Neither Gage nor I responded, perhaps thinking the same thing. Something Mr. Poole swiftly grasped.
“Oh, yes. I see. I’m the connection.” He frowned, considering this. “Well, I admit I didn’t think much of Lord Feckenham. He was a very low character.” His face paled. “But why would I, or anyone else for that matter, wish for Lord Newbury to die? From all accounts, he was honorable, and his support of the orphan home was critical. With his help, we hoped to persuade other distinguished gentlemen to contribute to our cause.”
I noticed that he hadn’t said Lord Redditch supported the endeavor, a curious discovery. But perhaps he still hoped to gain his backing. Or that of his new heir.
Regardless, I saw his point. Newbury’s death hurt their cause, and as passionately as Mr. Poole had spoken of it, I could not imagine what motive he would have to kill him.
The rain began to pound harder, and Mr. Poole took a step back. “I beg your pardon, but I must be going. I have business to attend to for Lord Redditch. If you wish to speak with me further, I’ll be returning to his residence in a few hours.” He flicked a glance toward the door he’d emerged from. “Speak to Callihan. Number 4. He’ll answer any questions you might have about the society.” He hesitated in taking another step. “Perhaps you’ll even find an interest in lending us your support.”
With that last comment, he turned and was gone, hurrying up the lane in the direction of Cornhill and the Exchange.
“What do you think?” I murmured, trying to decide how I felt about everything he’d told us.
Gage seemed just as uncertain. “What he says is true. I can’t argue with his logic.”
I glanced up into his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. “But something also isn’t quite right.”
His gaze dipped to meet mine. “Yes.” He inhaled a deep breath, as if in resolution. “Let’s meet this Callihan and see what he has to say.”
* * *
• • •
Mr. Poole was right. Mr. Callihan was quite blunt about his past, and more than happy to answer any of the questions we put to him. The portly older man didn’t make excuses for himself and attributed his change of heart to religion. From all the evidence he showed us, including a number of letters and records of money drafts, Mr. Newbury had indeed been an advocate of their charitable society. To Mr. Callihan’s credit, he appeared to be deeply grieved by his supporter’s death, but he had no theories to advance as to why someone would wish to harm such a kind young man.
We left the former moneylender’s premises with no more answers than when we’d entered it. Although Mr. Callihan had showed us all their accounting books and the plans for the orphan house, Gage proposed we pay a visit to a friend of his off Chancery Lane. This friend often looked into financial matters for him if an inquiry called for such expertise.
I elected to wait in the carriage while he went inside to ask his friend to do a bit of digging into the charity’s books. Though he didn’t expect to find anything out of order, it was always best to be thorough in such matters. Perhaps Mr. Newbury had stumbled upon some sort of fraud.
By the time Gage returned to the carriage, it was nearly half past four, and I was famished. I turned to him to suggest we might stop for tea when the sound of shouting brought me up short. I lifted my gaze to the window, wondering who on earth could be making such a tumult, when I saw it. The prison van. It pulled past our carriage and then stopped a few feet ahead, blocked by some traffic in the road.
“Oh, no,” I moaned in a voice I almost didn’t recognize as my own. My heart began to pound as the roar of voices grew louder.
Gage leaned out the window to see what the commotion was all about and then swiftly pulled his head back in as a rock flew past. He closed the window and twitched shut the curtains before lifting up the cushion of the seat across from ours to reveal a hidden compartment. Reaching inside, he extracted a box which contained two percussion pistols. He loaded them and set them beside him on the bench.
There was no need to speak. He had realized, as I had, that the prison van contained the accused burkers. The final magistrates’ hearing must have ended, and the prisoners were being transported to Newgate to await trial. Why the vehicle had turned to drive up Chancery Lane, I didn’t know. Perhaps there were other prisoners inside to be delivered to Coldbath Fields Prison or another location.
Whatever the case, I was caught in the middle of one of my worst nightmares. I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound of hundreds of angry voices. They surrounded us, pressing against the carriage and rocking it as they surged past. A horse screamed, and then there was the shatter of breaking glass and splintering wood. Thuds reverberated through the air as the people hurled stones and mud, striking anything in the way of their vicious pursuit of their intended target.
I shrank down, curling into a ball around the life in my stomach, trying to make myself as small as possible. I knew they weren’t there for me, but my body didn’t seem to know the difference. I was back inside Philip’s carriage after the magistrates dismissed the charges against me, with the mob that had gathered outside screaming for my blood. They’d flung whatever they could get their hands on at the coach—and one terrifyingly precise throw had actually cracked the window. I had known that if the crowd could get their hands on me, they would have torn me to pieces. Just as they would rip apart the burkers.
How long I remained that way, jerking at every loud sound, every thump against the carriage, I can’t say. My ears rang, and I shook uncontrollably. Gage wrapped his arm around me, gathering me to his side, as he called out to the coachman. The driver slid open the portal to speak to us and assure us he and the footman were all of a piece.
“When you can safely do so, get us out of here,” Gage directed.
“Yes, sir. Soon as this overturned cart is moved, I’ll ’ave us on our way.”
I jumped when the portal slid shut, and Gage pressed my head to his shoulder, gently shushing me. His fingers trailed over my temples and around my ears in soothing strokes as he crooned soft words. It didn’t matter what they were. I couldn’t comprehend them anyway. I was too busy struggling not to be sick all over him and the carriage floor.
When finally my stomach’s roiling mostly subsided, and some of my shivering abated, fat tears began to slide down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whispered on a sliver of sound.
But he silenced me with a shake of his head. “Never apologize, my love. Never for that.” He pressed his lips to my forehead, and I closed my eyes, sinking into his embrace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When we returned home, I was bustled off to our bedchamber before I could voice a word of protest. Not that I meant to object. Not when I felt as if the life had been wrung from me. Bree bundled me into my warmest dressing gown and smothered me with blankets while Gage forced a cup of brandy to my lips. I tried to reject this, but I was too weak to do more than comply when he insisted it would help.
I swam into a hazy sleep, only to wake in darkness a short time later. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts and remember why I was there. My heart surged in my chest as it all came rushing back to me.
I rolled over to see Gage seated by the fire, reading a book. He hadn’t yet noticed I was awake, so I took a moment to trace his handsome profile and sculpted cheekbones limned by the firelight with my eyes. His golden hair stood on end, as if he’d been combing his hand through it, and his jaw was dusted with a faint trail of stubble. He’d discarded his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his strong forearms.
His pale blue eyes flicked upward as he turned the page, and then back again when he caught me watching him. His lips curled into a soft smile. “You’re awake.”
“Yes.” My response emerged as more of a croak, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes. How long was I asleep?”
He glanced at the clock on the mante
l as he closed his book and pushed to his feet. “An hour and a half.” He sank down onto the bed beside me, taking my hand in his. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I replied, not really knowing how to answer such a question.
As if he sensed this, his brow furrowed and his gaze dipped. “You told me what happened . . . what it was like . . . after the things Sir Anthony made you do were made public.” His gaze lifted. “But I’m not sure I ever truly comprehended.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. Few did. No one but my family, in fact. For Philip and Trevor had been with me at Bow Street and inside the carriage when the mob attacked. “It was awful,” I murmured in perhaps the greatest understatement of all time.
Gage clutched my hand tighter. “Yes.”
My gaze slid upward to the shadows gathered in the corners of the bed’s canopy. “We have to get those journals from Dr. Mayer.” My stomach quavered. “Tell . . . tell your father we want his help.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.” He inhaled. “Because I already did.”
Perhaps I should have been angry at him for doing so before I’d given my permission, but I couldn’t be. Not after what had happened today. Not knowing he was trying to protect me and our child. Whatever Lord Gage discovered in Sir Anthony’s journals could not be worse than being trampled and torn limb from limb by a furious horde.
“What about Anderley?” I asked, recalling he’d been inside the Magistrates’ Office today. “Did he return home unscathed?”
Gage nodded. “About an hour ago. He said the hearing wasn’t pretty. Several hundred people were gathered outside all day, even with such dreadful weather, and the room inside was packed cheek by jowl. There were a few new witnesses, including a neighbor of Bishop’s who said he heard sounds of a struggle through the walls early on the morning the boy was believed to be killed, but much of it was repeated from earlier hearings.”
“The men were committed to Newgate for trial?”
“Three of them—Bishop, Williams, and May. But Shields, the older man who carried the body between hospitals, was released. The charges against him were dropped, just as we expected. There wasn’t any evidence against him.”
“And the wives?”
“They were also released.” He frowned at the creases in the cornflower blue bedding. “Anderley said the most interesting development was how May appeared to have fallen out with his fellow prisoners. He was furious and listening intently to everything that was said. The jailer even reported he’d had a fight with Bishop in the cells below, calling him a ‘bloody murdering bastard.’ He showed every sign he was about to turn King’s evidence. But he didn’t.” Gage shook his head in confusion. “What is he waiting for?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know anything,” I suggested. “Or he doesn’t know enough.”
He shrugged. “Whatever the case, the matter is going to trial. Perhaps as early as next week.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “So it will be over soon.”
“If they’re convicted, they’ll hang the following Monday.”
I shivered, pressing a hand to my neck. Gage leaned forward to move it away, gazing down at me. “You do know I would never let anything happen to you.”
“You would try.”
I watched as fear clouded his eyes, letting me know I wasn’t the only one affected by today’s events.
“Then you’ll understand why I’ll be sending you away from London if my father fails to retrieve those journals or Goddard can’t find our blackmailers.” His words were implacable, leaving me no room for argument.
And yet I couldn’t resist pointing out, “I thought you said I should stand tall and not let them decide who I was?”
His jaw hardened. “Don’t be facetious. There’s a difference between one’s reputation and one’s well-being, and you know it. I’m not taking any chances with the latter.”
I nodded and wrapped my arms around his neck. “If need be, I’ll go.”
His entire body seemed to exhale. “I pray it doesn’t come to that, but thank you.”
I pulled him down, clutching him tightly, and sent up a prayer of my own.
* * *
• • •
This time I was seated at my dressing table while Bree artfully twisted and pinned my hair when the knock came on my door. I called out for them to enter, thinking nothing of it, even when Gage stepped through the door to regard my reflection in the mirror.
“There’s a constable downstairs.”
My eyes flew upward to meet his gaze, my stomach dipping in dread.
His voice was grim. “There’s been another murder.”
I hurried through the remainder of my morning ablutions, and we set off across Mayfair to the home of Baron Acklen. I did not know the family well, even though I’d painted Lady Acklen’s portrait about six years earlier, a year before I wed Sir Anthony. My father had asked my brother to escort me to those sessions because—unbeknownst to me at the time—Lord Acklen was an inveterate rogue, and my father didn’t trust him not to pester me. All I’d noted was how uncomfortable he made me, but then many people made me uncomfortable.
“Are you acquainted with Percy Acklen?” Gage asked as the carriage turned a corner at a faster clip than usual.
“No. I never had the pleasure,” I replied, glancing back at him. “Or wouldn’t it have been one?”
His brow was riddled with deep grooves. “I’m aware you know Lord Acklen. And I’m afraid his son and heir was of the same mold.”
“Like Feckenham?”
He considered the question. “Not as bad as that. More your ordinary scoundrel. But yes, I take your point. Percy Acklen was definitely more like the first victim in temperament and reputation than the second.”
When we reached the Acklens’ home on Princes Street, near the Argyle Rooms and Regent Circus, it was to find Goddard standing outside with a man sporting a prodigious amount of facial hair at the sides of his face. I wasn’t surprised to discover the Bow Street Runner at the scene given the fact the Great Marlborough Street Police Office was so close. He nodded politely to me as we descended, and introduced us to his cohort.
“I know you’re investigatin’ the other Mayfair murders,” Goddard told us. “And this one looks to be the same. A nob’s heir; stabbed in the right side with a long, narrow blade; left on the street to bleed out.” He paused, eyeing us closely. “Sticking plaster on his face. Though it covered more of his cheek than either his nose or mouth.”
Gage pressed his hands to his hips and turned to glance down the largely empty lane toward the clattering carriages rolling down Regent Street. “So he knows by now he’s not fooled us. The plaster doesn’t work. Now it’s more of his calling card.” The corner of his jaw ticked. “And a way to induce panic in the residents, given the recent burking.” He glanced in the other direction. “Where was Mr. Acklen found?”
“I’ll show ye.” Goddard led us down the street in the opposite direction to the edge of Hanover Square. “A constable found him around five o’clock while he was on his beat. Said he recognized him because Acklen and his friends had been known to cause disturbances from time to time walking home from the gaming establishments in St. James’s.”
“That’s prolly where he was comin’ from,” his colleague added. “Fuddled, o’ course.”
Gage leaned forward to examine the dark stain at the edge of the pavement. “His friends likely sheered off, one by one, headed to their own residences. We’ll have to speak with them. Find out if they noticed anyone following them.” His voice turned dry. “If any of them were sober enough to notice.” He straightened. “Have you spoken to Lord and Lady Acklen?”
Goddard scowled and shook his head. “Insisted on waitin’ for you.”
Gage grimaced in sympathy. “Well, think of it this way. You’ve saved yourself an unpl
easant experience.” He reached inside his pocket to pass both men a tip for their troubles since there was no retainer from Lord Acklen likely to be forthcoming.
Lord Acklen was waiting for us in his parlor when his butler showed us in, leaned back in his chair, downing a glass of caramel-colored liquid. Brandy, no doubt. When he didn’t rise to his feet at my entrance, I couldn’t tell if he was deliberately snubbing me, or if he was already so disguised his legs wouldn’t cooperate enough to do so. He barked at his butler to refill his glass, slurring his words, and then glared blearily at us in accusation. Definitely foxed, then. But I also doubted he would have risen if he’d not been.
“Ye were sposed to catch this bloody, rotten bastard. Why is my son dead?”
“We are doing our best,” Gage replied calmly as we moved deeper into the room. “Can you tell us which friends your son was with last night?”
The butler handed him his glass, and he proceeded to gesture with it, sloshing liquid onto the floor. “I don’t know. The usual. Why? What does that matter?”
Seeing this, Gage halted us several steps away, lest our own clothes be splattered. “They might have seen something that could help us. What of your politics?”
“My what?”
“Are you still a Tory? Or are you with the Whigs now? Word is you’re a bit of a Vicar of Bray.”
Acklen glared at him blackly, not intoxicated enough to miss the insult. “I don’t care a fig for politics,” he retorted, using language a trifle stronger. “Haven’t taken up my seat in years. Though I dashed well don’t understand why that should matter to you. Your father’s a vicar himself.”
An Artless Demise Page 28
