Accused

Murder

Edwin Bridle limped along a road somewhere in Surrey, mentally bemoaning his fate.  After walking for most of the day, his feet in his ill-shod shoes were aching like the devil. An automobile had passed half an hour before. However, the inconsiderate person hadn't slowed down, even when the young man had waved his arms at the figure in the vehicle.

Edwin ran a hand through his tousled dark hair and felt in his pocket for a spare penny.  A sigh escaped his lips.  Money had never been easy to hand, but this time it was worse than usual.  He had spent the last few coppers of his small savings on a loaf of bread.  He was keeping that for later, at that moment, he felt rather ill.

It had been foolish of him to think that the money would have lasted him long enough to get another job.  He had been fired from his last one, for letting a man with a possible story evade him.  It was a serious calamity in the reporting business to allow a key witness to escape; they could end up in the hands of another newspaper.  Of course, that was what had happened.  But it was no matter, he had told himself, the boss was not a likable man. He was not without experience now; unemployment would only last for a short while.  He had continued to tell himself that he would finish his book soon. He wouldn't have to get a position in another newspaper.  But, inevitably, his money had run out. There he was, on an unknown road, without a clue of where in the blasted county he was.  He knew he must follow this road but there were so many turns that there was no way to be certain if he had stayed on the right path. Discouragement was beginning to infiltrate his positive mind.

It was imperative that he get to Guildford to find his uncle Samuel. He said he would be there for his nephew if he ever needed assistance.  Edwin didn't care much if his old uncle had always liked his brother Silas more, he still needed aid.  However, he had no idea where he was, and did not believe he was going to be coming by the town any time soon. If only there was a signpost or village nearby where he could get his bearings.  But no, not in jolly old England.  He wondered how a foreigner could get anywhere without guidance if he couldn't even find his way through the countryside of Surrey.  He himself was from Richmond and had rarely ever been to that particular part of the country.

To add to his misery, some beggar had stolen his coat, hat, and tie, of all things, at an inn in Hampshire.  He had left them lying on a table whilst he washed at a pump, the day being deathly hot.  They were gone when he returned.  Now, he felt like a tramp.

"I must look a sorry figure!" He said to himself, then chuckled.

The irony and humor of his situation came over him, and he began to laugh in a light-hearted way.  He was not a sullen or morose man by nature and did not like to brood uselessly upon troubles.  The countryside about him was the brilliant green of spring. Here and there the yellow flowers of the gorse bushes shone like tiny drops of the golden sun. The long, wavy grass, was a deep, emerald shade and lay soft upon the rolling hills, dotted with copses of trees. It was a beautiful day.

Well, he was a tramp; what of it? He was young, his life was ahead of him, and he had always wanted an adventure.  That was what a writer was for, wasn't it?  To find action and describe it with words that pulled people in. There was a new spring to his step as he sauntered along the road.  Maybe he would find a signpost soon.

As his heart filled, he began to sing in his clear tenor voice, an absurd tune.  "Mammy, mammy, the sun shines east, the sun shines west! I know where the sun shines west... er, best! Mammy, my little mammy, my heart strings are tangled around Alabammy!" He stopped, smothering a laugh. "Alabammy? Huh, Americans!"

As he topped a rise, his eyes lit up.  There it was; the thing he had been looking for! It wasn't a signpost he saw past the grove of trees to his left, but a town; a large, glorious town!