The handsome Basher McBride, with his mesmerizing voice, was busy making the case that Ruthie had done it. Ruthie couldn’t afford a defense, so she was here on her own in the dock, thin and small for her age, a maid who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bertie could only clench her fists and pray for a miracle.
McBride, despite his dire statements, had a delicious Scots accent. His voice was deep and rich, rolling over the crowd like an intoxicating wave. Even the bored judge couldn’t take his eyes off him.
Mr. McBride had broad shoulders and a firm back, obvious even in the black robes. He was tall, dominating all in the room, the strength in his big, bare hands apparent. He’d be more at home out on a Highland hillside, sword in hand as he fended off attackers. One glare from those gray eyes, and his attackers would be running for their lives.
His accent wasn’t so thick that Bertie couldn’t understand it, but his Rs rolled pleasantly, and his vowels were long, especially the Us.
“If your lordship pleases,” Mr. McBride said, his voice warming Bertie again. “I would like to call Jacko Small back to the witness box.”
Bertie swallowed, nervous. Jacko had already given his evidence that he’d found the body in the sitting room of the London house, then seen Ruthie down in the kitchen, crying, with blood on her apron. The silver had gone missing, and no one had found it, so Ruthie must have hidden it somewhere, hadn’t she? The police had tried to get its location out of her, but of course Ruthie hadn’t known, as she hadn’t stolen the silver in the first place.
The judge sighed. “Is it relevant, Mr. McBride? This witness has already told us his version of events.”
“One or two more questions, your lordship,” Mr. McBride said without bending. “You will understand my reasons in due time.”
In duuui time. The vowel came out of his mouth with a round, full sound.
Jacko came back in, reminded he was under oath, and faced Mr. McBride with all innocence on his face.
“Now then, Mr. Small.” Mr. McBride smiled pleasantly, but Bertie saw a gleam in his eyes that was a cross between anger and glee.
Now what was he up to?
“Mr. Small,” Mr. McBride said smoothly. “You say you opened the door of the sitting room to find the lady of the house on the floor, her dress covered in blood. You’d been asked to refill the coal bin on your return from your day out and had gone up there to do so.” Mr. McBride glanced down at the notes on his bench. “That day was the seventh of July. The middle of the afternoon, in the middle of summer. Quite the warmest day anyone could remember, the newspapers reported. A bit too warm for a fire, wouldn’t you say?”
Jacko blinked. “Well . . . I . . . the nights were still nippy. I remember that.”
“Yes, of course. Bloody English weather. Begging your pardon, your lordship.”
People tittered. The judge scowled. “Please get on with it, Mr. McBride.”
“You say in your statement that you saw quite a lot of blood,” Mr. McBride said, not missing a beat. “On the sofa, on the floor, smeared on the door panels and on the doorknob.”
“’Sright.” Jacko put his hand to his heart. “Gave me a turn, it did.”
“So you fled the room and went down to the kitchen, where you saw the accused wearing an apron stained with blood. She says she got the blood on her because she thought she’d help out the cook by stuffing the chickens for dinner. The chickens were still a bit bloody, and she wiped her hands on her apron. Correct?”
“It’s what she said, yeah.”
“Now, I need your help, Mr. Small. I must ask you a very important question, so think hard. Was there any blood smeared on the doorknob of the door to the back stairs?”
Jacko blinked again. He obviously hadn’t rehearsed this question. “Um. I don’t think so. I can’t be sure. Don’t remember. I was, you know, in a state.”
“But you remember distinctly the blood on the doorknob in the sitting room. You were quite poetic about it.”
More titters. Jacko looked flustered.
What the devil was Mr. McBride doing? Bertie’s gloved hand tightened on the railing. He was supposed to be proving Ruthie did it, not that Jacko lied. Which Jacko had, of course, but how did Mr. McBride know that?
Besides, it wasn’t his job to expose Jacko. Bertie knew from experience that courtrooms had procedures everyone followed to the letter. It was as if Mr. McBride had stepped onstage and started playing the wrong part.
“Was there blood on the doorknob to the backstairs door?” Mr. McBride repeated, his deep voice growing stern.
“Um. Yeah,” Jacko said. “Yeah, now that I recall it, there was. Another big smudge, like in the sitting room. I had to touch it to open it. It were awful.” A few of the jury shifted in their seats in sympathy.
“Except there wasn’t,” Mr. McBride said.
“Eh?” Jacko started. “Whatcha mean?”
“The door to the back stairs, or the green baize door as it is also known, had a broken panel. It had been taken away, since it was a quiet day, to be mended. There was no door that day, not for you to open, nor for the maid to smear blood on.”
“Oh.” Jacko opened and closed his mouth. “Well, I don’t really remember, do I? I was, whatcha call it—agitated.”
“Though you remember in exact detail the placement of every item and every bloodstain in the sitting room. The accused says she didn’t see you at all that day, and never knew about her employer’s death until the police arrived. I’m going to suggest you went nowhere near the kitchen and never saw the accused. I suggest you left the sitting room and the house entirely, returned later, found the police there, saw them taking away the accused and her bloody apron, and came up with the story about seeing her.”
Jacko looked worried now. “Yeah? And why’d I come back, if I’d killed the old bitch?”
The judge looked pained. Mr. McBride’s eyes took on a hard light. “You knew that, if you’d disappeared entirely, you’d be screaming your guilt. I suggest you left to dispose of the silver and returned as though you’d been gone all day. And never did I suggest, Mr. Small, that you committed the murder.”
Rustling and muttering filled the courtroom. The judge looked annoyed. “Mr. McBride, do I have to remind you that the witness is not on trial?”
“No, he’s not,” Mr. McBride agreed. “Not yet.”
Another round of laughter. Jacko’s face was shiny with sweat, although it was nippy in here on this winter day.
“I am finished with the witness, your lordship. In my summing up, I will be putting forth the case that what we have here is not a conniving young woman who killed her employer, smeared blood all over the room, and then remained quietly in the kitchen with an apron covered with the same blood—and, I might add, no time to dispose of the missing silver. I am instead going to put forth my belief that another person must have had much better opportunity, and strength, to commit the crime, and that we are coming dangerously close to a miscarriage of justice. Perhaps your lordship would like to retire briefly and prepare for my outrageous statements.”
The judge growled as laughter began again. “Mr. McBride, I have warned you about your behavior in my courtroom before. This is not the theatre.”
Oh, but it was, Bertie thought. Only the play was real, and the curtain, final. Mr. McBride knew that too, she sensed, despite his jokes.
“You are, however, correct that I would like to recess briefly to gather my thoughts,” the judge said. “Bailiff, please see that Mr. Small does not leave.”
The judge rose, and everyone scrambled to their feet. The judge disappeared through the door into his inner sanctum, the journalists rushed away, and the rest of the watchers filed out, talking excitedly.
Bertie looked over the railing at Mr. McBride, who’d sat down, pushing his wig askew as he rubbed
sunshine-colored hair beneath it. The animation went out of his body as the courtroom emptied, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
He glanced around and up, but not at Bertie. Mr. McBride looked at no one and nothing.
Bertie was struck with how empty his face was. His eyes were a strange shade of gray, clear like a stormy morning. As Bertie watched, those eyes filled with a vast sadness, the likes of which Bertie had never seen before. His mouth moved a little, as though he whispered something, but Bertie couldn’t hear what he said.
Bertie remained fixed in place instead of nipping off for some ale, her hand on the gallery’s wooden railing. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man below, who’d changed so incredibly the moment his performance had finished.
Mr. McBride never left his bench until the judge returned, and the courtroom started up again. Then as he got to his feet, life flowing back into his body, Mr. McBride became the eloquent, arrogant man with the beautiful voice once more.
The judge signaled for him to begin. Mr. McBride summed up his case so charmingly that all hung on his words. The jury went out and returned very quickly with their verdict about Ruthie: Not guilty.
Ruthie was free. Bertie had hoped for a miracle, and Mr. McBride had provided one.
***
After much hugging, Ruthie left Bertie and went home with her mum. Bertie found her dad and Jeffrey waiting for her outside the pub across the street. They were furious. Jacko was Jeffrey’s best mate, and he had just been arrested for murder and taken away by the police.
“’e’s to blame,” Jeffrey said darkly, jerking his chin at Mr. McBride, who was walking out of the Old Bailey, dressed now in a normal suit and coat. Once again, Bertie noted how Mr. McBride had changed from a man who commanded a room to a man who looked tired of life.
The afternoon was cold, darkening with the coming winter night. Bertie rubbed her hands together in her too-thin gloves and suggested that her dad and Jeffrey take her into the pub and buy her a half.
“Not yet,” Bertie’s dad said. “Just teach ’im a lesson, Bertie. Go on now, girl.”
Girl, when she was twenty-six years old. “Leave him alone,” she said. “He saved Ruthie.”
“But got Jacko arrested,” Jeffrey growled. “Whose side are you on?”
“But Jacko killed the woman,” Bertie said. “He’s a villain; he always was. I say good on Ruthie.”
Jeffrey grabbed Bertie by the shoulder and pushed her into the shadows of the passage beside the pub. He wouldn’t hit her in public—he’d take her somewhere unseen to do that—but his hand clamped down hard. “Jacko is my best friend,” Jeffrey said, his breath already heavy with gin. “You get over to that fiend of a Scottish barrister and fetch us a souvenir. We deserve it. The traitorous bastard was supposed to be on Jacko’s side.”
Jeffrey’s grip hurt. Bertie knew if she protested too much, both Jeffrey and her dad would let her have it. But she couldn’t do this.
“That fiend of a Scottish barrister is very smart,” she argued. “He’ll catch me, then I’ll be in the cell with Jacko, waiting to go before the magistrate.”
Bertie’s dad leaned in, his breath already reeking as well. “You just do it, Roberta. You’re like a ghost—he’ll never know. And if he does see you, you know what to do. Now get out there, before I take my hand to you.”
They weren’t going to leave it. In their minds, Mr. McBride was the villain of the piece and deserved to be punished. If Bertie refused, her dad would drag her away and thrash her until she gave in. If Mr. McBride went home while Bertie was taking her beating, her dad would make her wait here every day until Mr. McBride returned for another case.
Either way, Bertie was doing this. One way would just be less painful than the other.
Bertie jerked free of Jeffrey’s hold. “All right,” she snapped. “I’ll do it. But you’d better be ready. He’s no fool.”
“Like I said, he’ll never see ya,” her dad said. “You’ve got the touch. Go on with you.”
Bertie stumbled when her dad pushed her between the shoulder blades, but she righted herself and squared her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she walked steadily toward where Mr. McBride stood waiting, his sad face and empty eyes focused on something far, far from the crowded streets of the City of London.
***
Sinclair McBride pulled his coat close against the icy wind and drew his hat down over his eyes.
Remember Sir Percival Montague, Daisy? he asked the gray sky. Well, I potted him good today. Old Monty was nearly rubbing his hands, wanting to pronounce sentence of death on that poor girl. Bloody imbecile. She was no more guilty than a newborn kitten.
The sky grew darker, rain coming with the night. So damnably cold here, not like the blistering heat of North Africa, where Sinclair had done his army time. His younger brother, Steven, was always trying to talk Sinclair into traveling with him—Spain, Egypt, back to Rome at least, where winters were balmy.
But there was the question of Andrew and Caitriona, Sinclair’s very interesting children. Sinclair couldn’t bring himself to foist them on Elliot and Juliana while he traveled the world. His brother and sister-in-law were starting their own family, their own life, and needed time alone. Take them with me? Sinclair had to smile. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?
Sinclair imagined his two terrifying bairns on trains, carriages, carts, all the way to Italy. No, not the best answer.
Thinking about Andrew and Cat helped him avoid the one thought Sinclair had been trying to banish all day. Now as he stood in the cold, waiting for his coachman to bring the landau, the thought came unbidden.
Seven years to this day you left me, Daisy.
Margaret McBride, Maggie or Daisy to those closest to her, had died of a fever that threatened to take Sinclair’s children as well. Seven years ago today.
My friends and family expect me to move on, can you believe it? But they’ve not had the loves of their lives ripped away from them, have they? They wouldn’t say such bloody daft things if they had.
“Moving on” sounded like forgetting all about Maggie, his wife, his lover, his helpmeet, his best friend. And I’ll never do that.
Maggie didn’t answer. She never did. But it didn’t matter. The comfort Sinclair drew from talking to her, out loud or inside his head, was some days the only thing that kept him sane.
When you’re ready for me to move on, I know you’ll tell me. Another gust of wind had Sinclair grabbing for his hat and clenching his teeth. Where the devil was Richards with the coach? I trust you, Daisy . . .
The crowd was thick, everyone in London going home for the night. Sinclair held on to his hat as he was buffeted. Richards was taking a damn long time. Sinclair wasn’t usually in a rush, but tonight was bloody cold, and the rain started to thicken.
A shove and a thump sent Sinclair a swift step forward. A young woman had stumbled into him, her shoes skidding on the wet pavement. She struggled to keep her feet, and Sinclair put a steadying hand under her arm.
“Easy now, lass,” Sinclair said.
She looked up at him . . . and everything stopped. Sinclair saw a dark hat covered with bright blue violets, then eyes of the same blue—clear and warm in this swirl of gray. The young woman’s face was round, her nose slightly tip-tilted, her lips red curving into a charming smile.
He’d never seen her before, and at the same time, Sinclair felt a jolt rock him, as though he’d been waiting for years for this encounter. The two of them stood together in a warm stillness, removed from the rest of the world as it rushed around them.
“I’m that sorry, Mister,” the young woman was saying. “Some bloke put his elbow right in me back, and me feet went clean out from under me. You all right?”
“I’m whole.” Sinclair forced himself back to the cold of the real world, and studied her
with his professional assessment, honed by a long career of watching criminals. She wasn’t a street girl. Game girls had a desperate look, and were too eager to be seductive. Want me to make ya feel better, lamb? was the cleanest of the offers Sinclair had gotten as he’d walked through London’s streets.
This young woman was working-class, probably on her way home after a long day’s drudgery. She wasn’t dirty, but the sleeves of her velvet jacket were frayed at the cuffs, her gloves threadbare and much mended. Poor, but making the best of it.
Still, she didn’t have the downtrodden appearance many factory women had. Her smile was sunny, as though telling the world things could be better if given a chance.
“Well, that’s good,” she said. “Night, Mister. Sweet dreams.”
Another smile, and in the sudden flare of an approaching light, all Sinclair could see were her eyes.
Deep and blue, like the depths of the ocean. The Mediterranean could be that color. Sinclair remembered southern Italy and its shores from his leave time there, when he’d been in the army and traveling the world. He’d known peace there.
This young woman with her blue eyes was beautiful, with a beauty that went beyond her shabby clothes and working-class grin. She was a vision of light in the darkness, in a place where darkness had lasted too long.
Someone else shoved him, and Sinclair turned to step out of the way. When he looked back at the young woman, she was gone. He blinked at the empty space where she’d been, then lifted his gaze and spied her slipping through the crowd, the violets on her hat bobbing.
The detail of her ridiculous hat kept Sinclair from believing he’d dreamed her. But of course he hadn’t. Visions of beautiful women were to be of golden-haired sirens with perfect bodies, strumming on lyres perhaps, luring men to their dooms. Sirens didn’t have lopsided smiles and plump faces, and blue eyes that pulled Sinclair out of his despair, if only for a moment.
But she was gone now, vision or no, and Sinclair needed to go home. Andrew and Cat would have locked their new governess into the cellar by now, or accidentally burned down the house. Or both.
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