Suzanne was becoming a close friend. She needed friends. She’d lost all those she thought she had before, perhaps including William.
The hat protected her face from the driving rain, but after spending hours out of doors, the rest of her felt the wet. Even her riding boots, mostly hidden beneath her trousers, were soaked through.
She turned another corner and walked on.
Her argument with William weighed heavily. She hadn’t wanted to admit it under his interrogation, but no, she hadn’t told him the full truth. But didn’t he see that that was before she’d begun to know him? Before she’d watched him work so marvelously hard on Harold’s behalf?
Before he’d rescued her from the ball . . .
Hadn’t he become another new friend?
Along nearly every street, she’d found one or two people to stop and ask about the boys. Many were women, and Madeleine had no wish to know their business, out in the night like this. When she explained her search for lost relatives, nearly all had tried to help. Madeleine had even ventured nervously into a few pubs, speaking only to those she was sure weren’t already inebriated. All had shaken their heads in response to her inquiries.
Madeleine stopped and looked about. Had she already been at this corner? Just ahead, a smallish figure was walking away. It was the first child she’d seen on the streets.
She hurried, catching up and grabbing the figure’s shoulder. “Excuse me . . .”
The man who turned had a beard down to his knees. “Whaddya want?”
She shook her head, disappointed, and moved on.
Twice she believed she’d seen one of the other searchers a block or so in the distance. She’d headed another direction each time, not wanting to be discovered helping.
She reached another street corner. To her right, the road sloped upward, taking her to higher ground. Feeling the need to get off the low and grimier streets, she turned that direction.
This was growing intolerable. William had hoped the knowledgeable Whitechapel undertaker who’d helped before might direct him to someone likely to know either Simon or Tad. Fifty shillings had gotten him addresses that proved useless. The same with the pub manager who’d been so helpful only weeks before.
At last, William had begun to simply knock on doors. Half answered his knocks. Some offered advice on children they’d seen. None recognized the names or faces he described.
Finally, in desperation, he’d dived into alleys. More people were there, some engaged in pursuits he wouldn’t approach. Others were too intoxicated to answer his questions. A few listened but couldn’t help.
William emerged onto a main street again. Looked about. The streets began to rise here, toward a higher area not squarely in his assigned walk.
He decided to turn that direction.
Sergeant Nathaniel Rhodes fingered the garrote in his right pocket and the knife in his left. It would have been ridiculous to search the entirety of the district blind. Except he knew this place much better than the Snopes character or any of the rest of them. He’d spent a fair amount of time here, visiting the pubs around the nearby docks.
Over the course of three hours, he’d asked at a dozen establishments. Six had been visited by folks asking questions about Simon and Tad. Two gave a fair description of Snopes. With that help, it’d been like following a string—moving along the barrister’s route, asking if people had been questioned by a man with a barrister’s tongue.
A figure appeared on Highchapel Road, up a distance from where he was walking. The stride looked familiar. Nathaniel turned that direction.
Another ten minutes and he reached the heights. There were fewer establishments here, fewer buildings to try to get his bearings as to where Snopes might have gone.
He kept walking, hoping for a little luck in coming upon the man’s path.
And then there it was: a man looking out of place, walking almost timidly, half a block ahead. Hands in his pockets. Drenched coat. Bowler hat.
Nathaniel smiled to himself as he picked up his pace.
The man began to turn in his direction.
The sergeant quickly ducked into the space of a recessed door.
Madeleine finally reached the summit, yet the higher elevation didn’t better her view of the district. Mostly endless rooftops stretched out in the sad, dark neighborhood below.
She walked on.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She thought she’d heard them before, but now she was sure.
She turned about, expecting to see one of her fellow searchers.
No one was there. She listened. Nothing.
Just her nerves. She moved on uneasily.
Light spilled onto the wet street from another pub ahead. She went inside.
The place was nearly empty. She’d wait a minute to calm down.
Taking a seat, she closed her eyes. Perhaps she’d done all she could. She’d heard no whistles, but maybe one of the others had gotten lucky and she just hadn’t heard.
It was time to return to the church. Once there, she’d try to get a moment alone with William, to clear the air.
Nathaniel waited a count of ten, then stepped back onto the sidewalk and moved on.
There the man was again. Still walking ahead at his methodical pace. Only this time, Snopes walked only another quarter block before suddenly disappearing into a pub.
This would work. Nathaniel positioned himself near the pub’s door, settling against the brick wall to wait.
Madeleine stepped out through the pub’s door. Standing again in the rain, she looked both to her left and right.
A man leaned against the wall only a few yards away. His hand clutched something in his pocket. His cap was pulled down. The light sprawling through the door of the pub was bright enough that she could make out his face.
Fear engulfed her at the murder in his eyes.
The man hesitated an instant. Then he rushed, and would have reached her, except that a foot slipped from his awkward lunge and he stumbled to the ground.
She ran.This man was no mugger. He wanted her dead.
She turned at the curb, her own boots slipping on the wet cobblestones. The man’s strides, awkward at first, had settled into a measured pace. A faster pace than hers.
She took another corner. Ahead, a small park of ash and sycamore came into view. She ran into the deep shadows beneath them, her eyes straining in the blackness and rain for a place to hide.
There was nothing. She hurried through the park and out the other side.
The footfalls behind her had quieted on the soft soil of the park. Now they returned, closer than before.
Madeleine turned onto another empty road.
“This way!” a high-pitched voice called.
Her eyes went to the sound.
The voice had come from a narrow alley just across the street.
The thudding footsteps were now only ten yards behind. She ran toward the alley.
The rain relented in the gap between buildings that was scarcely twice the width of her shoulders. Ahead, she made out a figure hurrying away from her.
Why had she come this way? She was trapped!
“In here! Follow me,” a voice called from the darkness ahead.
She hurried farther in. Only half a dozen strides more until she reached the alley’s end.
The walls surrounded her on three sides. At her feet, a narrow culvert dipped down, its mouth nearly filled with the rush of flowing rainwater.
She looked back.
The man chasing her was only steps away.
She might fit into the culvert. The man never would.
Dropping to her chest, she slid into the water-gorged dark.
A hand grabbed her ankle. Another joined it. Fist over fist, they began hauling her back out of the culvert.
She screamed and kicked.
Her shoe came loose.
She slid free.
The water rushed downward, pulling Madeleine through the pipe like a waterfall plunging
in absolute dark. Spitting mouthfuls in an effort to breathe, her body careened from side to side in its tumbling flow. Terror-filled seconds passed as she plummeted in the water’s grasp. Until . . .
She was suddenly floating through air as though she’d been expelled from a giant’s mouth. She dropped for an instant, rolling and weightless. Then her back struck hard on solid ground where she lay unmoving.
Water continued splashing over her from the pipe overhead, just above her feet. Stunned and feeling lifeless, she stared at the cascade. After several long seconds, she regained enough will to roll to one side and escape its icy flow.
Even so, she remained there, unable to do more than catch her breath.
“Miss? Are you okay?”
She turned her head.
She was lying in a high-ceilinged storm sewer. In thin, dancing light she saw several pipes like the one she’d been ejected from, emptying streams at intervals along the walls.
The words had been uttered by a boy, nearly a young man, seated a few yards away and holding a torch. He looked as drenched and cold as she felt herself to be.
He must have been the one who called her into the culvert, she reasoned as her mind began to calm.
“Thank you,” Madeleine managed, sitting up as her teeth began to chatter.
How had her rescuer been so near in her need? “Have you been following me?” she asked.
He nodded. “You’ve been askin’ about for me, haven’t you, miss?”
“Yes. You’re Tad?”
“No,” the boy answered. “Lonny murdered him. Him and Isabella.”
Even cold, battered and miserable, she still felt the horror of what the boy might have seen to have that knowledge. Then the truth dawned on her.
She stood and moved carefully closer. The boy didn’t object or move away. She stopped within a few feet of him where she sat down once more.
After a few minutes, she spoke again. “If you’re not Tad, are you Simon?”
The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
“Simon, do you know why we’ve been looking for you?”
“It’s the trial, ain’t it?”
“Yes, the trial.”
They sat silently for a moment before Madeleine asked, “How do we get out of here, Simon? We’ll need dry clothes soon or we’ll freeze to death.”
“I’ve got some blankets, torches, matches and such stashed in a few places down here. There’s a pile just over there.”
She rose and retrieved a tattered blanket for herself from the pile where Simon had pointed, draping it over her shoulders. Taking another, she returned to sit by the boy, placing the second blanket over his back.
When she was settled, the boy spoke. “If I don’t go and talk at your trial, they’re going to kill me, ain’t they?”
Madeleine heard the urgency and fear in the question as her shivering relented and her mind grew clearer. “We won’t let them do that, Simon.”
“But it’s true, ain’t it? Don’t lie to me now, miss. I gotta know.”
She turned to face him. “Yes, Simon. If we don’t protect you, someday I think they will try.”
He nodded, his eyes focused on the dank floor. “Then I suppose I’ve got no choice, have I?”
“I suppose not,” she said. Then she stood and reached out a hand.
56
PARISH CHURCH, WHITECHAPEL
LONDON
“I’m sorry I couldn’t find them,” Father Thomas was saying.
The rain had stopped. William sat next to the priest on the outside steps of the church, two torches lit to either side.
“It’s all right, Thomas,” he said. “Everyone has tried.”
“She’s a clever and resourceful woman,” Thomas added. “You needn’t worry. Madeleine will be here any minute. I’m certain of it.”
Yes. With strength he couldn’t have imagined. But this was Whitechapel. He ached to know she was safe.
The Bow Street Runners had returned at midnight—without finding Tad or Simon—then gone out again when it became clear that Madeleine wasn’t returning. William and Obadiah had insisted on doing the same, while Father Thomas remained behind in case she did return.
But they’d had no luck locating her either. Not a trace.
Once, wandering in the dark, William thought he’d heard a faint whistle. But it was too far away to make out with certainty. He’d continued his search, only returning to the church a few minutes earlier, telling himself during the last mile back that she was surely waiting for them. Obadiah had come in shortly after.
But she wasn’t waiting for them. She was nowhere in the streets. The despair in his chest was unbearable.
“What’s that?” Father Thomas suddenly whispered. “Did you hear that?”
William heard nothing. He looked about, straining to see in the dark.
Five figures emerged, with Joel in the lead. Pidger and his other Bow Street companion were at the back.
Between them walked Madeleine and a boy.
William rushed to her. Her clothes were damp under a ratty woolen cloth, and she was missing a shoe. He took off his coat and wrapped it tightly around her.
She muttered a throaty “Thanks,” then said, “This is Simon Ladner.”
William turned to the boy, scarcely caring in the wake of his receding worry. “It’s very good to meet you, Mr. Ladner.”
Simon stared back. “You’re the barrister fellow?”
“I am. And I’m very glad you’re safe.”
“’Course you are. You want me to talk at your trial.”
William shook his head. “No, son. Because I’d feared that Lonny or others had done you harm.”
The boy plumbed William’s eyes in the torchlight, then looked back at Madeleine. “Can I believe him, miss?”
Madeleine nodded. “You can.”
“You trust him yourself?”
“Yes. With my life.”
William was warmed by her words as Simon looked back to him.
“All right then,” the boy said. “There’s somewhere I need to take you.”
57
THE OLD BAILEY
William floated on a cloud of exhaustion. A disjointed Beethoven piece careened behind his eyes—a monstrous amalgamation of the Fifth and Eighth. He surveyed the courtroom gallery. Madeleine was there—she would have come from her deathbed. Suzanne. Father Thomas. Lord Brummell, surprisingly having abandoned his box to stand next to the bar, speaking with Sir Barnabas and looking oddly wretched.
Then he noted another figure who surprised him far more.
Seated in the front row of the lower gallery was the Lord Privy Seal.
“Sir?” Obadiah called.
William turned about and joined the solicitor at the bar.
“Sir, I’ve made all the arrangements.”
“Good.”
“You’re sure this will work, sir?”
“As certain as a Londoner of rainy weather.”
The bailiff called the courtroom to order. Judge Raleigh marched in. When he’d taken his seat, he addressed William, his face showing genuine curiosity for the first time.
“Does the defense have any new witnesses to present?”
“It does, my lord. The defense calls Simon Ladner to the stand.”
There was no murmur of surprise in the gallery or jury box. Only an odd and serious silence as the blond-haired figure entered, sinuously, with the stretched form of a boy on the cusp of manhood. His face was unreadable. He seemed uncomfortable until he’d entered the witness box and was able to stand with his back to a wall.
“Simon Ladner?” William began.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re not dead.”
The ice broke, laughter erupting in the gallery and jury box.
“No, sir.”
“Were you a cabin boy aboard the Padget until February of this year?”
“I was.”
“Where have you been since you left the Padget?”
“In York, sir.”
“Why?”
“I was sent there by my boss.”
“The captain of the Padget?”
“Not that boss, sir.”
“Who, then?”
“Lonny McPherson. The boss of my crew, sir.”
“Your crew? Are you referring to Mr. McPherson’s canon of pickpockets?”
The boy hesitated. “Yes, sir.”
“Why did Mr. McPherson send you away?”
“He wanted me away until the Padget got taken care of, sir.”
“Taken care of?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did that mean?”
“I don’t know for sure, sir.”
William raised himself up on his toes. “Isn’t it true, young Mr. Ladner, that you were placed on the Padget for the express purpose of using your pickpocket skills to steal a document from Captain Tuttle’s cabin the night of your return from the Indian Sea?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did you do so?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know what that document was?”
“Not clearly, sir. I can’t read. Except I was taught how to cipher its title, sir. To be sure I had the right one.”
“What was that title?”
“A Letter of Marque, sir.”
Gallery whispers grew. The gavel fell.
“Did you carry out this scheme?”
“Yes.”
“And did you then feign being shot so that you and the document could be removed from the Padget safely and the document passed on to others?”
“Yes.”
“And who received the document?”
“It was taken by a soldier.”
“Sergeant Rhodes from the detail that boarded that night?”
“I don’t know his name, sir.”
“Could you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“This wasn’t the first time you participated in this type of scheme, was it?”
“No, sir.”
“Isn’t it true that, when you were age eleven, you were placed aboard the English merchant Helen as a cabin boy with the very same purpose?”
“Yes.”
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 33
