“Well?” the man asked her. “Guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” she snapped, trying to hide her fear by speaking louder, folding her arms, her feet pointing inwards. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We shall see. Call the first witness.”
An elderly woman stood up from the crowd, shuffling up the aisle to stand on the stage as the ancient figure addressed her. “You are Valerie Robinson of The Crescent Cottage, are you not?”
“I am, Mr Watson.”
“Tell the village what you saw?”
“I was having a breath of air by my back door just yesterday when I saw a little girl snatch my favourite blouse from the washing line.”
“And what did she do with your blouse?”
“She used it to wipe some mud off her shoe.”
“And what did she do with it after that?”
“She threw it back into my garden.”
“And do you see the little girl responsible for that heinous act in this hall today?”
“I do.”
“Where is she?”
“There, Mr Watson, right there.” She pointed at Abbey who shrank back before her furious glare.
“Thank you Mrs Robinson. You may sit. Next witness.”
A middle aged man in a checked shirt stood up, passing Mrs Robinson in the aisle as she returned to her seat. He climbed the steps to the stage, standing facing the crowd.
“Your name, Sir?”
“Anthony Carmichael.”
“And what did you observe yesterday afternoon?”
“I saw that woman there walking into my orchard without my permission.”
“And did anything occur whilst she was in the orchard?”
“She stole one of my pippins.”
“Did she indeed? You may be seated. Final witness, if you please.”
Another man stood, this one in shirt and tie. He strode onto the stage, shaking his fist at Abbey. “You deserve everything you’re going to get,” he snapped at her.
“I didn’t do anything,” Abbey said, a tremor appearing in her voice. “Let me go home, please.”
“Silence!” Mr Watson said. “Now, what is your name?”
“Richard Smith, Mr Watson.”
“Thank you for coming in, Mr Smith, I know yesterday was particularly traumatic for you.”
“It’s okay, Mr Watson. With your support, I’ll get through this.”
“If it’s not too hard, please tell us in your own words, what you observed yesterday afternoon.”
“That wicked child stole my daughter’s bicycle from my garden.”
“Did she indeed? Well, thank you Mr Smith, I know how hard that must have been for you. Please sit down.”
“This is ridiculous,” Abbey said. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. You’re all insane.”
“You have heard the evidence,” Mr Watson said, talking over her. “How do you find the defendant?”
“Guilty!” the room shouted in a single voice.
“Hold on,” Abbey said, holding up her hands. “Don’t I get to defend myself?”
“You have been found guilty as charged,” Mr Watson said, sitting rigidly upright for the first time. “For such crimes, you would normally be expelled from the village. But our own Papa returned just this morning and he has offered to handle your punishment. I sentence you to a week in his nursery.”
Chapter Five
When Mr Watson said, “Take her away,” Abbey almost collapsed, her legs losing their strength. A nursery? A week in a nursery? What on earth were they talking about? It had to be a dream, it couldn’t possibly be real. Nothing this bad ever happened in reality. She was stuck in the arms of the two men dragging her out of the village hall, a crowd of people lining the pavements to watch her go.
She was still in a daze when she was reached the lane at the edge of the village, a house looming large before her. It stood alone surrounded by a muddy field, no road leading up to it. Instead there was only a gap in the wall that lined the road and beyond that a worn track that headed up to the front door. The house itself looked ramshackle, loose tiles had slipped on the roof, ivy climbed over the walls, though the windows were untouched. The mud under her feet squelched as the men forced her up the track, not letting go of her until they were on the doorstep. “What do you expect me to do?” she asked, looking defiantly up at them.
“Knock,” one said. “Papa will be waiting for you.”
“Papa? My father is in there? What’s he doing in there?” She rapped on the door, shouting, “Father! Daddy, I’m here. Help me!”
The door swung open a moment later and she staggered back at the sight of the figure that appeared before her, falling into the arms of her guards. “You…you’re not my father.” She recognised his face. “Not you,” she muttered, remembering how he’d looked when she’d kneed him between the legs in the club. “Please, not you.”