“Will you get in trouble for it?” Wiley asked. “You can’t lose your position over it.”
“I don’t give a damn about his position,” Hil snapped. “I will pay him a handsome income for the rest of his days if it gets Eleanor out of this mess.”
“Well, sir,” Lavender said, “I might take you up on that some day. But not now. Lot of eyes turned the other way on this one. A lot of us owe Sir Hilary, and that’s been made clear.”
“Then why the bloody hell did they arrest Eleanor in the first place?” Hil cried out in frustration.
“Not really sure who she was,” Lavender said apologetically. “Vickery’s awful sorry for that. But all the clues pointed to her. And nob had a bit of money, didn’t he? Questions were going to be asked. Already were being asked.”
“Either way, there will be a handsome reward for the capture of the real killer. You all will be compensated,” Hil said. He held up a hand to stop their protests. “No. I insist. I realize that helping me is taking you away from your other duties.” He paused, something Lavender had said just a moment ago striking him suddenly. “All the clues pointed to her,” Hil said thoughtfully. “They do, don’t they?” He tapped his finger on the table beside him. “Someone had to know her, or about her. They either knew her and knew Enderby was her husband, or they saw the altercation at the opera. Because they were following her? I wasn’t there. Could it be about Eleanor?”
Wiley was shaking his head. “If they knew either of those things, I’d bet my hat it was in relation to you. They went after her to hurt you.”
“Why are you so sure?” Hil asked. “How can we be sure?”
“We can’t,” Townsend said. “But we must pick a direction. And I agree with the boy, it seems more likely you were the target. Enderby was the only one to have a grudge with your girl, Sir Hilary. But we can’t even narrow down the number of miscreants who would love to see you suffer.”
“Thank you,” Hil said drily.
“I’ll look into anyone who might have a bone to pick with Mrs. Fairchild,” Ruthven said, sounding brisk and efficient. “That will leave the rest of you to focus on Sir Hilary’s enemies. Who’s got a list for me?”
“I’ll make one,” Hil said, walking out the door, heading for his study. “It will be short.” He returned in minutes with a list of several names. “These are the only people in London who bore Eleanor a grudge, that I know of. And most are womanish things. She tells me several women were upset that I had taken up with her, jealous, that sort of thing.”
Ruthven chuckled. “Well, you are the catch,” he joked, making a long face at all the others in the room, who laughed with him.
Hil took their teasing with a good nature. “I quite agree,” he said, laughing. “Women are such an odd sort. Throwing their feelings about at fellows who don’t return them, and mooning and crying over them as if they’d had a great love affair. I shall never understand it.”
“Then I’m off,” Ruthven said, peering at the list, “to see a Mrs. Deeds and her daughter.” He glanced at Hil with unconcealed mirth. “Another hopeful missus?”
Hil shuddered. “Not as long as I’m in my right mind.”
“Well, we’ve bloody lost that battle, then,” Wiley said sarcastically. “She’ll be booking the church.”
“I’ll make sure they understand that it was Sir Hilary who sent me,” Ruthven called out as he left, to the guffaws of the other men.
“Now, then,” Hil said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get down to this business of the night watchman.”
* * *
While Wiley and Lavender went in search of the errant watchman, Hil and Taunton revisited the missing family members in Hil’s cases. After several hours of tracking, it was learned that the wife of the convict who was still in Newgate for blowing up a factory had remarried a veteran of the Fifty-Third Regiment of Foot—without benefit of divorce—and moved to Shrewsbury. Hil couldn’t help wishing Eleanor had been as willing to circumvent the law. He returned home and sent off a letter to the local magistrate to confirm the information, but it was quite frustrating to know he would not receive an answer before Eleanor’s trial.
There were still two missing individuals who had sworn vengeance upon Hil for the arrest of their loved ones: Anthony Weekes Jr., an accountant whose father, also an accountant, was transported for theft after he was caught stealing from his employer, and Bethesda Merrygood, the daughter of a woman executed for poisoning her second husband for his money. Miss Merrygood was now Mrs. Coulier, but that was all they knew. Her husband had been as mysterious as she, a French Canadian whom she’d met and married within a week, and then disappeared. Hil was relatively sure Coulier had taken his new wife back to Canada, but so far no one could confirm that.
“Have you seen this?” Taunton asked, tossing another broadsheet onto Hil’s desk.
Hil pushed it aside. “I haven’t got time for that nonsense right now.”
“Make time,” Taunton said. He pushed it back.
With a sigh, Hil picked it up and saw it was a drawing of their misadventure on Leicester Street the other day. It was more realistic than the caricatures he’d seen before. It showed Hil holding a fainting, injured Eleanor in his arms as he crouched on the sidewalk. The look on his face in the drawing was tender. Eleanor was looking back at him with a devoted look on her tearstained face. The caption again read, “The Damsel and the Devil,” and below in parentheses it said, “Or the Angel and the Saint?” But the most interesting thing was the man standing behind him. It was the man who’d pushed them. He had a frightening countenance, distorted with glee and evil as he witnessed their suffering, but Hil recognized him all the same. And so had the artist of the drawing. He’d stake money on it.
“Who drew this?” he demanded, standing up.
“It isn’t bad,” Taunton said. “Shows public opinion turning in her favor.”
“It isn’t that,” Hil said. He pointed to the man standing behind him. “Look.”
“Is that him, then?” Taunton asked, peering over his shoulder. “Good likeness?”
“A perfect likeness,” Hil answered excitedly. “Good enough to show around and find out if this is Anthony Weekes Jr.”
“What makes you think it is?” Taunton asked.
“We were on our way to see him,” Hil explained. “We were going to Fleet Street, where he had an office and lodgings. He intercepted us.”
“Perhaps,” Taunton said, unconvinced. He pointed at the signature at the bottom. “Looks like George Cruikshank. He must like you. Usually does caricatures. Very good ones.”
“Yes, he’s done some of me before,” Hil said, distracted. “We must go speak with him. I want to know what he saw.”
“Let’s go,” Taunton said, already heading for the door. “It’s nice to finally have something that resembles a clue here.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Hil muttered as he followed. “At last.”
Before they made it out the door, Lavender and Wiley returned. Between them marched a large man, whose size was incongruent with the meek and confused look on his face. His head was small for his body, his eyes and nose resembling a pig. Hil was instantly alert and met them at the door. “The watchman?” he asked eagerly. He held out his hand to Lavender and the runner shook it.
“Yes, sir,” Lavender said. “Sir Hilary St. John, may I introduce you to Mr. Charles Unger, the nightwatch in Ludgate.”
“Mr. Unger,” Hil said with satisfaction, shaking the befuddled man’s hand. “I’ve been searching for you.”
“I know,” he said, “but can’t imagine why. The whole business is strange, I tell you. First they tell me don’t talk to no one. Now they tell me to talk to you. Haven’t been home in days, since this whole murder mess began. Bad business, murder,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No good can come of it.”
“No, indeed,” Hil said. The impression he was getting of Mr. Unger made Hil cautiously optimistic. He didn’t appear to be d
eceitful, or the kind of man to take a bribe to lie about what he’d seen. He seemed genuinely distressed by the whole affair. He waved Mr. Unger into the library. He knew the room was intimidating. A large, round room, the walls were filled with books from floor to ceiling. Windows lined one wall, and there were strategically placed tables and chairs around the room to invite cozy chats. In the center, in front of the fireplace, was a central conversation area with two large sofas and several chairs. It was to this central point that Hil took Mr. Unger. “Please have a seat, Mr. Unger,” he said graciously. “Let me explain.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Sir,” the crown prosecutor said, addressing the magistrate, “the crown charges Mrs. Elizabeth Fairchild with homicide in the death of Mr. Jacob Enderby.”
Eleanor flinched in the dock as the charge was read. It was a bleak morning outside, with gray skies portending a storm. Inside, things were not much better. The courtroom in the Old Bailey, just across from Newgate, was dark and the air close, the lack of sunlight quite pronounced. She desperately longed for an open window, and was suppressing her panic over her surroundings with a great deal of difficulty. She wore her prisoner’s garb, her request to change into her own clothes having been denied. She felt exposed and shabby there in front of the court, but she straightened her shoulders and faced the magistrate calmly. She snuck a peek at Roger and caught herself biting her lip. She stopped immediately. Roger and Mr. Lyttle had warned her about any outward appearance of guilt.
She faced the magistrate rather than the spectators. Roger said it was a sign of respect that the magistrate would appreciate, and also the sign of a lady, who would abhor the sort of spectacle this was to become. The magistrate appeared to be an older man, perhaps fifty or more. It was hard to tell under his wig, and the room was too dark to see clearly. The crowd was noisy, and at the reading of the charge became more so. Murmurs became shouts. She tried to block them out and concentrated on the magistrate, Roger, and Mr. Lyttle. She couldn’t bear to look at the prosecutor, afraid she’d glare at him for being so stupid as to believe she’d kill that wretched oaf, Enderby.
“Free the lady!” came a shout from the gallery. The voice was young and reeked of St. Giles.
“Hang the strumpet!” was the rather strident, upper-class reply.
“I must have silence in the gallery,” the magistrate, Sir Robert Baker, called out angrily to the crowd. “Anyone disrupting these proceedings will be removed.” He turned an irate stare on Eleanor, as if she’d incited them. She kept her face calm, but her hands clenched in her shackles. “Madam, how do you plead?”
She didn’t answer. Roger had told her that she must let him and Mr. Lyttle speak for her unless she was on the witness block. She turned her eyes to them now, silently begging them to take over.
“The accused pleads not guilty, sir,” Roger said respectfully.
“I see,” the magistrate said, sounding rather grim. “Then let us proceed. I’ve no wish to prolong these proceedings. The crown has no time for such tomfoolery.”
Well, that didn’t sound promising. Eleanor allowed herself one glance at the crowd, searching for Hilary. He hadn’t come. Perhaps he had a clue to follow up. Perhaps he was even now bringing the culprit in. She prayed fervently that it was so. Her shackles made it awkward to look down at the note crushed in her hand, but she managed it. He’d sent it with Roger this morning. “Would that I could give all and more,” he’d quoted in his elegant, flowing script, “my life, my world, my thoughts, my arms, my breath, my future, my love eternal, endless, infinite, yet brief, as all loves are and hopes, though they endure. You are my sun and stars, my night, my day, my seasons, summer, winter, my sweet spring, my autumn song, the church in which I pray, my land and ocean, all that the earth can bring, of glory and of sustenance, all that might be divine, my alpha and my omega, and all that was ever mine. Yours, Hilary.” Only Hilary would send a love sonnet by Shakespeare on a day like today. And, oh, how she’d needed it.
“Sir,” the crown’s prosecutor said, “we have submitted statements from reliable sources that the accused was seen arguing with the deceased the evening of his death. She was also seen by the watchman in the vicinity of the homicide the night it occurred.”
“That certainly seems to be enough for a conviction,” the magistrate said. “Before I pronounce the sentence, Mr. Templeton, do you have anything to add?”
Eleanor’s heart was beating so fast she felt dizzy and had to grab on to the rail around the dock to stay upright. Spots danced before her eyes. So quickly? Surely not. Roger had warned her that the judge might do this. She had to trust him and Mr. Lyttle. They said that they would take care of it. They said they would. She tried to take a deep breath and then another.
“Yes, sir. I respectfully request the right to question the prosecution’s witnesses in court.” Roger’s voice was strong and self-confident. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
“Do you question the sincerity and integrity of the crown in this case, Mr. Templeton?” the magistrate asked, annoyed. “Surely their word as to the veracity of the witnesses is enough.”
“Of course, sir, the crown’s word is reliable. But since that august gentleman is so very trustworthy, I fear he may take the reliability of his witnesses for granted, expecting the same honesty and integrity of them that he himself possesses. Many great men have fallen before such ill-treatment, I’m afraid. It would set my mind at ease, and I’m sure the court’s mind, before pronouncing judgment on one of the fairer sex, to ascertain for ourselves the reliability of the men sending her to her death.”
The court gasped. It was clear Roger had deliberately spoken of her death to grab the attention of the crowd, and to shame the judge into allowing his request. Eleanor bit her lip and closed her eyes, and prayed that it would work.
There was a clicking sound, as if the judge was tapping his fingers against his bench. “Granted, Mr. Templeton,” he said at last, though he sounded very unhappy about it. “Have you witnesses of your own to call, as well?” His sarcasm was like a knife against her skin, making it crawl. He did not sound like he was willing to entertain any contradictory evidence.
“If it would please the court, yes, we do,” Roger said smoothly. Eleanor wasn’t sure who he planned on calling to testify on her behalf. He’d told her not to worry about that, either.
“Where is the first witness?” the magistrate asked.
“Sir, I must protest,” the prosecutor said, but it sounded perfunctory. “The witnesses have already given of their time, when we took their statements. To expect more is certainly onerous and beyond their expectations.”
“But it is not beyond the expectation of this court that a witness can and shall be called forth to testify in person to the statements given concerning the case,” the magistrate said sharply. “Far be it from this court to impose on your time or theirs, Mr. Burns, but as Mr. Templeton pointed out, a lady’s life is at stake. So, perhaps you might convince them to offer just a bit more time to justice, hmm?”
Eleanor quickly looked at Roger with wide eyes. It appeared the judge was coming around to their side. Roger didn’t look at her, but merely observed the exchange between the magistrate and the prosecutor with an ambivalent expression.
“Of course, sir,” the prosecutor said. “With utmost respect for this court, the first witness is Mr. Reginald Tinsley.”
Eleanor was taken aback. Mr. Tinsley? Why, she’d danced with him, though Harry had made a face behind his back. He’d apparently made some untoward remarks about her and Roger before they were married. But he’d been all that was pleasant at the time. He’d asked her again later, but she’d declined; having already taken up with Hil, she had no desire to dance with anyone else.
He slid through the open gate from the gallery onto the witness block, where he stood smiling before the magistrate. He wore gold and peacock blue. Eleanor thought it in very bad taste for a court case of this seriousness. Black or a subdued brown would
have suited the proceedings far better. From the look on the magistrate’s face, he agreed.
“Mr. Reginald Tinsley?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Tinsley simpered, smiling at him as if they shared a secret.
“Sir or Sir Robert will do,” the magistrate drawled. “Do you understand the purpose of these proceedings?”
“I do,” Tinsley said, his face very grave.
“Good. Do you know the prisoner?”
“Yes. I met Mrs. Fairchild about six months ago, and have seen her off and on around London since.”
“Please tell the court what you witnessed in relation to the homicide of Mr. Jacob Enderby.”
“I saw him chasing Mrs. Fairchild down the hallway at the opera,” he said, as if relating the latest gossip. “She was running for her life, screaming out Mr. Templeton’s name.”
The magistrate squinted at him. “Mr. Templeton’s? Why?”
“Well, because he’s her cousin’s husband,” Mr. Tinsley said. “Didn’t you know? And she’d been staying with them for months.”
The magistrate looked at Eleanor with a calculating eye, and then cast the same look upon Roger. “Go on,” he said to Mr. Tinsley.
“She ran into their box at the opera. Well, the Sharps’ box. They were there with Mr. Alasdair Sharp and his wife. I saw Mr. Enderby run in after her and then I heard angry shouts. A moment later, Templeton shoved Mr. Enderby out of the box and they exchanged sharp whispers, shoving at one another. Finally Mr. Enderby stalked off, escorted by theater attendants, but he told Mr. Templeton, ‘I’ll be back.’ Very dramatically, just like that,” he concluded.
“Where was Mrs. Fairchild during all this?” Sir Robert asked.
“I suppose in the box with Mrs. Templeton and Mr. and Mrs. Sharp,” Tinsley said. “I didn’t see her again after she ran into the box, until Mr. Enderby was gone. Then they all bustled out as fast as they could.”
“So the argument you witnessed was actually between Mr. Templeton and Mr. Enderby, and not between Mrs. Fairchild and Mr. Enderby?” Sir Robert asked.
Devil in My Arms: A Loveswept Historical Romance (The Saint's Devils) Page 21
