The crowds of tourists had thinned out now. Elizabeth looked at her watch. It was nearly four. Although she had only spent an hour wandering the main street and hadn’t even begun to explore the museum or the mining displays, she felt that she had seen enough for one day. Something was troubling her; a sense of almost losing touch with the real world of 1980.
Perhaps this happens to everyone when they first see Barkerville, she thought. I’ll head home and come back tomorrow. Maybe by then I’ll be more prepared for this sense of the past and won’t have this funny feeling.
She decided not to follow the sign that said, To Richfield; it promised a long uphill walk to the old courthouse. Instead, she turned around and started back the way she had come. The Barnard Express wagon, drawn by four sturdy horses, was loading up with a group of tourists. She reminded herself to bring money next time so that she could take the ride. She paused to watch a group of giggling children settle themselves in the carriage and two nervous women perch cautiously on the open benches on top.
A smell of freshly baked bread drifted out from the bakery near the Express Office, and a sign in the window proclaimed, Sourdough Bread, Fresh Daily. Once again regretting her penniless state, she walked past the bakery and headed for the main gate.
Just inside the gate there was a sign announcing that Judge Begbie would be holding court in the Methodist Church at two, three and four o’clock. Checking her watch, she saw that it was just after four. I wonder if the Judge would mind if I’m a bit latel she thought. I’d like to see his performance and it’s free! I can sneak in quietly, sit in the back, and no one will notice.
She hurried to the small church which sat in the shadow of the much larger Saint Saviour’s and quietly climbed the wooden stairs. Through a window she caught a glimpse of a black-robed figure towering over the heads of the tourists seated in the pews. She could faintly hear a deep voice, muffled but still loud.
Cautiously she opened the door, eased herself inside and gently shut the door behind her. There was an empty aisle seat two rows in front of her. She was carefully making her way towards it when the actor playing Judge Begbie abruptly stopped speaking and pointed directly at her.
“Young lady,” he boomed, “this court has been in session for ten minutes! What is your excuse for interrupting the sworn duties of the Court of Her Majesty the Queen by this unseemly late arrival?”
Everyone in the church turned to stare at her, waiting to see what she would do. Someone giggled.
Elizabeth was suddenly angry. Sure, she was a bit late, but this was just an actor playing a part, not a real judge. He might be wearing a judge’s black robes and long horsehair wig, but he was just an ordinary person and had no right to embarrass her in front of all these people. Her first impulse was to turn around and walk out, but that would be more embarrassing than staying.
No! She gathered her courage, looked the judge straight in the eye and replied, “I’m sorry, Your Honour. The stage from Richfield was unavoidably delayed. I assure you it will not happen again.”
The Judge lowered his hand. “Very well, then. I accept your apology. You may take a seat. This court will now resume.”
Elizabeth slid into the empty seat and pushed her hair behind her ears. She felt flushed and hot, and the palms of her hands were sweating. She knew she was blushing.
A woman seated beside her smiled appreciatively. “That was good,” she whispered. “Are you part of the act?” Elizabeth smiled back and suddenly she didn’t feel angry anymore. She had handled herself well, and there was no need to be embarrassed or upset. She gave her attention to the performance, and sat enthralled as The Hanging Judge of the Cariboo told of his life, his reputation and the men he’d helped or hanged over a century ago.
She knew a little bit about the real Judge Begbie. He had been a big man, over six feet five inches tall, with an upswept moustache and a full black beard laced with grey. He had been a stern man, too, with strong opinions and a forceful manner of speaking that would send fear into the hearts of lawbreakers and juries alike. Judge Begbie had almost single-handedly brought law and order to British Columbia.
The actor portraying the Judge resembled him in appearance, even to the dark streak in the centre of his beard. He too was tall; a thin-faced man about fifty years old. He wore no make-up, relying instead on his thick, greying hair and beard, and his neatly trimmed and waxed moustache to help him look the part.
For twenty minutes Elizabeth sat and listened, com pletely caught up in stories of the life and times of the Judge. The tourists laughed discreetly (this was supposed to be a courtroom after all!) and followed intently as the actor went through his monologue. By the time he finished and was answering questions from the audience, Elizabeth had the feeling that this was Judge Begbie, not just some actor playing a part. He had captured the audience, kept them interested and involved in his story, and even in the question period never once lapsed out of the forbidding personality that had been the real Begbie’s.
Questions over, the Judge dismissed the court. Applause filled the small church. The Judge allowed it to die down, then leaned across his podium and, pointing a long, slender finger at the audience, announced in a threatening voice, “On this occasion only will we permit that outrageous outburst, that applause, in our courtroom. Court dismissed!”
Elizabeth remained seated as the tourists filed past her. Some of them went up to the podium to shake the Judge’s hand and offer congratulations.
That was really something! Elizabeth thought. Why can’t all history be that exciting and interesting?
Then she realized that she and the Judge were alone in the tiny church. He gathered up his law books and started down the aisle towards her. Elizabeth stood, hoping to get out the door before he recognized her as the one who had been so late. But she wasn’t fast enough. The Judge stood in the aisle beside her and smiled.
“Hello. You certainly gave me a run for my money when I accused you of being late.”
“I’m sorry.” Elizabeth felt her face reddening. “I knew I was late, but I did want to see the performance and —”
“Oh, no! Someone is always late.” The Judge laughed. “I just wish that everyone would answer me as you did, as if I really were Judge Begbie. It helps me to stay in character when the audience co-operates. Thank you.”
Somewhat taken aback, Elizabeth smiled shyly. “You’re welcome. But I’m still sorry I was late.”
“That’s okay.” The Judge took off his wig and ran his hands through his hair. “This horsehair is unbearably hot in this weather — not to mention these heavy black robes.” He smiled at her. “Hey! Haven’t I seen you around the Jack O’ Clubs Hotel? I had dinner there last week and it seems to me that I saw you.”
“Yes. My mother is the new cook.”
“Well, you can tell her from me that she certainly is an improvement on the old one. I really enjoyed my meal — which wasn’t always the case when you ate at the Jack.”
“Thanks,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll tell her. She’s new at cooking, at cooking in a restaurant I mean. She’ll be glad to hear the compliment.”
The Judge held out his hand. “I’m Evan Ryerson, but most of my friends call me Judge. I guess after five years of doing this part I’ve begun to think of myself as the Judge as well.”
“I’m Elizabeth Connell.” She shook hands nervously. Hand shaking was something she didn’t do too much of, and she was never sure if you were supposed to give a good hard squeeze or just let your hand sit there.
“Elizabeth?” The Judge looked at her curiously. “Not Liz or Libby or Lizzy or something shorter?”
“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ve