“Well, you’re not usually tupping the suspects,” Vickery said bluntly. “Makes you unreliable.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hil scoffed. “I have never been unreliable in my life, no matter the circumstances.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Vickery said, nodding his head sagely. “You’ll just have to sit this one out, sir.”
“I will do no such thing,” Hil said, a warning in his voice. “You have falsely accused a woman with whom I am intimately involved with the perpetration of the most heinous crime. Not only will I defend her good name, I will find the culprit and prove you wrong.”
“You haven’t asked how he died.” Vickery brushed some dirt or lint off the table, not looking at Hil.
“All right,” Hil played along, but trepidation made the blood pound harder in his temple until it became a headache.
“Stabbed in the back, but that didn’t kill him. Wound wasn’t deep enough. He was pushed down the stairs. Broke his neck.” Vickery was looking at him now. “Sort of thing a woman does.”
Yes, yes it was. Men got their hands dirty. They used methods that were assured of success—a knife, a gun, strangulation. But women more often perpetrated murders of convenience—poison, accidents made possible by a situation.
Vickery sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped. His expression was very grave. “She’s going to hang,” he said flatly. “Unless a miracle occurs, she’s going to hang for murder. I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but there it is.”
The room spun for a moment as Hil’s stomach dropped. “You have irrefutable evidence, then?” he asked. His voice sounded far away to his own ears.
“ ’Fraid so, sir,” Vickery confirmed. “We have the argument, witnessed by quite a few of your ilk, her well-known affair with you, and witnesses who put her near the scene of the crime at about the same time we believe he died. Your Mrs. Fairchild is hiding something, sir, and she was willing to kill to keep it a secret. Mark my words.”
* * *
“Hil!” Wiley jumped up from the chair he’d been occupying in the entry of the Bow Street offices. It was obvious he’d been sitting there running his hands through his hair. Probably pulling some out, too. He looked frantic. “What did they tell you? They won’t tell me a thing. I tried to confess to the murder, but no one will believe me. They’ve all gone insane.”
“They did more asking than telling,” Hil told him ruefully. “I believe I have relieved their minds about my own involvement.” He wanted to ask Wiley if he really had done it, or found someone who would, but he knew the answer would most likely be no. He hadn’t known about Enderby’s attempt to kidnap Eleanor from the opera, either, and Hil had told him not to have Enderby killed. In hindsight, that was a decision he regretted.
“Your involvement?” Wiley asked in disbelief. “I thought they were your friends.” He fell back in his chair. “Never trust a pig.” Hil didn’t correct his offensive cant today.
“What has been going on?” Hil demanded. “Where did they take Elean— Elizabeth?” He turned to Vickery, who was standing quietly behind him, watching their exchange. “I want to see her.”
“She’s in Newgate,” Vickery said, “being processed. She’ll come before the magistrate on next Friday’s docket.”
“Ah, God,” Wiley cried out. “They’ve locked her up, Hil. You know she can’t take that. She … God.” He covered his face with one hand. “Do you know what that place is like?” He tore his hand away and gazed bleakly at Hil. “Lots of locked doors and no windows.”
“I demand to see her,” Hil told the inspector harshly. “You know I can make it happen, Vickery. Don’t force me to call in favors I’d rather leave unused at the moment.” He’d go all the way to Prinny if he had to. And he’d tell all the king’s secrets this time, if he didn’t come through for Hil. He no longer cared if the king revealed his past in retaliation. Let the ton shun him. They were a petty lot of scoundrels, not worth the dirt on Eleanor’s slippers. He stood there, glaring at Vickery, daring him to say no.
“It’s out of my hands,” Vickery told him, spreading his arms out at his sides as if to show his empty hands. “You know once we turn them over, we don’t get them back. We don’t usually see them again until the trial, unless we need to ask them more questions.” He relented. “I can contact the gaol keeper for you.”
“Get me in there today,” Hil told him. “You owe me that much. You know you do.”
Vickery sighed. “You’re going to fall hard when she hangs,” he said sadly.
“I’m not planning on falling at all,” Hil said resolutely. “Heads will roll over this, Inspector, but Mrs. Fairchild’s will not be one of them.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Please tell His Majesty that Sir Hilary St. John is here to see him.” Hil used his most imperious voice. It usually worked on the sort of underling he was addressing.
“Yes, sir,” the man said with a shallow bow, and left Hil alone in the anteroom. He’d been forced to travel all the way to Windsor to see the king, who had been growing increasingly reclusive since the death of his daughter and his mother. Traffic had been congested and slow, as usual, and it had taken half a day to get here from Bow Street. He was hardly dressed for an audience with the king, but he hadn’t wanted to take the time to go home to change. Luckily for Hil, he had a standing invitation to see the royal, which most of the king’s retainers knew and honored, regardless of the state of his clothing.
After Hil had been left to cool his heels for half an hour, a secretary appeared. “His Majesty will see you now,” he said politely, but his manner was decidedly unfriendly. So be it. Hil wasn’t here to curry favor with the king. He was here to demand payment of a long-overdue debt.
He followed the secretary down a long, ill-lit corridor and then into another anteroom, where the king sat having supper, while several members of his inner circle lounged about the room eating and talking in hushed voices. As they noticed Hil, one by one, they grew quiet. He stood in the doorway staring at each of them in turn until the silence grew uncomfortable. “Get out,” he said to no one in particular.
“See here, St. John,” the king said in a fractious tone, “this is my castle, not yours. You’ve no right to walk in here and take over. Who is king, after all?”
“Fine,” Hil agreed flatly. “I don’t mind discussing the past in front of them if you don’t.”
“Get out,” the king said as he threw his napkin onto the table and stood up. The gentlemen in the room hastened to file out, staring at Hil in amazement. Clearly they were incapable of handling the spoiled king. Hil had learned long ago how to get what he wanted out of him.
When the door closed behind the last man, the king moved over to sit on a red-velvet couch. “Sit down, Sir Hilary,” he said. “I’m too tired these days to stand my guard against you.”
He was growing fat and showing his age. Hil remembered when he was bang up to the mark, the finest Corinthian in London. Now his early excesses were taking their toll. “You need never guard against me, Your Majesty,” Hil countered smoothly. “Have I not always worked to protect your name and reputation?”
“Only if it meant your own gain,” the king countered. He knew Hil as well as Hil knew him. Strange to think their relationship was the oldest and closest in Hil’s life, when they couldn’t stand each other.
“True,” Hil said, “as is the reverse.”
At that sally, the king laughed. “True. And don’t think I won’t be getting my pound of flesh for whatever favor you’re asking today.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch. “I don’t suppose it has anything to do with Mrs. Fairchild’s arrest?”
Hil wasn’t surprised he’d heard the news already. It was juicy gossip, particularly considering his involvement with Eleanor. He’d actually counted on it. The negotiations would go much faster this way, since the king had clearly already considered his price for doing Hil a favor. “Yes, it does.�
� He said no more. Let the king say his piece first. It was always better to sit back and let one’s opponent lead, to better plan your counterattack.
The king surprised him by suddenly becoming rather maudlin of countenance. “Do you remember when you saved my life, Sir Hilary?”
“I do,” Hil said cautiously, not sure where this was going.
“I thought about killing you, to keep my secret. Did you know that?”
“It’s what any sane man would contemplate in your position, Your Majesty,” he said without anger. It was true. He would have thought about it, too.
“Why do you suppose I didn’t?” the king asked. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He waited for an answer, watching Hil.
“I was an extremely charismatic and adorable child at ten,” Hil said truthfully. “Perhaps you simply couldn’t bear to do it.”
“That is true,” the king said with a genuine smile. “You were far more clever than me. They never did find Ainsley’s body.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, sire,” Hil said. “I saved you from a stray poacher’s bullet. Not that heroic, really,” he said, reiterating the story he’d drummed into the young prince’s head nineteen years ago, after an irate husband chased the prince through the forest and tried to kill him. The prince had shot and killed the unarmed man, who happened to be the local magistrate. Hil had seen the whole thing. He’d known who the well-dressed young man was; everyone in the county knew it. He’d been attending a house party at an estate not far from the village. Hil had rushed in, settled down the frightened prince, and disposed of the body for him. He kept the prince’s secret in exchange for an education.
It had been a very good bargain for him. Over the years the prince had called on him time and again to fix untenable situations in which he’d found himself. That first secret paled in comparison to some of the others he was now privy to. He wished he could stop saving the royal pain, but he knew something about Hil, too. He knew he was the son of the local barmaid and prostitute, a penniless bastard who grew up in the gutter. By the time he’d saved the prince’s life, his mother was dead and he was on his way to becoming the sort of felon he now chased. That fateful day had changed his life. He’d never admit it, but he owed the king everything.
“Over the years I’ve regretted that decision,” the king said ruefully. “Now you are a threat to me. You know too much. I’m told I should have you executed. I’m sure I could find a reason.”
“Despite what is written about you, you are not an ogre, Your Majesty,” Hil said, not in the least concerned. “It is not in your nature to kill indiscriminately. That, I think, is why I survived all those years ago. What happened with Ainsley was a mistake, an accident. No matter how it would have looked to everyone else.”
“Damn you, St. John,” the king said without vehemence. “Even though I know you detest me, you are still the only man who can tell me I’m not awful and have me believe it.” He wagged a finger at him. “That’s why I keep you around.” He stood and walked over to look out the window, his hands behind his back. For a moment he actually looked a little bit like a king. “I made you, you know. The renowned Sir Hilary St. John, brilliant scholar, rake”—at that he looked over his shoulder with a smile and a wag of his brows—“and investigator. Mysterious, enigmatic, and infuriating.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Hil said with genuine pleasure at the description.
“I require your assistance,” the king said without looking at him. “It’s a very delicate matter, of course. However, I know I can count on your discretion.”
“Of course,” Hil said, keeping the contempt out of his voice. They were all delicate matters.
“Good. I shall send a note round to Newgate to release your Mrs. Fairchild. But only until the trial.” He turned to Hil and looked as if he genuinely regretted it. “The case has already become too notorious. I cannot acquit her. You must do that, Hilary.” He paused. “Did she do it? Did she kill him?”
“No, Your Majesty, she did not,” Hil said firmly. “And I have every intention of proving it.”
“Good, good,” the king said, looking relieved. “That will make it seem as if I was wiser than Bow Street, won’t it? I knew she was innocent when they thought she was guilty. I shall be a knight in shining armor, saving damsels in distress.” He pointed at Hil. “You make it so, St. John. I don’t need more bad press.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, let us discuss my problem and how you are going to solve it. You’re the only man around here worth a damn.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Hil said, used to his lightning mood changes. “I would be happy to assist you.” He gritted his teeth behind his smile, hoping this wouldn’t take too long.
Chapter Seventeen
Hil saw Roger pacing inside the house through the window when he finally arrived at Manchester Square. It was early morning. The sun had come up as he’d ridden back from Windsor. As soon as he dismounted, the butler, Mandrake, opened the door and stood back so he could enter. He looked very grave. “How are things going, Mandrake?” he asked quietly as he handed over his hat and gloves.
“It is an ill wind that blows through here, sir,” Mandrake replied. He sounded like a tragic Greek chorus.
“Nonsense,” Hil said with more confidence than he felt. “Has there been any word about Mrs. Fairchild?”
“No, sir, not yet.” That worried Hil. The king had better live up to his promises.
When he entered the drawing room, he saw that Roger was not alone. His barrister partner, Edward Lyttle, another Devil from their school days, was there, as were Wiley and Alasdair. At his entrance, they looked relieved. As he shook Roger’s hand, the dark circles under his friend’s eyes were noticeable. “I’ve arranged for her to stay with the gaoler and his wife in the press yard, until further plans can be made. Can you get her out?” Roger asked without preamble.
“I can,” he said. “The king owes me a favor.”
“The king always owes you favors,” Wiley said in disgust. “I wish you’d tell me what you’ve got on him.”
“That would defeat the effectiveness of blackmailing him by keeping his secret, wouldn’t it?” Lyttle asked. He was a huge man. He stood in front of a window, blocking the light, dressed in somber black, his dark hair wildly disheveled, wearing an expression like an undertaker. “Whatever you do, Hil, don’t ever tell a soul. Having a king in your pocket can be very useful.”
“He’ll only release her until the trial. He says the case is too notorious already, probably due to my involvement. What has happened since I left? Have you spoken with anyone?”
“We were all questioned,” Roger told him. “Even Harry and Julianna.”
“Damn,” he swore, his fist hitting his thigh in impotent anger.
“What?” Alasdair asked, looking as bleak as Hil felt. He sat on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped between his knees.
“I don’t know where to start.” Hil made the confession in a tight voice. He’d had hours of riding to think about it, but he had no plan. He had no idea who in London would want to kill Enderby, besides Eleanor and the people in this house. The image of Eleanor locked up in a dank cell in Newgate had haunted him to the exclusion of almost all other thought.
“We’re going to get her free, Hil,” Roger said, his voice shaking with determination. “If we cannot find the killer, then we will get her acquitted. We will. There is no other alternative.”
“We better,” Lyttle said, calmer than the others. He didn’t know Eleanor yet. “If we don’t, she’ll hang.” The other occupants of the room turned to glare at him. He held up his hands defensively. “I just want everyone here to know the stakes. This isn’t a jolly lark, helping Hil find a killer. Your Eleanor’s life is at stake. And they like to get these trials over with. Even if we get her out, it will only be for a few days. They’ll try her next week, when the court goes into session on Tuesday. If she’s found guil
ty, they’ll hang her by Saturday.”
Hil had to lean against the wall and rest his hands on his knees as he bent over, trying to clear the spots from his eyesight. “Vickery said next Friday’s docket.”
“He was wrong. The court goes in session on Tuesday, and they’ll try this one first, since it’s caught the attention of the public.”
Hil was shaking. He’d never felt so helpless. He’d blustered and bullied his way into Windsor, and made promises he had no idea how to keep.
“I will not fail her,” he said to himself, though he spoke out loud. “I will not.”
“They have to let her go today,” Roger said in a shaking voice. “Harry is inconsolable without her.”
“It won’t do for her barrister to sound frightened,” Wiley said. “I’m sure she’s scared enough as it is. Get yourself together, man, before you see her.”
“It’s just that I know what can happen,” Roger said. “I’ve seen it. They rush through these trials and, as it’s a capital crime, she’ll be executed, just as Lyttle says. She’ll be dead in less than a fortnight if I don’t do something! What am I going to tell Harry?”
“Calm down,” Hil barked, getting his own equilibrium back. “She will not hang. You and I, and Lyttle, and Alasdair and Wiley, and every other resource at my disposal will be focused on one thing and one thing only—proving she didn’t kill him. We will succeed.”
Roger moved in close, his eyes darting from side to side. “We can get her out of here,” he whispered. “Out of London.”
“You cannot,” Hil told him firmly. “You risk your own neck. Helping a convicted murderer escape is also a capital offense. What will I tell Harry as we all hang together?” Not that he hadn’t thought of the idea already. He would set plans in motion today, in case she was indeed convicted. He looked at Wiley, who was watching him closely. At Hil’s look he nodded. He knew what to do. She would not hang. Hil would die before he’d see that happen.
Devil in My Arms: A Loveswept Historical Romance (The Saint's Devils) Page 17
