was a knock on the door. At Marryot’s word, two soldiers entered with a small negro between them. He was cuffed at the wrists and swaying from side to side. When the soldiers came smartly to attention in front of the table, he collapsed on the floor in a huddle of limbs and filthy clothes.
‘Pull him up,’ Marryot ordered.
The soldiers hooked their arms under the prisoner’s shoulders and lifted him back to his feet.
‘Master, I didn’t do it, I swear on—’
‘Hold your tongue,’ Marryot roared. He turned to Noak. ‘You may write this down under today’s date, the fifth of August. And the place and time, of course. That this is the interrogation of a negro slave, a runaway, name of Virgil, property of the heirs of the late George Selden, esquire, of Queens County.’
The man whimpered. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore filthy canvas breeches, loose at the knee, and a torn shirt. The feet were bare and the toes widely splayed. I wanted to look away but found I could not.
Townley took a silver toothpick from his waistcoat pocket and began to clean his teeth.
‘You are a vagabond, are you not?’ Marryot demanded. ‘Don’t speak unless I tell you – just nod.’
Virgil’s head drooped.
‘You absconded from your master when he was in Brooklyn the summer before last. And you’ve been living in Canvas Town with the rest of the rogues and knaves ever since.’ Marryot glanced down the table. ‘Have you noted that, Mr Noak?’
‘Master, for pity’s sake, I never saw—’
‘Hold your peace – I didn’t tell you to speak to me. You will have your chance later. And for God’s sake, stop snivelling or I’ll have you whipped.’
Noak scribbled.
‘Strike those last words out, Mr Noak,’ Marryot snapped. ‘They are not part of the record.’
Townley leaned back in his chair. ‘What evidence is against the man?’
‘All in good time, sir.’ Marryot put his elbows on the table and leaned towards the prisoner. ‘Tell me where you were last Sunday. Tell me what you did, what you saw.’
‘I was in Canvas Town, your honour. And I walked about the city looking for work. And then I went back to Canvas Town and fell asleep with nothing in my belly.’
‘Your belly looks plump enough to me,’ Townley observed, fanning himself with his handkerchief.
Marryot ignored the interruption. ‘That may be where you were but it’s not what you did. You’re a thief, a damned pickpocket. There were two empty purses in your bundle. And those shoes you had on your feet – well, they tell their own story, don’t they?’
‘Eh?’ Townley said. ‘What shoes? Nobody mentioned any shoes.’
‘Mr Noak,’ Marryot said. ‘Have the goodness to open the press and bring us what you find on the third shelf down.’
The press was a tall cupboard in an alcove by the empty fireplace. Noak took out a pair of black round-toed shoes with plain steel buckles on the flaps. He set them down on the table. The prisoner moaned softly at the sight of them. Marryot stretched out a hand and removed a small leather bag from one of the shoes.
‘So,’ he said. ‘When they brought you in last night, these shoes were on your feet.’
I picked up one of the shoes. The uppers were scuffed and creased. The sole needed reheeling. But the leather was good.
‘We had information that these shoes belonged to Mr Pickett,’ Marryot said. ‘I had them sent over to Beekman Street this morning. The kitchen boy who cleans the shoes is sure that these were Pickett’s.’
‘Information?’ I said. ‘From whom, sir?’
‘It don’t signify, sir. All that signifies is that the information is good. You’ll grant me that, I hope?’
Virgil lifted his head and, for the first time, looked directly at me.
‘You need not enter Mr Savill’s questions into the record either, Noak,’ Marryot said.
He untied the drawstring that fastened the bag and upended it. A heavy gold ring dropped on the palm of his hand.
‘It’s a
‘Pull him up,’ Marryot ordered.
The soldiers hooked their arms under the prisoner’s shoulders and lifted him back to his feet.
‘Master, I didn’t do it, I swear on—’
‘Hold your tongue,’ Marryot roared. He turned to Noak. ‘You may write this down under today’s date, the fifth of August. And the place and time, of course. That this is the interrogation of a negro slave, a runaway, name of Virgil, property of the heirs of the late George Selden, esquire, of Queens County.’
The man whimpered. His cheeks glistened with tears. He wore filthy canvas breeches, loose at the knee, and a torn shirt. The feet were bare and the toes widely splayed. I wanted to look away but found I could not.
Townley took a silver toothpick from his waistcoat pocket and began to clean his teeth.
‘You are a vagabond, are you not?’ Marryot demanded. ‘Don’t speak unless I tell you – just nod.’
Virgil’s head drooped.
‘You absconded from your master when he was in Brooklyn the summer before last. And you’ve been living in Canvas Town with the rest of the rogues and knaves ever since.’ Marryot glanced down the table. ‘Have you noted that, Mr Noak?’
‘Master, for pity’s sake, I never saw—’
‘Hold your peace – I didn’t tell you to speak to me. You will have your chance later. And for God’s sake, stop snivelling or I’ll have you whipped.’
Noak scribbled.
‘Strike those last words out, Mr Noak,’ Marryot snapped. ‘They are not part of the record.’
Townley leaned back in his chair. ‘What evidence is against the man?’
‘All in good time, sir.’ Marryot put his elbows on the table and leaned towards the prisoner. ‘Tell me where you were last Sunday. Tell me what you did, what you saw.’
‘I was in Canvas Town, your honour. And I walked about the city looking for work. And then I went back to Canvas Town and fell asleep with nothing in my belly.’
‘Your belly looks plump enough to me,’ Townley observed, fanning himself with his handkerchief.
Marryot ignored the interruption. ‘That may be where you were but it’s not what you did. You’re a thief, a damned pickpocket. There were two empty purses in your bundle. And those shoes you had on your feet – well, they tell their own story, don’t they?’
‘Eh?’ Townley said. ‘What shoes? Nobody mentioned any shoes.’
‘Mr Noak,’ Marryot said. ‘Have the goodness to open the press and bring us what you find on the third shelf down.’
The press was a tall cupboard in an alcove by the empty fireplace. Noak took out a pair of black round-toed shoes with plain steel buckles on the flaps. He set them down on the table. The prisoner moaned softly at the sight of them. Marryot stretched out a hand and removed a small leather bag from one of the shoes.
‘So,’ he said. ‘When they brought you in last night, these shoes were on your feet.’
I picked up one of the shoes. The uppers were scuffed and creased. The sole needed reheeling. But the leather was good.
‘We had information that these shoes belonged to Mr Pickett,’ Marryot said. ‘I had them sent over to Beekman Street this morning. The kitchen boy who cleans the shoes is sure that these were Pickett’s.’
‘Information?’ I said. ‘From whom, sir?’
‘It don’t signify, sir. All that signifies is that the information is good. You’ll grant me that, I hope?’
Virgil lifted his head and, for the first time, looked directly at me.
‘You need not enter Mr Savill’s questions into the record either, Noak,’ Marryot said.
He untied the drawstring that fastened the bag and upended it. A heavy gold ring dropped on the palm of his hand.
‘It’s a
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