by Killigrew of the Royal Navy (Killigrew RN) (retail) (epub)
‘Does it come to fighting?’
‘Indeed, yes. They’re a rough crowd, the slavers: murderous scum who’ll stop at nothing.’ And the only way to beat them is to play by their rules, he found himself thinking.
He felt a raindrop on the back of his hand, then another on his cheek. ‘It’s starting to rain,’ said Eulalia.
‘Let’s get the top up,’ he suggested, unclipping the folded-down hood.
‘Let me do it,’ she insisted. ‘I’m afraid there’s a knack, and if you’re not careful you’ll tear… oh!’ she finished, as he raised the hood effortlessly and clipped it into place. She laughed. ‘Oh, Kit! You really are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because you’re too good to be true. Are you going to stand there all day and get soaked?’ she added, opening the door for him.
‘I’m not sure it would be seemly of me…’
‘Don’t be silly. Look, here comes Giles,’ she added, nodding to where her coachman emerged from the tea shop. ‘He can chaperone us.’
Killigrew climbed in beside her while the coachman took his place on the driving board and got soaked. ‘Where to, ma’am?’
‘Better take me back to my club,’ said Killigrew. While he would have been happy to spend all day in Eulalia’s calash, he was concerned for her reputation despite the presence of her coachman, although inside he despised the new-found prudery of Society and longed for the days of the old King’s reign, when a gentleman might do as he pleased and Society be damned. ‘The Army and Navy, in St James’s Square.’
The coachman glanced at Eulalia, who nodded, and he flicked the tip of his whip at the backs of the horses. They clipped through the rain-soaked streets at a comfortable pace.
Killigrew found himself staring at Eulalia until she blushed, but he could not take his eyes from her face. ‘What are you staring at?’ she asked at last.
‘A Kit may look at a queen.’
She smiled; he knew it was a bad joke and worthy of no more, and appreciated the fact that she did not go out of her way to laugh at the jest. She was a rare woman, of that there was no doubt. When so many of Society’s young ladies were brought up to be brainless girls interested only in home-making, it was a delight to meet someone like Eulalia who had a brain to match her looks and was not afraid to let it show. He suddenly realised that if he and Napier went ahead with the rear-admiral’s plan to get Killigrew shunned by Society, then he would feel unhappy about it. Like her, he did not much care what Society thought of him, but the notion of being in her ill-graces was more than he could bear.
Could it be that he was in love with her?
Of course he was. Hopelessly, stupidly, pointlessly. Had she not said she was in no hurry to get married? But then neither was he. Was there any chance she would wait for him?
Of course not, if Napier’s plan worked.
‘Eulalia?
‘Mm?’
‘If something happened… if I were accused of some terrible crime, and found guilty and shunned by Society, would you think any the less of me?’
‘What a strange question! Well, I suppose it would depend on the crime… and whether or not you had committed it.’
It was an intelligent response, as he would have expected of her. ‘But would you believe in my innocence when everyone else was convinced of my guilt?’
‘Of course.’
‘You say that, but is it just because you think that is what I want to hear?’
She laughed. ‘When have you ever known me to say something just because I thought it might please you to hear me say it?’
‘True,’ he admitted with a rueful grin.
‘Why, have you done something… or rather, been accused of something?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not yet?’ she echoed, and then dug an elbow into his ribs. ‘Oh, you’re just teasing me!’
The calash pulled up in St James’s Square. ‘Here I must take my leave of you,’ said Killigrew, climbing out into the rain. ‘Perhaps I can see you again some time?’
‘I’ve taken a box at Her Majesty’s for the Season. My father and I are going with some friends to see Jenny Lind in Roberto il Diavolo next month.’ Already celebrated on the continent, the silvery voice of the Swedish Nightingale had London Society in a froth of anticipation. ‘I’m sure I can squeeze you into my box,’ she added.
‘I can think of no way I’d rather spend an evening.’
‘I’ll have an invitation sent round,’ she told him, and ordered the coachman to drive on. Killigrew stood there on the pavement outside the Army and Navy Club and grinned like an idiot as the rain dripped from the brim of his hat until the calash had disappeared from view. Only then did he realise he was getting soaked through by the rain, and he hurried up the steps and into the club.
The porter looked up from where he sat in his lodge, and the expression on his face when he recognised Killigrew told the young lieutenant that something was wrong. ‘There’s a couple of gentlemen here to see you, sir,’ explained the porter, the tone of his voice implying that he considered the visitors to be anything but gentlemen. ‘I told them you were out and asked them to leave their cards, but I’m afraid they insisted on waiting.’ He jerked his head to where two men sat on chairs in the lobby.
Both wore greatcoats and hats; one was a stout man of middle height, aged about sixty, with sharp eyes set in a round face, and half-whiskers; the other a red-headed, bony man with a turned-up nose. ‘That’s quite all right, Josephs,’ Killigrew said, as the two men rose to their feet. He went to greet them.
‘Mr Killigrew?’ asked the sharp-eyed man. ‘I’m Inspector Blathers, and this here’s Sergeant Duff. We’re from the Detective Department at Scotland Yard. We’re given to understand that you may be able to assist us in our inquiries into the death of a young flower-girl who was knocked down on Pall Mall earlier today.’
‘Oh, that business. Yes, I shall be delighted to give you whatever help I may.’
‘Would you mind accompanying us to Bow Street Police Court?’
‘Is that really necessary? I’m soaked to the skin and I wouldn’t mind changing out of these wet things. Couldn’t I drop by later to give you a description of the man responsible?’
Blathers and Duff exchanged glances. ‘Oh, we already have a full description of the man. And his name.’
‘His name? Why, that’s splendid! Fast work, I must say. Who is he?’
‘The name we’ve been given is Mr Christopher Killigrew.’
Chapter 9
The Pall Mall Child-Killer
‘This is ridiculous!’ Killigrew protested as he was pushed forcibly into the cell at Bow Street Police Court. ‘I was there, yes, but it wasn’t I who drove the gig. Ask Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Napier. He was there; he saw the whole thing. He’ll vouch for me.’
‘We already have,’ said Blathers. ‘As a matter of fact, he was the one who gave us your name.’ He slammed the cell door, turned the key in the lock, and walked away.
‘Gave you my…’ stammered Killigrew, and then felt relief flood through him. At last what had seemed like a terrible misunderstanding had been explained. The rear-admiral was certainly a fast worker; but then, the timing of the girl’s death had been too good to ignore. It was notoriously difficult to find witnesses in such cases; the only man who could deny that Killigrew was responsible was the driver of the gig, and he was unlikely to come forward.
It was perfect. If a gentleman like Killigrew pleaded guilty to manslaughter then he had every chance of being let off with a hefty fine – which suddenly struck him as unfair, although now was hardly the time to complain – but the repercussions would be more far-reaching. The navy would dismiss him for conduct unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman, and Society would shun him as a child-killer.
As would Eulalia.
He felt a momentary pang. But she would believe in his innocence – wouldn’t she?
And then he could inveigle his way aboard the Madge Howlett, and with any luck return to England a few months later, honour redeemed, to have his rank restored and, he hoped, able to point the finger at whoever was behind the slavers.
Assuming, of course, he was let off with a fine. Assuming he was successful in joining the crew of the slavers. Assuming the slavers did not see through the imposture and slit his throat and throw his body overboard as soon as the Madge Howlett was out at sea.
Killigrew realised he was not alone in the cell. He turned in time to see three heavily built men rise from the bench. They were not smiling. ‘So, you’re the bastard who killed that little girl on Pall Mall today?’ snarled one.
Killigrew guessed that now was probably not the time to plead guilty. Such men rarely found themselves in a position where they could beat up a member of the gentry – assuming they were not rampsmen who did so for a living, which was not entirely improbable from the look of them – and any man would naturally want to inflict some kind of punishment on someone guilty of such a crime. ‘Accused,’ he said. ‘There is a golden thread running through British justice which says a man is innocent until proven guilty—’
Two of the men quickly moved forwards, grabbed Killigrew by the arms and slammed him back against a wall while the third rammed his fists repeatedly into his stomach. Fire exploded in Killigrew’s midriff. A fist smashed into his face and threw his head back against the wall, cracking his skull. His eyes rolled up in his head and the two men released him, allowing him to slump to the floor, then the third kicked him in the mouth.
‘That’ll teach you not to go around killing little girls,’ he snarled.
Killigrew tried to get up but a boot slammed into his side and he collapsed to the floor again.
‘Break ’is bleedin’ neck, ’Arry.’
As the man came at him again, Killigrew barely managed to roll away from the blow. He spat out a mouthful of blood and crawled into the far corner.
‘Still got some fight left in you, eh?’ snarled Harry.
Killigrew pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and turned in time to see Harry swinging a fist at his head. Then the rampsman’s eyes widened in shock as Killigrew’s hand came up as fast as a striking cobra and stopped the fist in its tracks. Killigrew closed his fingers over the fist, squeezing tightly until Harry gasped, and then began to twist. Harry turned away from him in an effort to relieve the pressure on his shoulder, and Killigrew punched him in the kidneys.
Harry fell to the floor with a grunt. One of the other men came at Killigrew. The naval officer punched him in the stomach once and the man doubled up in winded agony. Killigrew hit him on the back of the neck and lifted his knees into his face. The man lay still.
Killigrew glanced at the third man, who backed into the furthermost corner and raised both hands placatingly. Killigrew knew he need expect no more trouble from that quarter. He glanced down at his trousers. There was blood where he had kneed the second man in the face, and the fabric had ripped. ‘Damn it!’
‘My missus’ll mend it,’ offered the third man. ‘Be good as new, it will. I’ll give you her address.’
* * *
‘Mr Killigrew?’ called the gaoler. ‘You made bail.’
Killigrew looked up in surprise from where he sat on the bench in the cell. ‘No I didn’t!’ he protested. He had been in the police cell for nearly a week now and his clothes were ragged and filthy. Bail had been posted at a hundred guineas, the same amount that Napier owed him after their wager, but as an impecunious naval officer Killigrew preferred a couple of weeks’ board and lodging at Her Majesty’s expense and some cash in hand at the end of it.
The gaoler was not having any of it, however. ‘Come along, Mr Killigrew. There’s a gentleman waiting to see you.’
The gentleman was the lawyer who had posted his bail, a burly, prematurely-balding man with deep-set eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. He gave Killigrew his card. ‘May I ask the name of my benefactor?’ asked Killigrew.
‘You may ask,’ said the lawyer. ‘But I can only reply that I am not at liberty to divulge my client’s name.’
‘My grandfather,’ guessed Killigrew. ‘Probably worried that I’ll bring the family name into disrepute.’
‘I could not possibly comment on that,’ said the lawyer, gnawing the side of a forefinger. ‘However, I have been instructed to engage Sir Abraham Haphazard, QC, MP, to speak at your trial.’
‘But you cannot instruct a barrister to act as my counsel without my consent.’
‘True.’
‘Then you may kindly inform your client that it is my intention to conduct my own defence.’ Even if the danger of being acquitted had not been entirely at odds with Napier’s plans, Killigrew would not have accepted help from his grandfather even if his life had depended on it.
‘That is entirely your prerogative,’ admitted the lawyer. ‘Although if I were your lawyer then I should advise you against it. Still, you seem to be a young man who knows his own mind. If that is your last word on the subject, it remains only for me to inform my client that I have done everything within my power to carry out his instructions. Good day to you, Mr Killigrew.’
* * *
‘Mr Killigrew, you are hereby charged with manslaughter; to whit, that on Friday the fourteenth of April in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-seven, while incapacitated through over-indulgence in alcohol, you did drive down Pall Mall in a gig with wilful negligence, and that furthermore by doing so your actions resulted in the death of Elizabeth Williams, a minor. How do you plead?’
Killigrew rose to his feet. ‘I wish to lodge a plea of guilty to both charges, m’lud, but would also like to plead mitigating circumstances.’ He glanced up towards the gallery. Eulalia was there with her father and Eustace Tremaine, although as soon as Killigrew announced his guilty plea the three of them rose to their feet with expressions of disgust on their faces. Killigrew knew he could not blame them for their reaction, but it was still a knife in his heart that Eulalia could really think him guilty of such a crime.
‘Very well,’ said the judge. ‘Does the counsel for the prosecution still wish to call its witnesses?’
The counsel for the prosecution stood up and bowed. ‘If it pleases m’lud, counsel for the prosecution would like to demonstrate that there are no acceptable mitigating circumstances for a crime so heinous as that of which Mr Killigrew now stands accused.’
‘Very well. Pray continue.’
Killigrew stood in the dock feeling dazed. He knew that in effect the whole trial was no more than a sham, although the fact that he was the only one who knew so was not very reassuring. His only consolation was the sealed letter from Napier brought to him by the solicitor appointed on his behalf. The letter had briefly confirmed that this was all part of the plan, and that while no one except himself and Napier knew the truth of the matter, Chief Justice Denman – the father of the author of the Instructions for the Guidance of Her Majesty’s Naval Officers Employed in the Suppression of the Slave Trade – had assured Napier that if Killigrew pleaded guilty then he was unlikely to receive any sentence tougher than a fine of a few guineas, which Napier had agreed to pay – admittedly out of the money he owed following Killigrew’s final shot in their game of billiards.
‘Call the first witness.’
‘Will Mr Simon Gubbins please take the stand?’
An elderly and filthy-looking man entered, evidently unnerved by his surroundings, and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Killigrew was glad that as the accused he had not been sworn in; he was not much of a church-going man, but even so he would have been uncomfortable about perjuring himself on the Bible, albeit in a noble cause and at no one’s expense but his own.
‘You are Mr Simon Gubbins, of Blue Gate Fields, London?’ asked the counsel for the prosecution.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And can you tell us where you were at ten minutes to three last Wednesday?’
>
‘Yes, sir. I was on Pall Mall. Looking for pure.’
‘And did you see the incident—’
The judge held up a hand, interrupting the counsel for the prosecution, and leaned forward to address the witness. ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that? What were you looking for?’
‘Pure, your honour. Dog-muck. That’s what I do. I’m a pure-finder.’
The counsel for the prosecution closed his eyes as if in pain. Normally he would ask his witnesses what they did for a living if the respectability of their profession would lend credence to their testimony. Mr Gubbins being a pure-finder, the prosecution had felt that his profession was best left unmentioned, unless the defence were so crass as to raise the issue.
‘Let me make sure I understand you correctly,’ said the judge. ‘You were looking for excrement?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘And what did you intend to do once you had found it?’
‘Why, put it in me bucket, your honour. That’s what I always do. Then, when I’ve got a full bucket, I takes it down to one of the tanneries in Southwark. They’ll give you a good price if it’s the right kind of pure. They like the white, limey kind best of all; they use it in puring the leather, I’m told, though I ain’t never seen it done myself. That’s why we calls it “pure”.’
‘And this is how you make your living?’
‘Yes, your honour. It may not be much of a living, but it keeps the wolf from the door.’
‘That’s as maybe, but I don’t think I shall ever feel comfortable in the saddle ever again,’ said the judge, and a polite titter ran around the court. ‘Pray continue with the cross-examination of your witness,’ he told the counsel for the prosecution.
‘Thank you, m’lud. Mr Gubbins, did you see Elizabeth Williams knocked down?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And did you get a good look at the man driving the gig which knocked her down and ran over her?’
