It was the year 1855. The snow was heavy that night, wrapping the small English countryside in white nature's silk.
Mr Patrick O’Shea an Irishman in an English land. The only outsider on the carriage sat on the coachman’s seat, his hands stiff around the reins. His breath was cold, his teeth gritting from the biting cold. Every muscle in his body tightened and ached from fighting the storm. The horses weren't left out in the cold, neighing at intervals, snorting clouds of breath into the freezing air. The wheels of the carriage groaned against the white cold road.
Inside the coach, sat fine people. A nobleman with polished boots carrying a leather case, a wealthy merchant, a sharp-eyed maid with her mistress, and two other travelers who barely spoke throughout the journey
Soon, they were in a cloud of white dark shadows. The only thing that could be heard was the horses' hoofing against the snowy soil. Suddenly, a shout came, footsteps were heard, a shape of a pistol could be seen raised in the distance ahead, then a sudden crack of gunfire. The horses reared, almost insane, jolting the carriage and sending shivers down their spine. It took a lot of expertise from Patrick to calm the beasts as he struggled to understand the chaos going on inside the carriage.
Not quite long, the masked men were leaving, but on the floor in a pool of his own blood, staining the fine wool of his coat, was the merchant.
Mr Patrick managed to pull the carriage to the next town just before the sun kissed the town square yelling. "Help! Help!"
He pulled the carriage to a creaking halt loudly, waking the residents who appeared from their homes swinging lanterns. And in minutes, the story spread like fire. There had been a murder, robbery on a carriage.
Patrick was still shaking, trying to explain to the residents what had happened when the wealthy merchant, Lord Ashcombe, pointed accusing fingers at him.
“It was him,” Lord Ashcombe declared, his fine leather-gloved hand slicing the air. “I saw him make a signal to the rogues. He called them!"
The crowd gasped. Like people enchanted by a powerful witch, their eyes all pierced poor Patrick's, the only Irishman in the crowd.
Patrick raised his hands in fear. “Me? No, sir. I did not. I was in fact holding the reins. God my witness, I was on the reins!”
But his protests fell on deaf ears. They bundled him, as mothers quickly held their children close and the men began murmuring of hanging him without waiting for him to be tried by the magistrate. To them, his accent was guilt enough.
But luck was with Patrick as the magistrate arrived immediately and spoke, his voice was firm and strong like iron:
“Silence!" Immediately, the crowd was mute. "With the evidence already clear. We’ll still follow due protocols and have a hearing at once.”
Patrick felt the world spinning at his feet. In his thirty years as a coachman, carrying loads, driving coaches, swallowing insults, just to earn bread he had never been accused of such an atrocious act. He couldn't believe that with just one man’s word, he was a villain. He stared at his hands as the angry mob tied a rope loosely around his wrists. Like a thief. A murderer.
"Tell me, Sir...?" The magistrate spoke looking at Lord Ashcombe
"Lord Ashcombe," Lord Ashcombe replied, standing tall, his voice smooth as polished silver.“
"Tell me, Lord Ashcombe, what you saw".
"I saw it with my own eyes. Just before the bandits attacked. The coachman lifted his hands and the bandits rushed us. There is no question of it. He's an accomplice."
Patrick’s eyes widened in fear. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I do not know the bandits. I was even fighting to save the horses. They were going insane. You speak no truth.” His voice cracked. He searched the faces of his passengers for help, but only saw suspicion in their eyes, except for the maid Clara, who was staring at her hands, her eyes filled with pity, as if it hid the truth.
"You know. I lie not. Speak. Speak, I beg of you." Patrick pleaded with her.
“Speak, girl,” the magistrate cuts in, his words stern sending shivers down her spine. “Did you see anything?”
All eyes turned to her. Clara swallowed hard. She looked at her mistress, pulled her down, and whispered, “Stay silent, Clara. None of this concerns us.”
But the maids couldn't resist. She saw the fear in Patrick's eyes and something in her felt pity.
“He is innocent." She finally spoke. "I saw… I saw him pass a handkerchief to one of the masked men,” she pointed to Lord Ashcombe.
"Lies! Preposterous! Lies on a model citizen like me. Prove it girl. Prove it!" Lord Ashcombe protested.
"Silence!" The magistrate yelled. To Clara, he spoke, "And can you prove this, how?"
"I saw him pass a handkerchief with his crest embroidered on it and the dead gentleman's leather case. He gave it quickly, when the others were not looking. I swear it.”
Ashcombe’s face was drained of color. “Lies! Don't believe the word of a servant against a lord’s? Preposterous!”
Immediately a shout was heard in the woods. One of the robbers had been caught, wounded, and was brought forward to the town square. He was quickly searched, and just as Clara had said, a piece of cloth was found in his pocket. A fine handkerchief bearing Lord Ashcombe’s initials.
Gasps filled the air.
"Cut him loose," the magistrate ordered, pointing at Patrick. "And take him to the dungeons. He shall be there until further inquiry is conducted." The magistrate continued pointing at Lord Ashcombe.
But the crowd wasn't surprised at that. Wealthy men like him were left to slither free with nothing worse than whispers in the dark. All he needed to do was pay a huge fine
Patrick’s bonds were cut. He let his tears flow freely. He turned to Clara with gratitude in his eyes. He wanted to speak of how grateful he was to her but his throat was too tight. He only nodded with the faintest smile.
The crowd deserted, and Mr Patrick continued on his journey with the rest of his passengers to their destination, and the corpse of the nobleman, which would be delivered to the morgue on arrival at their destination. And questions will be asked of his people.
Clara, on the other hand, knew she would be relieved of her duties by her mistress. But she somehow didn't care. She made peace with the fact that she helped save an innocent man's life.
On Mr Patrick's next trip through the town. He heard rumours that Lord Ashcombe was released after he confessed to plotting the robbery, which went sour, and a life was lost. According to him, the nobleman was a rival business partner whose goods threatened the fall of his empire.
He had heard that the nobleman travels with the blueprints of his business and had paid the robbers to steal them on the way. But in the process, the robbers had fired and killed the nobleman, which wasn't part of the plan.
