“I hope you’re satisfied,” Governor Piercy says, gasping.
“How can we be sure that’s really Amelia Carlisle?” Sir Gerald’s voice sounds calm, normal; perhaps he’s seen worse sights during his voyages to far continents. But I detect a rare note of confusion, as though he doesn’t know which he prefers—that it is Amelia and justice has been served, or it isn’t her and the Daily World story about her escaping execution is validated.
“Yeah, it could be anybody,” Mick says.
Perhaps Governor Piercy, Sheriff Hargreaves, Dr. Davies, and the Reverend Starling buried someone else—a recently deceased prisoner?—in case Amelia’s death were ever questioned.
“It’s her,” Dr. Davies says in a faint, thick voice.
“How do you know?” Sir Gerald says.
“Those are her false teeth.”
Now I see that the teeth grinning inside the skull are too white and even to be real, rimmed with unnaturally pink gums. Made of porcelain and hardened rubber, they didn’t dissolve in the lime. I move the camera closer, refocus, and photograph the false teeth that belonged to Amelia, who didn’t escape the consequences of her past after all. Barrett picks up the coffin lid and slams it down over the corpse.
* * *
Sir Gerald, Malcolm Cross, Hugh, Mick, and I adjourn to a courtyard with all the others except Dr. Davies and the Reverend Starling, who have disappeared. The courtyard is cold, the fog condensing into sleet, but we breathe deeply, grateful for the fresh air. Hugh wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, looking weak and ill. He leans on Mick, the only one of us whose stomach seems unaffected. The other men’s faces have a greenish cast, but Malcolm Cross, the governor, and the sheriff wear the same gloating, self-righteous expression.
“Gentlemen and lady,” Sheriff Hargreaves says, with little bow in my direction, “can we agree that the issue of Amelia Carlisle has been resolved?”
“We can,” Sir Gerald says, his manner rigid with displeasure. No matter if he likes that Amelia got her just deserts, he doesn’t like being wrong.
Hugh and I nod. I can feel the egg on my face. Malcolm Cross hides a smile. Barrett, his mouth a thin line, won’t look at me. This is probably the last time I’ll ever see him. I won’t be able to apologize or even say goodbye. Sorrow torments me.
“I ain’t agreeing,” Mick blurts.
“Are you suggesting that we killed another woman, pulled her teeth out, and put Amelia’s false teeth in her mouth before we buried her?” Sheriff Hargreaves’s gently mocking tone makes the idea sound ridiculous.
Cross snickers. Mick flushes. The sheriff’s pitying gaze encompasses Mick, Hugh, and me. “That’s Amelia Carlisle in the coffin. Whoever told you she’s alive played a hoax on you.” His expression turns reproachful as he addresses Sir Gerald. “I think you owe Governor Piercy and me an apology for your insinuations in the Daily World.”
Anger reddens Sir Gerald’s florid face. “Sorry.” It’s obvious that he hates apologizing even more than he hates being wrong.
“Maybe now you’ll deign to tell us who gave you the tip?” Reid says to me.
I look to Sir Gerald; he nods. “It was Dorothea Fry.” We feel no compunction to protect her after her allegations led us to this humiliating moment.
Governor Piercy regards us with scorn. “You’re making that up to cover the fact that you invented the tip yourselves. Mrs. Fry is a trusted public servant; she wouldn’t tell such a lie.”
“I’d like a word with Mrs. Fry,” Sir Gerald says in an ominous tone.
“Sorry, she’s on leave,” Governor Piercy says.
“How convenient,” I say. I know why she’s absent—so she needn’t face the music after the hoax. “Did you put her up to feeding me the story about Amelia Carlisle?” I ask Governor Piercy and Sheriff Hargreaves.
“Not guilty.” Hargreaves’s smile at me contains a hint of mockery under its charm.
“Like hell you didn’t!” Mick says. “You don’t want us investigatin’ Amelia’s hangin’, so you cooked up a plan to shut us down. Now you’re hidin’ Mrs. Fry so she can’t rat on you.”
“I’m sorry you think so.” Sheriff Hargreaves manages to look regretful as well as amused.
I think Mick is right and there’s still a conspiracy of silence even though it’s not about Amelia being alive. And whatever is going on, the sheriff must be in the thick of it. I don’t want him near Catherine. But I remain silent rather than make accusations I can’t justify.
“You’re not as smart as you thought. This’ll teach you to believe everything you hear,” Reid says to me.
Before I can protest that I’d had my doubts about Mrs. Fry, a stern look from Sir Gerald warns me to keep quiet and not make matters worse. Barrett looks as if he can’t decide whether he’s angrier with Reid, or me and glares at both of us.
“You’re banned from Newgate,” Governor Piercy tells Hugh, Mick, and me. “If you come back, you’ll be arrested for trespassing.”
“Much as I would enjoy continuing this discussion,” Sheriff Hargreaves says, “it’s time to make a statement to the public.”
* * *
As we file out the main door of Newgate, cheers greet us. Sheriff Hargreaves stands on the top step while Governor Piercy, Inspector Reid, and Barrett position themselves below him to the right of the entrance, on the sidewalk against the wall of the building. To his left, I tremble as I stand with Hugh and Mick, Sir Gerald and Malcolm Cross, and my photography equipment. Constables push back the crowd that’s expanded to fill the street as far as I can see. People shout, “Was Amelia there?” Flash lamps emit explosions like gunfire; their white light blazes through the fog. I flinch from sparks raining down on me. Sheriff Hargreaves raises his hands, and the crowd subsides into expectant murmurs.
“Amelia is in her grave, exactly where she’s supposed to be,” he announces.
Most of the people in the crowd cheer, but I also hear groans of disappointment.
“She’s dead. She was executed.” Hargreaves’s voice rings out, full and rich. I can picture him performing a soliloquy on stage. “Justice has been served. We can all go home happy.”
But the crowd pushes closer, and the reporters jostle their way to its forefront. “Sheriff Hargreaves! Does this mean there’s no connection between the Warbrick murder and Amelia’s hanging?”
“No connection at all,” Hargreaves says with a pleased smile.
I still believe there is, but my credibility has been seriously damaged.
“I’m considering prosecuting the Daily World for libel,” Hargreaves says.
Sir Gerald’s expression, tight with controlled anger, increases my dread of repercussions.
“What bearing do today’s events have on the contest between the Daily World and the police?” a reporter asks.
“I can answer that.” Inspector Reid clambers onto the step beside Hargreaves and raises his voice above the noise of the crowd. “The contest is nothing but a publicity stunt gone wrong. The Daily World had no business investigating a murder. They knew they were going to lose the contest, but they didn’t want to back down, so they fabricated evidence.”
A stir sweeps through the audience. Reid is too excited to care whether he offends Sir Gerald, whose face darkens with rage. “The story about Amelia Carlisle was a hoax dreamed up by one of its reporters. A female reporter.” Reid points at me. “That’s her—Sarah Bain.”
Dismayed, I shrink against the prison wall as the attention of the crowd turns on me like a many-eyed beast. Murmured speculation sounds like predatory growls.
“But it’s no surprise that she would attempt such a hoax,” Reid says. “Her father is Benjamin Bain. In 1866, Benjamin Bain violated and murdered a little girl named Ellen Casey. He’s been a fugitive from the law ever since.”
My own past has ambushed me. I’m sick with horror, dying of shame even though I think my father is innocent. My mother taught me to keep our connection with him secret. She said that if people found ou
t that we were related to a troublemaker who organized protest marches, they would think we too were troublemakers. Now it’s as if she foresaw this moment when our secret would be revealed to the world, when I would become an object of disgust.
“What else could you expect from Benjamin Bain’s daughter?” Reid jabs his finger at me like a weapon. “Sarah Bain inherited her father’s bad blood!”
People crane their necks to get a better look at me. Hugh and Mick, indignant at Reid, move in front of me to shield me from the catcalls and disapproving stares, the cameras and exploding flashes. Stripped of my dignity, I’m furious at Reid, but it’s the helpless fury of a child overpowered by the law that branded my father a criminal. I struggle not to cry.
“Sarah Bain deceived you,” Reid tells the mob. “She did it to raise her status at the newspaper and line her own pocket. She didn’t care about you or the truth, or about the people whose reputations she smeared. She’s a selfish, ambitious, unprincipled, and immoral—”
Barrett clambers onto the step and yells, “Shut up!”
He’s defending me? It must mean he still loves me! My heart rejoices even as I rue the cost to him—escalating his own feud with Reid.
“You’re out of line, Constable,” Reid says. “Back off.”
“You leave Sarah alone!” Barrett seizes Reid by the arm and tries to pull him down from the step. Governor Piercy and Sheriff Hargreaves seem too surprised to intervene.
“Why are you sticking up for her?” Reid asks. “The little tart hoodwinked you.” As he tussles with Barrett, he shouts to the crowd, “I’m launching a manhunt for Benjamin Bain. Anyone with information about him should report it at the nearest police station.”
I’m horrified that he’s making good on his threat.
“You sonofabitch!” Barrett punches Reid in the nose.
Their strife erupts in a tornado of fists and thrashing limbs. Now I’m terrified for Barrett. Although he’s younger and stronger than Reid, and he can win this fight, he’ll surely be fired for striking his superior and making a public scene; he could even go to prison. His parents will be devastated. I can’t be glad that he’s chosen me over his career and his family honor. I rush to stop him, but Sheriff Hargreaves and Governor Piercy are already trying pull him and Reid apart. The crowd swamps me in a flood of jostling, agitating people. Reporters and photographers battle for a good view of the action. I glimpse Sheriff Hargreaves gripping Barrett in a chokehold.
“Let go of him!” Mick jumps on the sheriff’s back. “You killed Harry Warbrick! You put Mrs. Fry up to trickin’ Miss Sarah. This is all your fault, you bastard!”
Goaded by jealousy over Catherine, yelling like a wild man, he seizes the sheriff’s golden hair with one hand and punches his head with the other. Hargreaves releases Barrett and fends off Mick’s blows. I’m horrified because assaulting him is a crime for which Mick could go to jail. The heightened emotions in the air infect the crowd. Women scream. People surge around me, press me against the wall of the building. Trapped, I shout with panic.
The crowd parts as four large, strong men, clad in dark coats and hats, plow a path through it toward Newgate. I recognize them by type: they’re Sir Gerald’s bodyguards. He must have had them waiting nearby in case he needed them. One of them hustles Sir Gerald away. Another grabs my arm. I barely manage to snatch my camera before he pulls me through the mob. We turn a corner, the mob thins, and I see Sir Gerald’s carriage parked on the roadside. Sir Gerald climbs in and hoists me onto the seat beside him. Two other guards arrive with Mick and Hugh, carrying my other equipment. Mick holds his hand over his bloody nose. Hugh has lost his hat. They jump into the carriage. The guards load up my photography equipment, slam the doors, and perch on the running boards. The driver cracks the whip. As the horses accelerate from a trot to a gallop and the carriage rackets down the street, reporters chase us and yell:
“Sir Gerald, are you sorry you published the story about Amelia Carlisle?” “How does it feel to look like a fool?”
CHAPTER 18
In the carriage, I sit beside Sir Gerald, who gazes straight ahead as if he’s watching a bomb explode in the distance and knows the damage is bad. Hugh shivers in the cold, Mick wipes his bloody nose on his sleeve, and I smell a foul odor—our clothes have absorbed the reek of Amelia’s corpse. I’m glad Sir Gerald’s guards rescued us, but the dark frown on his face portends trouble.
“I’m terminating your employment,” he says.
Hugh and Mick stare at him in surprise, but I’ve always known that as soon as I ran afoul of him or outlived my usefulness, he would jettison me. On top of losing Barrett, I’m losing my job—the job that I let come between us. Sir Gerald wants to put the blame for the fiasco on someone other than himself, and while I’ve no hope for myself, maybe I can save my friends.
“Hugh and Mick had nothing to do with Mrs. Fry’s tip or what happened today,” I say.
Unmoved, Sir Gerald says, “I no longer need their services.”
“With all due respect, you’re not being fair.” Hugh’s pale cheeks redden with anger. “Sarah reported Mrs. Fry’s tip, but you decided to print the story. Without giving her time to corroborate it, I might add. She doesn’t deserve to be punished, and neither do Mick and I.”
I should have quit the day Sir Gerald started the contest, said no when he assigned me to photograph crime scenes, or never accepted employment with him in the first place. But it’s too late to refuse the glass of milk that’s now been spilled.
Sir Gerald regards Hugh with scornful pity. “Life’s not fair. I need to clean house at the newspaper to save its reputation.” And his own. “Miss Bain has to go. And so do her friends.”
“So we’re the scapegoats,” Mick says. “After all we been through because of you!”
“You chose to work for me. You accepted the terms. You knew there were no guarantees.”
This is but a reminder of everything I already knew: He’s not a generous patron; he’s a hard-hearted businessman. I knew we were living on borrowed time, but the rejection hurts nonetheless.
“The business about your father is another problem,” Sir Gerald says to me. “It didn’t matter when it was under wraps. I hired you in spite of it. Even if he’s guilty, you had nothing to do with the girl’s murder. But now that it’s come out, having you at the paper is a liability.”
Shock renders me speechless. How did Sir Gerald know the story about my father before Reid made it public? He must have investigated my background.
The carriage stops outside St. Paul’s station. “You’ll be paid through the end of the month,” Sir Gerald says.
“No skin off your nose,” Mick mutters.
My pride tells me to refuse the money, but we need it.
“What about the contest?” Hugh says.
“The contest is off.”
“Don’t you care about solving the murder?” Mick says.
“I’m leaving that to the police.” Sir Gerald’s voice contains a rare note of defeat. I sense that he’s thinking of Robin rather than Harry Warbrick, realizing that the justice he craves is a shining, elusive quarry beyond his reach. “Remember, the confidentiality agreement still holds.”
“Bugger the confidentiality agreement!” Mick says.
Menace darkens Sir Gerald’s expression. Hugh says quickly, “Our lips are sealed.”
We climb out of the carriage and unload my photography equipment. Now I’m too numb to feel anything but a desire to go home.
Mick gives Sir Gerald a bitter look. “I used to think that underneath everything you were a good man. I was wrong.”
Sir Gerald regards Mick with a blend of pain and reproach, as though he’s the injured party. He says to me, “Develop the photographs. I’ll have them picked up tonight.” He shuts the carriage door and rides away.
* * *
At home, in our rooms, Hugh, Mick, and I shed our stinking clothes. Fitzmorris bundles them off to the laundry before they can contaminate t
he house. We take ice-cold baths instead of waiting for water to heat. When I’m done, I’m shivering so hard that my teeth chatter. I dry my wet hair by the fire, then go to my darkroom to develop the photos of Amelia Carlisle’s exhumation. Transferring negative plates from one tray of chemical solutions to the next in pitch darkness, my last job for the Daily World, I’m not glad there won’t be any more summonses to crime scenes or grisly sights to photograph. We’ve lost our livelihood. Enlarging and printing the images by the light of the red gas lamp, I think of Barrett, and tears burn my cold cheeks. I hang the damp prints on pegs on the string stretched over the sink, wishing I didn’t have to leave the darkroom and face the world.
Hugh and Mick are waiting for me in the dining room. It’s four thirty, already dark outside. We’ve missed lunch, but not even Mick is hungry. Fitzmorris pours cups of scalding tea, which we sip gratefully. His somber face says that he’s been told the bad news. Hugh asks the question that’s on my mind.
“How long can we stay afloat?”
We all turn to Fitzmorris, who manages our finances. He sits down, looking glum. “About three months.”
That’s even less time than I thought. Mick puts on a cheerful face and says, “Don’t worry—I can get a job in a factory.”
I don’t want to seem unappreciative, but I can’t pretend that’s a viable solution. “It won’t pay enough to support us.”
“We can revive our detective agency,” Hugh says.
We need to face reality. “After the news about today spreads, who will hire us?”
“You still have your photography studio,” Fitzmorris says.
Although he could find another position, I know he doesn’t want to leave Hugh, who’s as much a beloved younger brother to him as his master. “I haven’t any clients,” I say, vexed at myself for letting Sir Gerald monopolize my time. It was easier to coast on the salary he paid us than to get a fledgling business off the ground. “And after today, I’m not likely to get some.”
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