Mawl lifted a substantial iron key ring from a hook affixed to the stone wall beside the door and escorted the frightened apple filcher down another curving, narrow flight of steps. The gloomy corridor smelled of stale urine, and C.J. was compelled to steady herself by placing her right hand along the damp stone wall. As she realized that her right wrist was equally free, permitting her to maintain her balance as she descended the spiraling stairs, it occurred to her that she had not been placed in irons when she was apprehended, although Mawl’s demeanor—and his truncheon—left no guesswork as to what a thief’s reward might be should he or she try to bolt. Perhaps, C.J. surmised, her own diminutive stature gave him little reason to imagine that she might be foolish enough to attempt escape.
The jail appeared to be quite an informal arrangement. Four cramped and airless cells, perhaps only six or eight feet across in either direction, were arranged opposite one another like figures in a country dance. The atmosphere, however, was anything but convivial. C.J. was nearly overpowered by the odor of human waste; her hand flew to her mouth to stifle her gag reflex.
The narrow, matted straw pallets that took up roughly half the floor space of each cell appeared to serve as both bed and bathroom. There was no evidence of a washbasin or bowl. Indeed, the only water to be seen was a puddle of rusty seepage in one corner of the divided room.
Maintaining his unyielding grip on the upper portion of C.J.’s left arm, Constable Mawl selected another skeleton key from the large iron ring and inserted it into a flat padlock, unlocking one of the cells, then thrust his young prisoner into the tiny room. “Your quarters, your ladyship,” he grinned mockingly. “You won’t find any apples down here, but if it’s hungry you are, you’ll be fed soon enough.”
She bit her upper lip. “How long will I be here?” she asked the constable.
Mawl released a sardonic cackle, which gave C.J. no hint of optimism. “Why, you’re a lucky girl, you are, miss.”
“I? Lucky?”
“Assizes tomorrow. The circuit judge is on the bench this week, missy. If you was to be filching apples next Monday, you’d be our guest here until he came riding back to Bath.”
“And when might that have been?” C.J. questioned.
“Half a year. Maybe more. Maybe less. If you’re acquitted—which you won’t be, as they’ve got more witnesses than spectators at a cockfight to testify against you—you’ll be released on your own re-cogni-zance. If you’re convicted and sentenced, you might consider making yourself comfortable down here.”
“For stealing an apple? One apple?” C.J. asked, appalled.
“Thievery’s against the law. There’s those been hanged for not much more.”
C.J.’s hand flew reflexively to her throat.
“Jack Clapham will be bringing you your dinner tonight, missy,” he said, leaving her alone. “On behalf of His Majesty, I hope you enjoy it.”
C.J. slumped down, hugging her knees to her chest so that she might put as little of her person as possible in contact with the cold and slimy slate. It was impossible to tell the time of day as there were no sconces on the walls to hold torches or candles, and there was certainly no window. Once night fell, it would be dark indeed. This realization was father to another set of fears. As if her dread of whatever germs or diseases might lurk in the fetid dungeon wasn’t enough to occupy her thoughts, C.J. shuddered at the contemplation of the other living things that no doubt infested her new lodgings—none with fewer than four legs—and all of them more accustomed to calling her new surroundings home.
She longed for the creature comforts of her own world: a nourishing meal, her own bed—however lonely—and the safety and security of knowing what the next day would bring. She would no longer rage against the fickle vagaries of her chosen career, nor become impatient when her dial-up connection wasn’t fast enough or her computer took forever to reboot.
That evening a hunchbacked twig of a man entered the cellar with a rotting wicker hamper. He appeared to be well into his sixties, and his small paunch, combined with the hump, lent him the appearance of a wizened camel. His cheeks and chin were stippled with a coarse red and gray stubble. “Silas said you were a fine one,” he uttered through a harelip. He opened his basket and removed an earthenware jug. “Supper time!” he announced. Clapham poured the thin beige gruel into a rough-hewn trough and regarded C.J. with amusement. “Silas said you were a hungry little lightfingers.” He turned up his nose, as if to scoff at her. “Well, never let it be said that Jack Clapham didn’t look after his guests.”
The rancid odor of the unappetizing fare caused C.J. to gag, her gullet already prepared to reject it. If she threw up, she’d have to sit there in her own vomit; if she managed to digest it, she’d be expelling it sooner or later, with nothing but the straw mat for a toilet. But hunger had already felled her, and her stomach was crying out for sustenance, however meager, however mean.
C.J. passed a sleepless night, listening anxiously to the squealing and scuttling of rats as they scurried about the cellar in search of food. She prayed that none would come near her and feared falling asleep, afraid the rodents would find her a worthy appetizer.
She assumed it was morning only when the solid door to the cellar was thrust open and Clapham entered bearing a pair of leg irons. C.J. blanched and the skin on her arms pebbled from fear. Surely the ancient turnkey did not mean to bring her in chains before the magistrate. If her memory served, the American system of justice derived from English common law. Could such barbarism exist for the theft of a single
