BLAME IT ON THE CHICKENS

A partially true story based on genealogy research

The Rowell and Rimes families had lived in Stanground  for as long as any of them could remember. The church records could prove it, going back to the middle of the 17th century. There were other families too who were well established and there were families that came and went, but, these two families had put down roots early on and there was no moving them. Ellen Rimes married Joseph Rowell about 1860 and they raised a family of thirteen children. Joseph was a quiet man, well liked by all and happy to greet each day with a grateful heart.  Ellen was his complete opposite. 

Not for the first time she was standing before the magistrate of the Peterborough* Petty Sessions challenged to defend herself. On this occasion she was accused of assault by her neighbour, Mrs. Norcott. Mrs. Rowell pleaded not guilty and was confident she could prove her case. Mrs. Norcott was equally certain she would win. The judge called the complainant to state her case. 

Make no mistake, Mrs. Norcott could give as good as she got, but she knew, from previous experience, and on the advice of her attorney, Mr. Percival, that her best chance of winning required she keep her wits about her.
So she calmly shared her side of the story.

“Me and Mrs. Rowell ain't never got along. Much as I tried in the early days there was just no hope. She’s not my cuppa tea you might say and that’s puttin’ it polite. I got chickens on my property and sometimes, even though I try to keep them penned up, they wander over to the Rowell’s yard. So last Sunday I looked out my kitchen window and I see the chickens are missing. I go outside and see them in Mrs. Rowell’s yard. Well, you can imagine my fright. Mrs. Rowell had threatened me in the past and warned me to never step foot in her garden. I looked around, peeked over the shrubs and there was no one to be seen. Then I though,t best that I just rush over and grab the birds before anyone notice. Sure enough, just as I grabbed for one of the chickens from Mrs. Rowell’s pigsty, who comes round the corner of the house but, Mrs. Rowell herself. And there we stood, face to face. Well, she was madder than a lunatic. Her face was red as a tomato and she grabbed me by my neck and gave me a push.”

Mr. Percival asked if anyone had witnessed the assault. Jane Ward, a servant in the employ of Mrs. Norcott stepped forward and claimed she could testify that she saw the entire exchange. 

Jane, informing the court in a rather overly dramatic presentation, stated, “Poor Mrs. Norcott was struck by the defendant and later I saw she had a dreadful bruise and a wicked scratch on her cheek.” 

Mr. Wilkins, the solicitor representing Ellen Rowell, then addressed the court. “The complainant persisted in venturing onto the defendants premises, though she had been warned time and again not to do so.” 

He then called on Mr. Smith Essom, witness for the defendant.

Mr. Essom stated, in a much more matter-of-fact fashion than Jane Ward had, “I am a lodger with the Rowell family and can state the complainant had been cautioned not to come upon the defendant’s property. On the day in question, Mrs. Norcott did come on the property and went directly to the pigsty. I saw Mrs. Rowell catch hold of Mrs. Norcott to push her out. Mrs. Norcott  then struck the defendant in the eye, leaving a mark.”

The Magistrate required little time to pronounce his decision. It was clear to him, the defendant had very severely chastised the complainant, and so convicted her to a fine of two pounds sixteen shillings and costs or fourteen days hard labour.  

The weary Joseph Rowell paid the fine, and ever the gentleman, offered to drive everyone home in his wagon. He took the reins, giving the horse a gentle flick to get moving. The old wooden wagon creaked as its wheels rumbled over the uneven road, kicking up a bit of dust as it left the courthouse behind. Peterborough’s streets were busy with carts and pedestrians, and the Rowell wagon jostled through, past the market stalls where the scent of fresh bread and livestock mingled in the air. Once they reached the stone bridge over the river, the pace slowed as the horse struggled up the incline with the full wagon. The view of the river was pleasant, but Mrs. Norcott was in no mood to admire it. She sat perched stiffly on a sack of grain, clutching her bonnet as the wind threatened to snatch it away.
As the wagon left Peterborough behind, the roadway turned to packed dirt and gravel, full of ruts and potholes that made the ride particularly jarring. The wagon lurched, and several times Mrs. Norcott lost her balance.

"Mind yourself, Mrs. Norcott," Ellen Rowell said with a smirk. "Wouldn’t want you claimin’ I pushed you off the wagon.”

Joseph sighed and focused on the road, pretending not to hear the muffled snickers from the others. They passed wide fields and grazing sheep, the occasional cottage with smoke curling from the chimney, and scattered trees lining the landscape. The journey was only a few miles, but at the wagon’s slow pace, it felt longer, especially with the tension still thick between Ellen and Mrs. Norcott.

About halfway to Stanground, one of the wheels hit a deep rut, and the wagon lurched violently. Mrs. Norcott let out a loud shriek, grabbing onto Jane Ward’s arm.

"That was a close one!" Jane gasped.

"A shame it weren’t closer," Ellen muttered under her breath.

By the time they rolled into Stanground, the sun was dipping lower, casting long shadows over the cottages and fields. Joseph pulled the wagon to a stop between the Rowell and Norcott homes, where the chickens in the yard clucked obliviously—including the very birds that started the fiasco. 

Joseph turned to his passengers and tipped his hat. "Well, ladies, I trust you all enjoyed the ride.”

Mrs. Norcott huffed, dusted herself off, and climbed down with as much dignity as she could muster. As she marched off, she muttered something about "ill-bred hooligans”.

Ellen, watching her go, gave Joseph a pat on the arm. "That was well worth two pounds sixteen, if you ask me.”

Joseph sighed and set about unhitching the horse. He knew this would not be the last time his wife would find herself in front of the magistrate—but he smiled to himself as he thought, at least the ride home was always entertaining.

* Peterborough, Cambridgeshire, UK