As he walked away, Hannah called after him, her hands wrapped around the bars of her prison. She tried to sound brave. “Brandon? The Professor won’t let anything happen. When we go to the court tomorrow, I bet she’s pretending to be the magistrate. You’ll see.”
Brandon wasn’t so optimistic. “Don’t count on it,” he warned her. But then he felt bad for scaring her again. He added quickly, “I’ll try to get you out somehow. I’ll ask Mr. Osborn for help. And I’ll pray for you.”
“I’d prefer a sledgehammer,” she said. “Or a hacksaw.”
Walking back along the High Street, Brandon felt as though someone had poured cold water through his veins. Was Hannah lying to him about stealing? He didn’t think so, but what if she was? Stealing was a terrible sin, but she certainly didn’t deserve a cruel punishment. There was no question in Brandon’s mind about what he had to do: He could not stand by and see something horrible happen to Hannah. He would have to take her side, no matter what.
He found Mr. Osborn in the church vestry, busily composing a sermon with quill pen and ink. The young curate looked up impatiently when Brandon entered. “Speak,” he commanded.
Brandon was nervous, but he explained what had happened, editing his story to take out all his doubts about Hannah’s innocence. Finally, he said with passion, “She didn’t do it, sir. I’m sure she didn’t.” As he spoke, he wondered if there was a special place in hell for kids who lie to preachers.
Mr. Osborn looked worried. “It is unfortunate that tomorrow is the day that the petty sessions will be heard, for that gives us no time to prepare a defense. If the magistrates find cause, and I am sure they will, then your friend will be committed to the county jail in Hertford to await trial.” He pronounced the town’s name “Hartford”, and for one moment, Brandon had the muddled thought that Hannah was going to Connecticut.
Now he furrowed his brow. “She thinks they’re going to take her to London.”
How very odd,” said Mr. Osborn, laying down his pen. “I wonder why. Tell me, has the girl ever been to London?”
Not in this century, Brandon thought. What he said was, “No, never.”
“If I were you,” Mr. Osborn said patiently, “I would speak again with your friend. Make haste to her now, Brandon. Find out what you can about the incident before nightfall.”
Brandon didn’t see what good this would do. Hannah had seemed as baffled as he was. “But can you help her, sir?” he asked.
Mr. Osborn shook his head sorrowfully. “You invest me with greater power than is rightfully mine,” he said. “I can advise, but that is all. Now go into town, and learn what you can.”
With a heavy heart, Brandon thanked his boss, and left immediately to retrace his steps back to Balesworth High Street.
Hannah was lying on the rough bed, curled up miserably.
“Hannah, wake up!” Brandon hissed. “Mr. Osborn says I have to get some information from you before we can help.”
Abruptly, she sat up and wiped her eyes. “Information? Like what?”
“Tell me why you’re going to London for trial,” he said. “Mr. Osborn says you should have gone to Hertford.”
Hannah pouted. “How would I know? I have no idea.” But then she thought about it, her face screwed up in concentration. “I guess it has something to do with this guy who’s accusing me, this Mr. Evans. He said I stole the silver plate from him in London . . . .” But now she felt rising panic. “I don’t understand. Why did Mrs. Jenkins call the constable? I thought she cared about me.”
Hannah was crying again, and Brandon watched silently, his mind reeling.
She was clearly exhausted, confused, and depressed. He would have to hold things together. As usual, he thought bitterly, and then he dismissed the thought as unkind. At least now, he reflected with relief, he knew that Hannah had not stolen the plate: She could not possibly have visited London since their arrival. But he also realized that nobody would investigate and find out what really happened. With a sinking feeling, he recalled reading that there were no detectives in England in 1752. There weren’t even any police officers, except for the parish constable, and he would be no professional.
Brandon decided his only choice was to be his own policeman. What would a detective do? He thought about the mystery dramas he had watched on TV. And that was when he understood that his course of action was really pretty simple, at least in theory. He would interview people, starting with the Jenkinses and Mr. Evans.
It was dark when Mrs. Jenkins opened the side door to Brandon, and she was reluctant to allow him in. However, she agreed to meet with him in the bar, and sent him round to the front entrance of the Balesworth Arms. Even then, she watched him like a hawk as he stood uncomfortably before her in the noisy barroom. She did not invite him to sit.
“Tell me why you wish to speak with me,” she said impatiently. “And make haste.”
Talking quickly, Brandon explained that he hoped to find out the truth before Hannah appeared in court. As Mrs. Jenkins listened attentively, he stressed that he was worried that there had been an injustice done. Finally, the landlady seemed to make up her mind that he was serious, and agreed to answer his questions. She led him into the kitchen, where she began kneading a large batch of dough on an oval wooden trencher.
“Ask, then,” she said to Brandon as the flour puffed into the air around her fists.
Brandon took a deep breath. “Why do you think Hannah took the plate?”
“I know not,” said Mrs. Jenkins, “I came upon it in her bedchamber.” She looked at him severely, as though he had asked a really stupid question.
He persevered. “Who does it belong to?”
“It is the property of one Mr. Evans,” she said curtly. “I do not know the gentleman. He was a stranger who lodged with us last night. As soon as he saw Hannah, he knew her as the wench who had vanished from his service in London, taking the plate with her.”
Brandon was thinking. Why would this guy claim that Hannah was his maid? It could be a fault in time, of course, so that perhaps, in some other reality, she really had been his servant . . . Unless . . . unless Evans was lying.
Brandon had watched enough old TV detective shows to know what to ask Mrs. Jenkins next. “Did he ask you anything about her before he accused her?” he said.
“No, he did not,” said Mrs. Jenkins. Then she stopped kneading, and looked at him keenly. “But he spoke with Mr. Jenkins also, and my husband may have told Mr. Evans about her.”
Politely, Brandon said, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jenkins. May I now speak with your husband?”
She dusted off her hands. “No, you may not,” she said briskly. “He has business in London. But he is to return late this week, and if he desires it, you may speak with him then.”
Brandon didn’t want to leave without more evidence. “What about Mr. Evans? Is he around?”
Mrs. Jenkins nodded. “Mr. Evans is still here, for I have offered him accommodations until the hearing tomorrow,” she said. “I shall ask him if he would speak with you.” Wiping her hands on her apron once more, she headed through the dining room, and up the stairs.
Brandon waited with bated breath. He wondered nervously what he would ask Hannah’s mysterious accuser when they met.
But Mrs. Jenkins returned alone, shaking her head. “On no account will he speak with you, Brandon. I am sorry. You may return to speak with my husband on Saturday . . .”
“But Hannah will have gone to London by then!” Brandon cried desperately.
“Yes, she will have,” Mrs. Jenkins said softly. “I am sorry for it, but I can do no more for you. I would talk of the matter with Mr. Evans myself, but he seems bound and determined to speak only in court, and he gave me to understand that he did not appreciate your prying into his affairs.”
“His affairs!” Brandon yelled. “What about Hannah?” He was almost in tears. Mrs. Jenkins looked at him sympathetically. Then she surprised him by taking him in a warm embrace. “
There, there,” she clucked. As she let him go, she took his hand and said, “Perhaps my husband can deal with this when he returns.”
Brandon wanted to believe her, but from what he had seen of Mr. Jenkins, he rather doubted it.
Mrs. Jenkins now looked very troubled. “You and Hannah are almost strangers to me,” she said hesitantly, still holding his hand. “But I admire your loyalty to the girl, and I agree that there is something most peculiar about what has happened . . . . I cannot help but wonder if there is more to the affair than I at first believed.”
Brandon thanked Mrs. Jenkins for her concern, and promised to return to interview her husband. As he walked forlornly up the High Street toward Mr. Osborn’s house, he thought with dread of the magistrates’ hearing the next morning.
A small audience of onlookers gathered for the court in the back room of the Balesworth Arms. The audience was composed of a few curious and sour-faced local women, an elderly man who rested his grizzled chin on his walking stick, and Brandon. As they waited for the proceedings to begin, Brandon occasionally spotted Mrs. Jenkins’ anxious face peeping around the door to the kitchen.
Everyone got to their feet when the magistrates finally made their entrance. Brandon was disappointed, but not surprised, to note that neither of them was Professor Harrower in disguise, as Hannah had hopefully predicted. In muttered conversation with the woman next to him, he had already learned that they were two important local men, a merchant named Mr. Rivers, and Mr. Fox, a wealthy landowning gentleman.
When the constable escorted Hannah into the room, Brandon was dismayed by her appearance. She was a mess. Her clothes were filthy, her hair was tangled, and there was a big patch of dirt smeared across her cheek. What Brandon noticed most of all, however, was that her eyes were wide with fear.
Mrs. Jenkins was called as the first witness, and she reluctantly described how she had found the plate in Hannah’s room. Brandon saw her trying to avoid Hannah’s anguished gaze. As she finished speaking, however, she turned to face Hannah, giving her a tender look, and sadly shook her head before taking a seat.
When Mr. Rivers called for Mr. Evans to testify, a tall, handsome, and smartly-wigged man rose to his feet. He told the hearing that Hannah had been his maid, and that she had absconded with his silver plate. He spoke so confidently, even Brandon would have believed him if he didn’t know better. Could Hannah really have been this man’s maid in another adventure yet to come? Stranger things had happened to them.
Suddenly, Mr. Evans was interrupted by the defendant. “Liar!” yelled Hannah, and Brandon cringed, silently willing her to keep her mouth shut. Mr. Fox sharply ordered her to be quiet, and she hung her head.
Next, it was Brandon’s turn to be called as a witness. He described Hannah as honest and hardworking, and he glanced over at her to see her eyes shining with tears of gratitude. He hoped nobody in the room could tell that he was exaggerating.
But then Mr. Rivers asked him a question. “You say, Brandon, that you and the defendant did not come to Balesworth from London. In that case, where did you come from?”
Brandon hesitated, and he saw that his silence spoke volumes to the magistrates. He knew then that they did not find him believable. And why would they? He was a mere servant, a stranger to the town.
Worse yet, there was no way he could tell the court the truth. All the same, he desperately tried to make up something. “We traveled from the Black Country, near Birmingham . . .” he said. Then his voice trailed away. To his horror, he had remembered that Hannah could not possibly back up this story: Unlike him, she had never even been to the Black Country. And, he realized with a shudder, the area probably wasn’t even called “the Black Country” in 1752, a hunch that was confirmed by one look at the obviously skeptical magistrates.
Abruptly, Mr. Fox told Brandon that no further testimony was required from him. Brandon fled back to his place in the audience, pausing only to give Hannah an apologetic look.
The two magistrates conferred in whispers, and then nodded to each other. Mr. Rivers cleared his throat, and in a ringing voice, ordered the parish constable to deliver Hannah immediately for trial at the next Quarter Sessions of the Old Bailey, London’s criminal court.
While they waited for the constable to fetch a wagon, Brandon took the chance to slip over to Hannah and comfort her. “I’ll meet you in London,” he said. “I’ll be there for you.” She nodded tearfully and squeezed his hand.
But what she said next took him completely by surprise. “Brandon, don’t. You can’t do anything for me. And I’ll be okay. The Professor will show up and make sure. You’ll see. We’ll get back together somehow.”
Brandon looked doubtful, but Hannah insisted.
As she was hustled from the inn, Hannah felt deeply afraid. Truthfully, she had wanted Brandon with her. But she had a feeling that he was supposed to go to Georgia, and that she needed to be in London.
It wasn’t an ordinary feeling, either. It was a milder version of that weird experience she had had before she time-traveled. Or was she just imagining things? Since when, she wondered, did she trust feelings, even her own?
Brandon, unaware of Hannah’s inner struggle, gazed at her with admiration as he stood with the small crowd that watched her board the wagon. She was, he thought, tougher than he had given her credit for.
Hannah’s long and bumpy journey from Balesworth took her along the Great North Road, and then through the filthy streets of the eighteenth-century city of London. She saw people using gutters as toilets, and dead animals lying in the streets. She saw two brightly-dressed and heavily made-up women fighting viciously, cheered by onlookers. She saw a workman precariously balanced on a tall ladder as he painted an elaborate shop sign, a spare paintbrush clenched between his teeth. Everywhere, she saw people and horses. Fascinating though these sights were, Hannah’s attention was mostly on the rope tying her hands together. It was chafing her wrists.
Her travels ended at the entrance of Newgate Prison, which faced the Old Bailey. “Here’s where I leave you,” said the constable shortly. “You’ll be locked up in there until your trial.” Hannah looked up in fear at this forbidding stone fortress. What terrors awaited her behind these walls?
The jailer met her at the entrance door. He was a balding small man with bulging eyes, a snub nose, and a scraggly beard, and he waved off the constable, then escorted Hannah into the jail. Roughly, he untied her hands, and she rubbed her sore wrists. “Right,” he said, “I require a fee of six shillings and sixpence for myself, and ten shillings for the steward.”
Hannah was agog. “This is a prison,” she said, looking around her in disbelief. “I have to pay to get in?”
“Only if you want to be treated right, girl,” he said unpleasantly.
But Hannah knew that if she gave away her money now she would be in trouble later: She had already learned from the constable that prison food did not come free, and she would need money to eat.
“Who’s the steward?” she asked, to buy time.
“She’s the chief prisoner of your ward, that’s what we calls the women’s cell,” the man said. “Now are you going to pay up, or aren’t you?”
Hannah decided to take a gamble. She could always change her mind. “I haven’t got any money,” she told the jailer.
He sneered at her. “You got no other ways to pay me, then?”
She shuddered at his tone. “No,” she said, her voice wobbling.
The man drew himself up. “Then I don’t think you’ll like where I’m putting you. I got a particular place for them that can’t pay, or won’t pay.” Roughly, he pushed her down a hallway, and thrust her into an enormous dark cell. Then he slammed the door behind her.
Hannah’s nose was hit with an unimaginably foul stench that almost made her throw up. At first, she could hardly see anything in the dim light. But as her eyes became used to the darkness, she saw them: women, girls, even babies, mingled together in the filthy, stinking cell. Running down the
middle of the room was a shallow watery trench, with poo floating in it. Some of the prisoners were dressed only in rags, and all of them were filthy and unwashed, with dirty faces and matted hair.
Yet there was life in this unlikely setting. A huddle of women laughed raucously as one finished telling a rude joke. Another group sat on the floor, tossing dice from a small cup, while naked toddlers ran around them giggling. Curses filled the air, so that even Hannah (who had heard plenty of bad language before) was embarrassed.
Remembering TV shows about prisons, she tried to look tough so that nobody would bother her. She found a place to sit, as far from the others as she could get, against the wall on a relatively clean bit of floor. She tucked her knees under her chin.
“Oi! That’s my place, that is,” said a girl with tangled and dirty blond hair who suddenly stood over Hannah, her hands on her hips. Hannah shrugged in reply, so the girl collapsed on the ground next to her and started pushing at her to move. She smelled terrible, and Hannah shrank away from her, as the girl kept shoving against her arm.
“Okay, okay!” Hannah protested. “Stop pushing me! Where am I supposed to sit?”
“There,” said the girl, and she pointed to a spot on the floor two feet away. Hannah moved three feet. The girl noticed. “What’s wrong? Why won’t you sit close to me?”
Hannah glared at her through narrowed eyes, her nostrils flaring. “I thought you said you didn’t want me to! Anyway, to be honest? You stink.”
The girl laughed. “’Course I do! Tell you the truth, girly, so do you.”
“My name’s not ‘girly’,” Hannah said, miffed at being told that she smelled bad. “I’m Hannah. Who are you?”
“Jane,” said the girl, hugging her knees tightly. “What you in ’ere for, then?”
Hannah frowned. “Nothing. I never did anything.”
Jane smirked. “That’s what we all says, innit? We’re all innocent in ’ere, until we’re proved guilty.”
Hannah wondered if Jane was making fun of her, but she decided not to get into an argument. She needed a friend in a place like this. “So,” she said, “why are you here?”
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 9
