Her eyes flashed. “Don’t toy with that tongue of yours. I told you at the time that my father has leashed me to an allowance better suited to a gypsy than a princess. And you certainly didn’t hesitate to proceed again. A few too many corsets and balls burdening your budget? Are the rumors of your bankruptcy serious?”
She was an excellent viper, wasn’t she? Striking so close to the mark.
“The times and taxes have smitten us all,” he smiled frostily. “But we gain nothing by sniping at each other.”
Her eyes hadn’t cooled. “So how do we weather this killing?”
“No one attributes the murder to anyone other than London’s criminal elements.”
“Perhaps now. But then a month ago there wasn’t a whisper of piracy at the docks either. My confidence in you wanes, as it has in your Solicitor Bristol.”
“It went well today at court,” Brummell said, seeking to reassure. “Sir Barnabas is as good as always.”
“And Mr. Snopes? How did he do?”
Brummell hesitated. She likely had her own sources observing at The Old Bailey, so he shouldn’t sell the day’s progress too hard.
“He has a certain style. But he has nothing of substance to present. All the jury heard was the undenied taking of the French ship by the Padget and the absence of any proof of a Letter of Marque.”
“Tell me, Lord Brummell, are you really so confident that Solicitor Bristol will protect us if things become difficult?”
“Oh yes.”
“Really? And why?”
“Because of the awe I mentioned, and his longing for status. He would go to any length for a knighthood, which I’m sure you could arrange if necessary. But also because he has no means to do otherwise. Neither you nor I have had any contact with his employees. Neither you nor I have been seen arriving with him at any of the social events where I’ve arranged for him to be invited. Even the invitations themselves have been tendered through surrogates. To all the world, Mr. Bristol and we two are passing ships in a broad sea. A sea in which Bristol lacks friends of power and influence.”
She looked away. “I hope you’re correct. If this should ignite, I doubt the flames could reach high enough to engulf my tower.”
But they would certainly reach mine, you gutter snipe, Lord Brummell thought, smiling.
“Shall I see you at the Thackerys’ ball tonight?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be leaving the event a bit early for some matters I need to supervise, but we could at least go together. Would you like me to pick you up in my carriage?”
“I think I’ll go alone tonight,” the princess said.
Severing connections. The response wasn’t lost on Lord Brummell. “Of course, Your Highness. I’ll see you there.”
The princess kicked the stallion and rode away without looking back.
OFFICE OF BARRISTER WILLIAM SNOPES
GRAY’S INN
William watched Obadiah and Father Thomas, seated near his desk, eating ravenously of the roasted chicken and potatoes Suzanne had delivered to his office. He’d managed a few bites but wasn’t terribly hungry himself. Trials were always the death of his appetite. This one more than any before.
“When did Edmund say he’d be back from his errand, Mr. Snopes?” Obadiah asked.
“He didn’t,” William replied, railing at the reminder. Another of his assistants for the trial scattered. He should have demanded to know where Edmund was off to.
They spoke for a while about the coming morning’s skirmishes.
“Keep an eye on that juror in the back row,” Obadiah suggested. “The straight-backed, serious-looking one. If he’s not a prig with the other jurors, he may well be selected their foreman. His view of the charges is a bit of a mystery, but he’s listening well.”
“Tell me if you see anything in particular that moves him,” William said.
“I will. And, Father Thomas, I think your greetings of Mr. Snopes have caught the attention of at least two of the jurors. One looks puzzled. The other, perhaps, approving.”
“‘The arms are fair, when the intent of bearing them is just,’” Father Thomas intoned.
Obadiah looked at the Father quizzically. “That’s no Scripture I’ve ever heard.”
“Shakespeare,” William said. “Henry IV, if I’m right. No biblical jewels for us tonight, Thomas?”
“I’m saving it for Captain Tuttle,” Father Thomas said through a mouthful of chicken, then looked at William. “‘Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet.’” He glanced at Obadiah. “No offense is meant for you in that, Obadiah.”
Obadiah shrugged. “None taken, sir.”
“Thank you again for seeing Captain Tuttle tonight, Thomas,” William said, meaning it. “I’ve arranged my visit for eight, near the changing of the prison guard. They’ve given permission for your visit at nine. One hour of final preparation should be enough. I hope you can brace up his spirits.”
“I believe I can,” Father Thomas said. “Or I’d stay away from the poor soul.”
NEWGATE PRISON
“That’s the sum of it, Captain,” William said. “Remain calm. Answer truthfully. Look to the jury when you answer. Don’t argue with Sir Barnabas—leave that to me. You’ll do very well.”
The captain looked immune to encouragement. “We’re losing, aren’t we?”
William gave his best smile. “Not based on today’s evidence. Captain, please understand that we’ve barely begun. This first day has cleared the throat. We’ve at least two more days and much to say on the topic of your innocence.”
“Please, sir. Don’t lie to a man on the eve of his death.”
If only he could reassure the captain, buried all these weeks in the depths of this ungodly place. He could shout of certain victory in his best advocate’s voice. But how could he make such an unsupportable promise without losing credibility, just on the eve of the captain’s testimony?
Instead, William overcame his natural reticence and reached through the bars to grip the captain’s shoulders. “Harold, lies are unnatural things. Bad ones fall apart like sodden paper. Good ones are hard to conjure and wearying to sustain. I don’t know why someone is expending such energy to perpetuate their lies about you and the Letter of Marque, but I’ve learned in my practice that all falsehoods fail in the end. The challenge is ensuring they do so in the time of our need. I’m doing everything in my power to achieve that in the courtroom. All I ask is that you stay faithful for a few days more.”
Captain Tuttle looked to the cell floor at his feet. “If lies are so unnatural, then remind me what truth is in this world, Mr. Snopes, and how it can be hidden so. I’ve forgotten.”
“Father Thomas will tell you from his profession that it’s God’s most fundamental trait. The essence of who He is. In the courtroom, truth is tool and brick: powerful to wield and the only foundation for real justice. Anyone telling you otherwise is a liar, a modern Narcissus, or self-deluded.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, growing louder until Father Thomas descended, then emerged into the torchlight.
“Am I too early?” he asked.
“No,” William said. “We were just finishing.”
William said his good-byes and turned to go, fervently hoping the Father could reinvigorate the captain.
The man was ready to collapse before even reaching the dock. Any improvement would require divine intervention.
Father Thomas’s field now.
An hour later, William was back at Gray’s Inn. His hope was disappointed that Edmund would be there or at least have left a note. He dropped wearily behind his desk.
The newspaper lay beside his papers. He picked it up to read the article Edmund had mentioned about the murder in St. James’s Park. He got no further than the second line.
“The poor victim, twenty-two-year-old Isabella Stratton, resided at Carlton House, where she was empl
oyed as an assistant for the care of our sovereign King George III . . .”
He hesitated only a moment before rising and grabbing his coat on the way to the door.
38
ST. JAMES’S PARK
In the dark, hands in his pockets against the cold, William traced the ground at his feet. Wind shushed through pine branches overhead as his steps took him to a private corner of the park—not hidden exactly but sheltered from the commonest walking paths.
He reached the quiet corner, amid oak and more pine. The Gazette had described this as where the murdered girl, Isabella, was found by constables. The paper had painted the scene. Strangled. Still warm when they’d discovered her. Lying with a bag close by as though she was to be transported away. Likely dead less than an hour.
He looked about at the ground in the starlight. For someone who had been strangled, there was no sign of a scuffle. Nor any indication she’d been dragged to this site forcefully.
William looked up.
Carlton House, the royal residence where William had seen the girl himself, was just up a nearby trail and a few ascending stairs away. Apparently, Isabella was a resident there as well. She was one of several caring for the insane king.
Extraordinary. Why would the girl have been out in the chill at the late hour? Such an out-of-the-way spot could only have been an intended destination. Which implied she was murdered by someone she’d planned to meet. Few would take a meeting if anticipating harm, so she couldn’t have expected danger from the rendezvous.
He watched his breath drift away. Despite the hour, despite the approaching dawn of another day at trial, his compulsion to be here remained intense. It was . . . odd, the death of this girl so shortly after he’d crossed paths with her at the Lord Privy Seal’s office.
No, odd didn’t capture it. There were no coincidental occurrences, not of this type. Her fate must be part of the maelstrom surrounding the captain’s case. Did she know something about the captain’s Letter of Marque, real or forged? Was she part of the scheme circling the Padget?
Pieces to the puzzle of the case kept dropping at his feet as he waded deeper into the trial. Lonny McPherson’s interest in Simon Ladner. The murdered cabin boy.
Isabella, an attendant in Carlton House, dying the night before trial.
Then the cold—the park—were gone.
He had an idea. Conjecture without evidence. But with symmetry to firm up the conjecture.
William began humming. He hadn’t done so for so long. This time it was a violin piece from Paganini, playing as he rushed through the snow and ice back toward his office.
As the strings joined his thoughts in a stirring of his blood, he wondered if he’d get any sleep tonight.
OFFICE OF MANDY BRISTOL
MAYFAIR DISTRICT
LONDON
Mandy’s nerves tingled, seated at the desk in the front foyer of his office, occasionally wiping perspiration from his forehead. On a client chair in the corner sat a man dressed in a plain brown shirt and trousers, a cloth mask over his head, covering all but his eyes.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” Mandy called.
Lonny McPherson stepped through the door, grinning brightly. “Evening, Mr. Bristol. I—” He stopped. The grin disappeared as his head swiveled toward the man in the corner. “Who in the devil is this now?”
“You weren’t seen coming here, were you, Lonny?” Mandy demanded.
“No. No footpads or thieves, not a soul. Now tell me what’s goin’ on. Who the blazes is this?”
The figure shook his head, looking to Mandy, who on cue raised a hand, slamming it to the desk.
“Pay attention to me, Lonny! Tell me who told you to kill the girl!”
Lonny looked back and forth between Mandy and the mask.
“I’m not gonna talk in front of . . . whoever this is.”
“You’ll talk, Lonny!” Mandy shouted. “You’ll talk. And you’d better tell the truth.”
“You want to talk, then tell him to take off that cloth.”
“He won’t do that. Now answer me. Who told you to kill the girl?”
Lonny hesitated, looking off-center. “Isabella dear got testy, God’s honest truth. Threatened to give the whole scheme away. She was going to talk. What was I to do?”
Relief spread through Mandy that Lonny hadn’t tried to implicate him. “Why didn’t you come to me and get instructions?”
“I’d already given her your money. She pocketed it and the next day come back, asking for a meeting at the park. When I got there, she said she had to have more. I begged her. I pleaded with her. She put her back to me and said she was goin’ to the authorities. What choice did I have?”
“You should have come to me first.”
“Ahh, you wouldn’t have wanted to know, Mr. Bristol. Just get it done, that’s what you always want. Well, it’s done. Had no choice about the methods.”
Mandy let loose a quiet lungful of air. “What about the boy?”
“Tad? He’s relocated. Like you asked.”
Mandy looked at the hooded figure. The figure nodded back.
“All right, Lonny,” Mandy said. “Now listen carefully. You and yours have to disappear for a while—just like Tad. Leave town if you must. But there must be no possibility of any of you being picked up during this trial. Especially with the death of Isabella, there must be no way Snopes can question any of you.”
“I’d already done as much with me and mine—staying low, that is. Until I got your message, we’d all been tucked safely away.” Lonny raised his chin higher. “But even if they got me, I’d tell ’em nothing. You know that.”
To save your neck, you’d tell them everything and more, Mandy thought behind his smile. Even if it meant sending your mother to the rope. “Good, Lonny. You’ll be paid for the time underground.”
“How much?”
“Sufficiently.”
“Excellent, Governor.” He held out his hand.
“After. Go now, Lonny. We’ll not speak again for some time.”
Lonny looked prepared to argue the point, yet the presence of the hooded man seemed to weaken his resolve. He rubbed the scar over his grotesque eye. Then, reluctantly, he headed out the door.
As Lonny’s steps retreated down the staircase, Mandy let out an audible sigh. “Is that acceptable, Lord Brummell?”
Lord Brummell removed his mask. “Yes, Mandy. For the present. Now you will do the same.”
He hadn’t heard right. “Me?”
“Yes. You’ll leave town until this trial is over.”
“But my practice!”
“It will have to wait. Mr. Snopes may get the court’s permission to subpoena you.”
Like Lonny before him, Mandy considered arguing the point. He’d never done so with Brummell before. His heart wavered. Then he let out another heaving sigh. “If you wish it, Lord Brummell,” Mandy said submissively.
“I do. In fact, I wish it tonight.”
SOHO
WEST END, LONDON
Edmund stood at the mouth of the alleyway just a few blocks from Leicester Square. He knew these blocks, though not well. A gambling house he used to frequent was only a few streets farther east. Maybe that was why Hardacre, an even more dedicated gambler than himself, had picked this area in which to meet.
But the man, curse him, was hours late. If it wasn’t so important, if his hopes hadn’t been raised so high, Edmund would have left long ago.
“Eddie!”
Hardacre was striding down the lane in the dark at last, his face shadowed. When he got within reach, Edmund looked him over carefully.
“You’re very late, Phineas.”
“Sorry. Hard to get away. And I wanted to be sure of things tonight.”
“Well, I was disappointed at your note,” Edmund replied. “I’d almost finished writing my penny dreadful. Ready to go to press. Got a special chapter on how you cheated Striker Bosworth last year. You’d love reading i
t.”
The journalist glowered. “Don’t rub it in. It took some time, that’s all. Asking around without raising suspicion isn’t so easy, and I don’t want to lose my job.” He looked about. “Let’s get in here.” He gestured with his head toward the alley. “Out of the street.”
They walked to the midpoint in the alley before stopping.
“So, what’ve you got,” Edmund demanded. “I’ve got trial work to finish and it’s very late.”
“One of them that put pressure on the Gazette to run stories trashing your Mr. Snopes said he’s willing to meet with you. He’s even willing to discuss some kind of accommodation about your trial.”
Edmund’s hopes rose, but he kept it from his face. “Who is it?”
“I got to him through a go-between. I’ve got no names.”
“I need a name.”
“I can’t give you a name. Not now.”
“All right. But we’re running out of time. When do we meet?”
“Now!” a voice rumbled.
The club blow to the back of Edmund’s head was like the kick of a horse. The second blow to his face as it struck the pavement was the slam of a flat iron.
“That’s what you get for trying to push me around, Edmund, lad,” he distantly heard Hardacre bluster.
The last clear sound Edmund heard was his own grunt of pain, heaved after a savage kick to his ribs.
39
THE OLD BAILEY
“My lordship, the prosecution calls the accused Captain Harold Tuttle to the stand.”
William tried to settle himself for what was coming. It wasn’t easy.
Edmund nowhere to be seen. Madeleine still missing. The startling murder of the Isabella girl. His tumble into conjectures—ones he’d dare not use at trial until he could piece the story together fully with supporting evidence.
It all rendered a painful sense that, even if he had some theories at last, the case still raced beyond his control.
William watched his client take the stand. Captain Harold Tuttle, pale and shrunken too slender for his clothes, could barely raise his legs to climb into the witness box.
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 26
