by L. C. Sharp
* * *
“You did let him go,” Juliana said, as Ash applied himself to the bellpull. A spate of jangling came from inside the neat, tall house.
“Yes. He might come in useful. I have his name, and he has mine. I’m always interested in a good informant. That child cannot lie to save his neck, and one day he might have to. He might be grateful for a friend.”
Juliana suspected something else lay in Ash’s altruistic gesture, but she held her peace. The deed was done and couldn’t be changed. She saw no point arguing.
The door was opened by a plain-faced lady of middle age, dressed like a servant, with a large white apron covering most of her skirt at the front. But this time Juliana knew her identity. “Good morning, Mrs. Fielding.” She bobbed a slight curtsey.
“Good morning, my lady. Both the magistrates are in the office, and they’re expecting your call. Would you like tea?”
“That would be lovely,” Juliana answered, although she didn’t really wish for it. But Mrs. Fielding, the wife of Henry, the older of the two Fielding brothers, would have brought it anyway. Although Henry Fielding had been caught tupping his housekeeper, he’d been pleased to marry her, and the marriage proved a quiet success.
Ash and Juliana went up the stairs and after a sharp rap on the door, Ash lifted the latch and ushered her in.
The usual greetings exchanged, Juliana sat on the proffered hard wooden chair and listened. She’d been here several times since her first interview, when everyone except Ash had thought she’d killed her husband. Even Ash hadn’t been sure of it, but he’d decided to take her case. If he hadn’t, she’d have been hanged for something she hadn’t done. She wouldn’t have been the first person that had happened to.
Now she could listen, and breathe, and try to block the smell of the potpourri the brothers used to block the stink of the jail.
Across the street, Drury Lane Theatre drew the crowds, and the thieves, of a night. But this early, the theater lay silent and shuttered. The narrow street was, however, full to bursting.
The long case clock in the corner ticked steadily, marking the time between birth and death, drastically shorter for the people lying in Newgate Gaol, waiting for their trials. But not Juliana, thanks to the man at her side.
“We had word that you wish to take the case of the man discovered dead at Vauxhall last night,” Mr. Henry Fielding began. His homely face was stern, but the creases at the corners of his mouth and his eyes showed that he was used to laughing, too.
“Indeed,” Ash replied. “Since we attended the display, we were early on the scene.” He leaned back as much as he could and crossed one ankle over his knee. “Lord Coddington attended the display, but his wife did not.”
“Why didn’t Lady Coddington attend?”
Ash spoke smoothly. “She was holding a musicale last night.”
“You went to see her last night, did you not?” Mr. John Fielding rapped out. Despite being blind, he missed nothing. He would be listening to the nuances of what Ash said, even the tone he used.
“Indeed we did. We thought she should receive the news from us, rather than hearing it through gossip. There were far too many people who viewed the body last night.”
“I see.” Mr. John Fielding clasped his hands over his stomach. “And how did she take it?”
“Badly,” Ash answered. “She went into hysterics, so we left her to the care of her maid. The Duke of Newcastle was there.”
Henry Fielding made a scornful noise. Ash raised a brow. Henry Fielding said nothing further, but he didn’t have to. He evidently thought little of the duke. He’d made his point.
“There is naturally a reward for the apprehension of the murderer. Alive or dead,” Henry Fielding said. “His widow or her representatives posted it this morning. A substantial sum.” He pushed a bill across the table. Ash picked up the piece of foolscap. Those bills would be all over the city by now. He handed it to Juliana, who scanned it.
Ash waved the bill aside. “First we have to catch the murderer. Justice is my concern.”
“And ours,” John Fielding said. “And ours, sir.” His attention abruptly shifted to Juliana. “Your father knew the man, did he not?”
She swallowed, reminded of the life she’d walked away from. “The air at that level of society is rarefied. Few people exist there. But yes, my father was acquainted with the late Lord Coddington. He recognized him when Ash got the men to turn the body.”
“Did you know the Coddingtons?”
“No,” she said. “My father met his lordship outside the house. Lady Coddington did not share a friendship with my mother.”
True enough. She had curtseyed to Lady Coddington and exchanged polite nothings with her, but that didn’t mean she knew the lady at all. In many ways men and women led separate lives, in society and out of it, whether they were married or not. The friendship she shared with Ash was special. No separation there. She would hate to lose it. She would hate to lose him.
Henry Fielding harrumphed into a large handkerchief, reminding Juliana of his recent illness. She exchanged a glance with Ash, who took the hint and got to his feet. “We will leave you to your court cases, sirs.” He helped Juliana out of her chair, holding it politely as she rose. “As usual, we will keep you fully apprised of our progress, and if we hear anything new, you will be the first people we contact. Thank you for your time.”
As the two men made to stand, Juliana shook her head. “Please, gentlemen, don’t get up.”
“Thank you. We have a full sheet of cases,” John Fielding said. “If you see my assistant on your way, please tell him I’m ready for him.”
John Fielding didn’t concede much to his disability, but he needed someone to read documents to him in court, and to stand by his side should he need anything. Presumably he would take the cases today, on his brother’s behalf.
Famous as the incorruptible magistrates at Bow Street, the Fieldings had put the fear of God into many criminals that thronged the city. Technically John Fielding was Henry Fielding’s assistant, but since Henry’s recent bout of ill health, John was working much closer with him.
Ash and Juliana clattered down the uncarpeted stairs, their outdoor shoes of sturdy leather creating a racket that people must have heard next door. She had not even possessed a pair of sensible walking shoes until last year. She treasured these, her second pair, more than she had the dainty brocade and silk shoes she’d worn but rarely walked in as a society bride. Pausing only to pin her hat on and pull her leather gloves over her hands, she smiled at Mrs. Fielding and left the house.
Outside, Ash turned to face her. “I’ll take you home. I want to go to the mortuary, to view the body.”
Indignation surged through her. “No! Why shouldn’t I go to the mortuary?” A note of doubt entered her mind. “Or would I be in the way?”
He grinned. “No, don’t spoil it,” he urged, taking her arm and guiding her through the throng. The crowd took no more notice of them than they would a merchant’s wife, Juliana noted in delight. “I would like to have you with me. But only if you are sure you can bear up. You’ll see some gruesome sights, and the stink in these places is unimaginable.”
She grimaced, the image of her dead first husband wavering before her eyes. Few sights could be more gruesome than that. “I’m sure I’ll manage.” She firmed her chin.
He gave a light laugh. “When I first met you, I thought you looked like nothing more than a porcelain figurine. That heavily painted white face, the perfect pose, hands together in your lap, skirts perfectly arranged made me think of those Meissen figures beloved by your mother. I had no idea a woman of such strength lay beneath the porcelain. Until you opened your mouth and told me point blank that you had not killed your husband.”
She remembered that moment perfectly. The sight of her dead husband, the horrors of the night before, and the horrif
ying squelching sensation caused by her husband’s blood when she’d moved in bed came back to her, clear and pin-sharp, but the memories from then until when Ash had first encountered her had mostly melted away.
Shock had taken much of the immediate aftermath of her husband’s death from her, but not that first meeting, and not her unforgivable, inexplicable desire to laugh once they’d escaped the mob and walked briskly away. She’d been under threat of being hanged for a murder she hadn’t committed, but she’d never felt so free. Her life, her real life, had started on that day. But for Ash it might only have lasted a few weeks, until her appointment with Tyburn Tree, but while short, at least she’d have known what it felt like to live free.
He called a cab by standing at the side of the road and whistling between his teeth, an accomplishment Juliana admired, but had failed miserably at. The passing cabbie hauled his steed to a halt and touched his hat. “Where to, guv’nor?”
“Whitehall Stairs,” he said as he helped Juliana into the vehicle.
This one smelled of pipe tobacco and sweat. Not too bad, compared to some. In another life, Juliana would have been regaled with tea and delicate refreshments while she waited for the carriage to arrive. This was so much better.
The carriage jolted on its way, rattling her teeth. But she was used to that now. It bounced down to the ferry at Whitehall. Juliana watched the world go by, knowing she was part of it now. “Do you have a theory yet?”
He shook his head. “Only parts of one. Someone killed him violently, and not for thievery. This was no accidental death. Of that we can be sure, but for the rest, we don’t know yet. Who wanted him dead and why? That is where we’ll find our murderer.” He paused, then frowned. “We are fortunate to have the Fieldings, who are more concerned for justice than in taking rewards and bribery. The previous magistrates would have had the body delivered to his family, and labeled as a murder by thieves. No fuss, no scandal. The Fieldings insist on a full investigation.”
“They appreciate you,” she said. “Especially since you demand no fee.”
“Ah.” He wagged his finger in mock disapproval. “But I am not above taking reward money, should it be offered.”
She laughed. He didn’t need it. “What do you do with it?”
“The reward money? I give it to a good cause, mostly, after I’ve deferred expenses. Before I inherited my father’s estate I lived on the money I earned as a lawyer. I still do, to some extent, but Redring deals with that part. I intend to make him a partner.”
The business Ash had inherited from his father was a prosperous solicitor’s office that dealt with property and land disputes. They acted as trustees sometimes, and took on other cases that Ash had told her he was glad to escape. He did not take much of an active part anymore, but allowed Mr. Redring to handle it as he saw fit.
“Mr. Redring will be glad of that.”
Ash smiled. “I’m sure he will. In truth, the offer is long overdue.”
The carriage lurched to a halt and they alighted. Ash tossed a coin to the driver, who snatched it out of the air. As he was bringing it to his mouth to bite the coin, Ash shot him a glare that froze him. “Do you doubt it?” he asked, his tone as haughty as a duke’s.
The driver touched the ragged peak of his hat. “Wouldn’t say that,” he said, wheeled the horse around and took off.
Ash chuckled and signaled a ferryman.
They crossed the river farther up than they had last night.
This was a typical ferryman, in his shirtsleeves despite the chill in the air, burly and taciturn. He paused to spit in the fetid water that stank of damp and rankness, such a familiar part of the city that few people noticed it anymore, until they were forced into close proximity with it.
Ash leaned back and stared at the sky. Clouds scudded across, a stiff breeze whipping over them as they clung to the handholds and let the ferryman take them across. Juliana watched the city recede, the heart of it, the life and the chaos merge into a breathtaking sight, where great buildings vied with slums.
The remnants of the Palace of Whitehall stood proud, and the building that housed the two Houses of Parliament, rickety in places, but constantly occupied, so difficult to repair. “One day the roof will collapse on the honorable members,” she observed, “in the middle of a debate.”
“That will save us a law or two,” Ash said. “But I’d wager it wouldn’t keep them quiet.”
Chapter Six
On the other side of the river, they walked a few streets down from the pier. Ash pointed. “Bedlam is in that direction. Have you ever been there?”
Juliana shook her head. “My mother considered paying a shilling to see the mad people a vulgar occupation. For once, I agree with her.”
“I’ve visited a time or two, but not to gawk. There was the case of a man sent there by his family. He was perfectly sane, but they wanted to drive him mad, perhaps cause his early death. Most unfortunate.” He paused. “He died. I could do little to help him find justice.”
“Ah. Families will do anything for wealth or power. Preferably both.”
“Wealth and power are relative, depending on your station in life. It can be as trivial as fighting over a square foot of land. Here we are.”
He stopped at the entrance to an unprepossessing building, much like the others in this street. It was the end house of a terrace and had a yard to one side. “The death house,” Ash murmured.
Outside, a shiny brass plaque proclaimed, “Hopkins and Hopkins, undertakers.”
“They prefer not to advertise the other part of their business,” Ash said. “They hold bodies pending collection, or the inquest. In this case, our victim is likely to be in the ground before the coroner gets to work.”
Juliana had not visited an undertaker before. When her first husband had died, his family preferred that she stayed away from his funeral, and she was only too keen to oblige. She had no desire to appear as the grieving widow when she was no such thing.
“Will the inquest take place here?”
“No. Probably at an inn large enough to cope with it. The barest evidence will be presented and the verdict inevitable. The murder will be a sensation, so the inquest will be crowded.”
When she shuddered, he put a hand on her arm. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head vigorously. “Not really. Was there an inquest for my husband?”
“Ah. Yes, but they kept deliberately quiet, and held it very quickly after his death. Like this affair, it is obvious that he did not suffer death from natural causes. All the coroner has to establish is that there is a case to answer, either murder or manslaughter. Someone is responsible for it, and that person must be brought to justice.”
A suspicion crossed her mind. “Did you have anything to do with the swift inquest of my husband?”
A wry grin curved his mouth for a moment. “Perhaps. After the mob had tried to destroy your father’s house, the magistrates and I thought it was in the best interests of everyone. Especially you.”
“Oh.” Should she thank him for that? She supposed so, but at the time she’d still been numb, locked inside herself, unable to comprehend what had happened.
“This is not your case,” he reminded her. “This is not your concern.”
“Of course not.” She would remember that. Men died violently every day in some part of the world. She could not relate them all to her circumstances.
Ash plied the heavy knocker. Almost immediately the door opened.
The man standing behind it had the lugubrious expression of the professional mourner. He wore a plain coat, waistcoat and breeches in dark blue, somber but not ostentatiously mourning. Appropriate, considering his profession. He bowed. “Good day. May I have the honor of knowing who is calling?”
Ash got out his card case and handed one over. “Sir Edmund and Lady Ashendon,” he said. “On beh
alf of Bow Street Magistrate’s Court.”
The man bowed again. “Mr. Hopkins is expecting someone to call. Please come this way.”
He led the way through a small but well-appointed hall to the back of the house, where he opened a door to the yard, which extended along the back and side of the house. The faint odor of horse manure betrayed the stables, where the large dray horses that led the funeral carriage would be kept, together with their accouterments. They went in the other direction, to an area covered by a canvas canopy at the side of the house. A man dressed in somber clothes similar to the manservant turned around and took the visiting card. After he glanced, he bowed. “Sir Edmund, Lady Ashendon, welcome, although I am sorry to greet you in such melancholy circumstances.”
Juliana watched, fascinated. He shaped every word precisely, his tones low and respectful. His mouth made a perfect O when appropriate, and he spoke as if he’d placed a full stop after every word. She’d never seen anyone speak quite like that. She had to concentrate to listen to him and get the meaning of what he was saying.
This place stank of death. The metallic smell of preserving fluid served as a light overlay to the cloying, mouth-filling stench of dead bodies. She’d never smelled it before, but instinctively she knew what it was. It wrapped itself around her, invaded her nostrils. She tried taking short, shallow breaths. That was a little better. Reaching behind him, Mr. Hopkins plucked a small nosegay from a vase and handed it to her. When he offered one to Ash, he shook his head. The highly scented flowers, late violets and overblown roses, helped a little. Juliana began breathing through her mouth.
“We have two of the deceased here today.”
On long tables lay the dead. A sheet, or probably a shroud, covered one from head to foot. The other lay at the other end of the shelter, the man shockingly naked, his body a strange yellowish white. Lord Coddington, or what remained of him. Juliana itched to cover him up. But at least somebody had washed him. The gore had gone, and since he lay on his back, the exit wound provided an incongruous and shocking punctuation mark on his chest.
