, sir, he said, ‘Who is this damned oik, Duffy?’ And Mr Duffy, he looked daggers at me and said to His Lordship as I was one of the under-gardeners. ‘Not any more’, said His Lordship, ‘give him a week’s notice and get rid of the upstart. I’ll not be addressed so rudely in my own gardens’. ”
“He sacked you?”
“He sacked me, sir, yes, there and then.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then His Lordship, he turned to Mr Duffy, and asked him what I was on about. So Mr Duffy showed him the spiraea and said as I was suggesting having more of them.”
“And did His Lordship comment at all on this?”
“He said, ‘I hate the bloody things,’ begging your pardon Your Worship, but that is the very words what His Lordship used. Then he says, ‘Rip them all out. Can’t stand them. Get rid of them all.’ That’s what he said, sir.”
“So now, you found yourself out of work and you had the spiraea canes. What happened next?”
“Well sir, I had me week’s notice to work. And there was a lot of nice bits on the compost heap. Strawberry creepers, seeds, cuttings, dahlia tubers from where we’d been dividing the clumps due to them growing out onto the south lawn. I came away with no reference but with a tidy pile of little plants and cuttings and seeds which I put into a sack what I brought from home. And just then, I was walking out with Hetty Miller, as was a maid from the Dower House. But I couldn’t marry as I didn’t have no job. But Hetty says to me, you can sell them when they’re rooted up. She said I could earn enough to rent a nice little cottage, that way I could start my own market garden up gradual-like. So that’s what I done. And then me and Hetty got married, and now there’s the two babes.” At this point Walter turned to the judge, “Sir, begging your pardon, but if I gets transported or goes to prison I will never see Hetty nor my children again as her mother took against me on account of me being sacked. My Hetty means everything to me, sir. If I’d have known how His Lordship felt, I’d have willingly paid for the stuff I took, but I thought it would be all right because all of us was doing it and in any case His Lordship said to get rid of them.”
There was a half-hearted protest from the prosecution, but the judge waved it away with a weary hand.
“Mr Jenkins, what would you say the original items you took were worth? If one had to purchase them from a market garden such as yours, for example.”
“You don’t buy things like that, sir, Your Worshipfulness, they are just…”
“Just rubbish to be thrown away on a compost heap? I see. Very well, thank you, you may stand down.”
The judge made some more notes. He announced a recess of one hour and the court was cleared.
*
An hour later, in his cell, Walter was trembling from head to foot. He could hear the warder approaching, the keys jangling on his belt. The door opened, and the warder gestured to Walter. “C’mon then, lad, let’s be having you.”
Walter stumbled along the chilly corridor and soon was back in the dock, clutching the rail for support.
Everyone rose to their feet as the judge entered. He strode to his bench, his lips pressed tightly together, his expression grim. Walter felt ill; he began to pray silently and fervently in a way he had not prayed since Sunday school. Up in the balcony, Hetty’s face was a white anxious oval, her gloved hand pressed to her mouth, her little hat hiding her lovely curls. The judge took his seat, then everyone else sat. The judge arranged his papers into a neat stack before him and he took up his gavel. He addressed the court, his firm voice resonating around the room.
“I have made my decision. The defendant will rise.”
Walter rose, trembling, to hear the words that would decide his future. He hoped he wouldn’t be sick or faint away when the sentence was pronounced.
“Having weighed the evidence in this case and after consideration of all the facts, I find in favour of the plaintiff.” The Judge banged his gavel and a murmur arose all around him.
“Jolly good show!” Lord Branchley immediately leapt to his feet, his face wreathed in smiles as he received the congratulations of his attorneys and they shook hands.
In the dock, Walter was barely able to take in what had been said. He heard a wail from behind him and turned to see Hetty on her feet, eyes wide with shock. The judge was compelled to pound his gavel on the bench a number of times before order was restored. Silence fell once more. The judge continued:
“I order that the defendant shall pay damages in the amount of one penny for the—er—spiraea canes—and the same amount for the strawberry plantlets. Also, I award a farthing for the costs of the plaintiff.”
For a moment Walter couldn’t understand what was happening. The prosecution attorney, his assistants and his client Lord Branchley all halted in their premature celebrations, mouths gaping open. Then, outraged, they began to demand that His Honour should review the evidence. The defence attorney charged across the courtroom and pumped Walter’s arm up and down.
“A triumph, my boy, a triumph!”
The judge, ignoring the commotion, addressed Walter directly. “Let the record show that the court commends you, Mr Jenkins, for your ingenuity, hard work and your skilful grasp of your chosen trade. The court commiserates with you over the difficulties that have beset you in the past and hopes that your market garden will continue to thrive. And if you will kindly leave your particulars with my clerk, I believe my good lady will be interested to know what you have in the line of dahlias, as she is contemplating some improvements to our own grounds at home. Court is adjourned.”
The judge stood and left the court, his gown billowing.
Lord Branchley, red-faced with fury, was pushing aside his attorneys to leave the court, uttering oaths as he went.
As the warder stepped forward to release Walter and remove his handcuffs, Walter turned to look across the courtroom. Hetty was making her way towards him, dashing away tears and smiling.
“We won!” he said. He still couldn’t believe it. She laughed as he swept her into his arms.
“Silly! Of course we did!”
“You will come home again now, won’t you? You and the kids?”
“Yes, Walter Jenkins, we will come home. I’ll never doubt you again, I swear.”
The End
***
All rights reserved. Copyright 2018 © Caron Allan
I saw this quote by Dean Koontz recently and it made me reflect on all the other stories that haven’t made it as far as publication. I’m talking about my stories here, not other peoples’.
I think we all know that a work of fiction could not exist without its characters. They act out the plot, control the information given to the reader, and they are the people we would like to be if we ourselves were the centre of the work. They are our representatives in the story world in many respects. I think that is especially true in the kind of books I write – fairly traditional, solve-along-at-home mysteries.
This post kind of continues from a previous post about how the killer in a traditional murder mystery such as the ones I write–or try to–is always ‘one of us’. It’s important that the killer IS one of us. 
I have to say, I do get a thrill when the murderer turns out to be someone I had completely ruled out or overlooked. I like to be surprised but I also, more than anything, like to be convinced. So if the evidence is flimsy or entirely circumstantial, I don’t buy into it at all. I need to know the why of it far more than how or all the other questions. After all, in a traditional type of murder mystery the guilty party must have a compelling and urgent necessity to take such a drastic act. Otherwise, they could simply move to another town and live under a new name. Or something normal like that.. and bear in mind that many of the most popular murder mysteries are set in the past when there was capital punishment in Britain, and that in many other places there still is today. Why would someone risk losing their own life if not for some absolutely necessary reason?
In mysteries, many killers merely carry out the act to cover their butts: the victim knows something, or has the power to do something that threatens the killer’s safety in some way, whether it is their actual liberty at risk, their financial position, their social status, or the safety or fidelity of a loved one. It must be an utterly compelling reason for them. Occasionally they act out of revenge or pure hatred.
Sorry about that graphic image, by the way, that fictional situation got really bad, really fast, didn’t it? I’ve been reading Agatha Christie this week, in case you’re wondering. And while I’ve got you here, I’ve no idea why it’s always a major. I can only assume that a warrant officer or a corporal just doesn’t have the same ring?
Here’s a short story I wrote a LONG time ago… 
We at 
My cozy mysteries set in the 1930s, along my two books from the 1960s mystery series, tend to outsell my original series, the 
And they are always, always, always completely unaware when they have outstayed their welcome.
(This post first appeared in 2017 when I was invited to do a guest spot on Pink Glitter Publishing for my dear friend and author Emma Baird.) And sorry, it’s another really long post this week…
Next, check for all those words you overuse. For me, that’s words like So, And and Also. A friend of mine uses Thus in almost every paragraph… it’s really annoying. If you use unusual words to describe something, don’t repeat them more than once (if that) as unusual words stick in the reader’s mind and break the wonderful spell you’ve created of suspending disbelief: the worst possible offence you can commit as a writer of fiction. Don’t rip your reader from the story and plunge them back into the real world. Make less use of unusual words such as coterie or Schadenfreude, these are words that stand out from the page, and stick in your reader’s mind. If you use clichés—please don’t—but if you absolutely must, do it just once, don’t repeat them. You also don’t need to show off all the big words you know. Nine times out of ten, the simple, direct phrase will work better than anything flowery, waffly or too complicated. Keep it simple.
Read it again. And again. Tweak as you go, now, but remember some changes will have a knock-on effect and need to be addressed multiple times throughout the book. Now pass the draft to your close friends/beta-readers/book group, for your first round of major feedback. You can’t, sadly, trust yourself entirely to write, polish, edit, proofread, proofread, edit and polish then proofread. you’ll need help. If affordable, get professional help, go with a recommended person or business, not someone you pluck from nowhere unless they have incredible feedback. Otherwise keep to a small trusted group of serious writers and readers who have excellent language skills and a kind, tactful way of letting you know when something’s not quite right. If you use more than one beta-reader, you might find they contradict one another – then all you can do is go with the majority and trust your gut.
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