rid of the eerie feeling, and, with a shrug, turned her back on the church and started up the main street of Barkerville.
In the next hour Elizabeth discovered Barkerville. She learned a lot about what the town looked like in the old days, and how people lived when it was a booming gold-rush town, but she also learned that there was too much to see, too much to absorb, in one visit.
The houses, furnished and set up as if the occupants were to return any minute, the miners’ cabins, the assay office, the drug store, the general store, the hotels and the small Chinatown — too many impressions hit her all at once. After a while she found that she was skipping places. I’ll take a better look next time, she promised herself. I’ll be back again. Some things will just have to wait until my next visit.
She stood longest before displays that did not boast a plaster mannequin. The tired looking and somewhat tatty models that stood in many exhibits disturbed the atmosphere that Barkerville itself created. An empty living room with needlepoint lying beside a rocking chair; a kitchen looking as if the cook had just stepped out of the room; a schoolroom with books lying open on old wooden desks — these were the displays that sent peculiar shivers up and down her spine. She felt that if she blinked her eyes, the door would open and the long-dead occupants would come back into the rooms and pick up their needlepoint or school books. It was almost as if she were the ghost, standing silently in the doorways and waiting for the people of old Barkerville to go on with their lives.
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
