“Do you have information that relates directly to the circumstances of this case?”
“I have,” William said.
“Come forward and be sworn.”
William took the oath and went to stand in the witness box, a small wooden enclosure adjacent to the prisoner’s bar.
“What have you got to say, Mr. Holyoake?” Vanstone asked him after he’d given his name to the clerk—a formality, since everyone knew who he was.
He held his hat by the brim and slowly turned it around in his big hands. Clearing his throat, he said loudly, “I want to say that Mrs. Wade weren’t a fugitive. That is, she didn’t try to escape, which is what I heard she got arrested for. I had a talk wi’ ’er before she went away, and she weren’t ‘escaping.’ She were just leaving, like.” He darted a glance at Rachel, as if to say he hoped that would do her some good, then turned back to the justices.
Vanstone looked unimpressed. “Did she say anything in this conversation to indicate she was coming back?”
William had to say, “No. But,” he added, “she didn’t say anything to indicate she weren’t.”
“What exactly did she say?” asked Captain Carnock.
The bailiff screwed up his face, thinking. “I can’t recollect word for word. Sommat like, ‘I’ve got to go away.’ And she shook my hand.”
“I’ve got to go away’?”
“Mayhap not just like that. Mayhap, ‘I’m going away.’”
“‘For a while’?”
“She didn’t say for a while. But—”
“Did she take all her belongings?”
“As to that I couldn’t say. But,” he repeated louder, drowning out the mayor’s next question, “she did say she were going to Plymouth. If she were escaping, why would she say that? She weren’t escaping, I’m telling you, she was just going away.”
Carnock shook his head while the mayor smiled a thin, cynical smile, more eloquent than words. “An interesting deduction, Mr. Holyoake. Is that all you have to say?”
William nodded unhappily.
He started to leave, but Carnock stopped him to ask, “Do you know anything about a letter rescinding Mrs. Wade’s ticket of leave?”
“No, sir. Not until now, that is.”
“You never heard anything about it before today?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you say,” Vanstone put in, “that you and Mrs. Wade are friends?”
William looked directly at Rachel and answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Good friends?”
Seconds passed while he thought that over. “Yes,” he said positively. “I would say we are.”
Vanstone pounced. “But your good friend never told you she received a letter from the Home Secretary in Whitehall voiding the conditions of her prison release? A letter that, in effect, made her a completely free woman?”
Rachel looked down, unable to bear the confusion in William’s plain, honest face. After a long moment, he mumbled something Vanstone made him repeat. “No, she never told me,” he said belligerently. Then he was made to sit down.
Vanstone and Carnock put their heads together and began to whisper. Over the murmuring of the spectators, a woman’s clear voice suddenly rose. “I have something to say. “Anne got up from her seat a bit awkwardly, using Holyoake’s shoulder for support. She wore a voluminous blue wool shawl over her gown, but it couldn’t disguise the prominent swell of her belly. “Reverend Morrell had to go to Mare’s Head on pastoral business, but I’d hoped he would be back by now. He wanted to come to this hearing and speak on Mrs. Wade’s behalf. I would like to say something in his stead.”
The mayor gave a gracious nod. “Does it relate directly—”
“It’s not evidence, strictly speaking. I know nothing about Mrs. Wade’s trip to Plymouth or the circumstances of her prison release.”
“I see.” Vanstone pulled on one end of his silvery mustache, then made a permissive, vaguely condescending gesture. “In that case, you needn’t take the oath, Mrs. Morrell, and you may speak from your seat.”
Anne bowed to him rather stiffly and said, “Thank you,” without much warmth. “I only want to say that Reverend Morrell and I have come to know Mrs. Wade over the last half year or so, and we believe her to be an honorable woman—indeed, a good woman. It’s clear that a mistake has been made, some clerical error, perhaps, a Whitehall mishap that’s resulted in this unfortunate misunderstanding. I hope you will decide what’s to be done with at least as much tolerance and understanding as—as strict adherence to the letter of the law.”
“Is that all?” Vanstone asked politely.
“Yes. No. Is she going to be allowed to speak for herself?”
He smiled blandly. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Morrell. Mrs. Wade is fortunate in her friends.”
He meant for her to sit down, but Anne persisted. “Excuse me. Is she allowed to say anything in her own defense?”
The mayor’s professional smile didn’t waver. “You may not realize, ma’am, that we’re not an adjudicatory body. Mrs. Wade has no legal representative, and consequently no voice in these proceedings. Thank you. Thank you very much.” With that, he turned from her and resumed his low-voiced conversation with Captain Carnock. Frowning, Anne finally took her seat.
Rachel agreed with Mayor Vanstone about one thing: she was fortunate in her friends.
“Mrs. Wade.”
The magistrates’ consultation was over. Rachel stood straighter and faced them. “Your Worship,” she murmured to Vanstone, who was, as usual, the spokesman. She distrusted the look in his cold gray eyes, a combination of implacability and detachment that boded no good.
“The court finds that you violated the terms of your conditional release by failing repeatedly to meet with the parish and county officials to whom you were obliged to report, and also by neglecting to make restitution in a timely way on your outstanding debt. In addition, the court finds it reasonable to conclude that your removal to Plymouth and subsequent inquiries with regard to vessels bound for overseas ports constitute, at best, an attempt to circumvent the stipulations governing your release and, at worst, a plot to flee the country.
“Your sentence for the crime of murder was life imprisonment, with the possibility of release after ten years servitude to be considered at two-year judicial intervals. Mrs. Wade, can you inform this body of any reason why it should not recommend to the assize court that you be returned to Dartmoor Prison for a period of time deemed appropriate by the servitude review office, such period of time not to exceed two years?”
Two years. She hadn’t misheard, even though the light, measured voice had thinned in her ears like a wire turning around, twisting and twisting, stretching to the breaking point. Two years.
She watched her manacled hands reach out for the smooth wood of the prisoner’s bar and grip it until her fingers ached, but she swayed anyway. The bar cut against her stomach and the bones of her hips. She wanted to sag against it, fold herself over it. She locked her elbows and knees and tried to bring Vanstone into focus, tried to remember his exact question. She couldn’t retrieve it from the chaos of her brain—had forgotten how he’d phrased it. Was the proper response yes? No? What if she chose wrong?
“Your Worship,” she got out before her throat closed. She shut her eyes and whispered, “Your Worship, would you . . . I’m not able to . . .” Low murmuring interrupted her; it seemed as if all the people behind her were talking at once. She sympathized with their impatience, but she wanted to get the answer right, and she wanted very much not to faint. “Your Worship,” she tried again, a little louder.
An angry shout cut across every other voice in the room. “Why is she in shackles?”
Someone said, “Because she—”
“Release her!”
“She—”
“Release her!”
Constable Burdy slid a key in the lock of the iron on her right wrist, then the one on her left. The weights fell away with a rusty clank,
and suddenly she was too light—ungrounded—she feared she might float up in the air. She imagined herself levitating over the crowded courtroom, and made another grab for the bar. Burdy turned his sloping shoulders sideways, out of the way, and she saw Sebastian.
He was dripping wet. He’d lost his hat. Water trickled from his hair and ran down his face, made dark stains on the shoulders of his coat, flattened his shirt to his chest. He stood between her and the magistrates’ table, breathing hard, his eyes so hot she could feel the heat from here. She could feel his indecision, too; he wanted to go to her, touch her. But he stayed planted where he was, legs spread, hands in fists at his sides, while rainwater pooled under his boots. There was no doubt in her mind that he was close to violence, and that the battle he was fighting for self-control wasn’t won yet.
“My lord,” Mayor Vanstone said loudly, coming to his feet. “We were not aware that you had returned. We’re—”
“Obviously.” He snarled the word; the fire in his eyes became enmity, and he turned it on Vanstone eagerly, as if glad to locate a legitimate target for his anger.
“Perhaps you’ll join us,” the mayor said stiffly, “now that you’ve honored us with your presence.” He touched his hand to the back of the empty chair next to his.
Sebastian ignored that. “Why was Mrs. Wade in chains?”
“My lord, she was apprehended while inquiring about vessels leaving the country for foreign ports. Since then, she’s been treated, not unreasonably, I think, as a potential fugitive.”
“What rot,” Sebastian enunciated, with so much scathing disdain that Vanstone colored. “Why shouldn’t she be in Plymouth—or Brighton, or Dover—inquiring about anything she damn well pleases?”
“Because,” Captain Carnock interjected mildly, “she was left in your custody, with the understanding that she would remain at Lynton until your return, my lord. At least, that was the understanding you and I reached on the evening of your departure.”
Somebody chuckled with satisfaction. Sebastian whirled at the sound, and saw Sully in the second row of spectators. “You,” he said slowly, moving toward him. “What are you doing here?”
Sully clasped one knee and leaned back on the bench; he was pretending to be at ease, but the glitter in his eyes gave away his excitement. “It’s a public hearing, isn’t it? Sebastian, my old friend, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Beside him, Violet Cocker snickered into her hand.
Sebastian looked coldly, murderously angry. If Vanstone hadn’t distracted him at that moment, Rachel believed he would have attacked Sully.
“My lord, Mrs. Wade’s defense rests on an apparently nonexistent letter from the Home Secretary voiding her conditional release. If there were such a document, the prison authorities, the lord lieutenant, and we, the jurisdictional magistrates, would have been informed of it. But we were not, and—forgive me, my lord—I’m quite certain Her Majesty does not make a practice of corresponding with convicted felons in secret. In the absence of any proof whatsoever—”
“The letter existed,” Sebastian cut in.
“With respect, have you seen it?”
“No. I believe it was stolen.”
“Stolen? How extraordinary. Do you have any proof of—”
“Who put you up to this? Sully? How much did he pay you to make sure she goes back to prison?”
The mayor’s face turned bright pink; he drew himself up. “How dare you! By God, sir, that’s a base lie! I demand an apology for it.”
Sebastian turned on Sully, who smirked at him with undisguised delight—and, possibly, surprise. “Can’t prove it, D’Aubrey. Wait, it’s Moreton now, isn’t it? The bloody earl of Moreton. But you still can’t prove a thing.”
Sebastian saw red. Over the muttering of the crowd, over the pounding of Vanstone’s fist on the table for order, he heard a soft, insistent voice calling his name. He looked at Rachel. She had one hand on the wooden bar, the other stretched out to him, straining toward him, and the distress in her face brought him to his senses.
He couldn’t help her like this. All he wanted was to get her out of here, by force if necessary—no, preferably by force; he was dying to smash something, anything—but if he lost control, he would be playing into Sully’s hands. He mustn’t let Rachel’s fear, so heartbreakingly obvious, spread to him and cripple his judgment.
Deliberately turning his back on Sully, he demanded of the mayor, who was still sputtering from wounded dignity, “What are the charges against Mrs. Wade? Let me hear them again.”
“She—”
“She missed a few meetings with Burdy, is that it?”
“And the county constable as well. And she—”
“Why wasn’t she notified? If she wasn’t showing up for her appointments, why didn’t somebody complain about it?”
Constable Burdy spoke up. “She were sent a letter once, m’lord, by me, telling ’er she were remiss in her meetings.”
“And?”
“She wrote back sayin’ she was ‘relieved of the obligation.’”
“And you didn’t follow up after that? Except to arrest her?”
Burdy shrugged.
Sebastian muttered a disgusted curse. “What else?”
“’Er fine, m’lord,” he mumbled. “She quit paying on ’er fine.”
“How much does she owe? Well?”
Burdy cleared his throat and pulled on his ear. “She ’ad to pay ten shillings a week. She missed four times running.”
“She owes two pounds?” It was an effort not to roar it. He drew out his purse and snatched a handful of bills from it, and then it was an effort not to stuff the money down Burdy’s throat. “Here,” he gritted. “Now her fine is paid.”
Vanstone had resumed his seat. Whether or not he was in league with Sully, Sebastian’s accusation had turned him into a dangerous enemy. “Lord Moreton,” he said with icy formality, “the most serious charge against Mrs. Wade remains—her attempt to flee. That cannot be dismissed lightly. It speaks for itself and it is grounds alone, in our opinion, for remanding her case to the assize.”
Sebastian stared back at him thoughtfully. Gradually, not all at once, the solution came to him. He smiled at the simplicity of it. “But she wasn’t fleeing, you see. She went to Plymouth at my suggestion, as it happens. To begin shopping for her trousseau. She inquired about passenger ship schedules because I asked her to—for our honeymoon. Mrs. Wade and I plan to marry at the end of the month.”
Amid the gasps and exclamations, he turned his smile on Rachel. The shock he’d expected was there in her face, but not the gladness. He held her gaze, willing her to believe it. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? But there was nothing in her searching eyes but sadness. She gave a little shake of her head and looked away.
Vanstone must have noticed the byplay. When the noise died down, he leaned forward and asked pointedly “Is that true?”
Disoriented, sensing disaster, Sebastian said quickly, “Are you calling me—”
“No, it’s not true,” Rachel interrupted in clear, carrying tones. “His lordship is mistaken.”
“Do you mean to say he’s not telling the truth?”
“He’s mistaken,” she repeated. “There is no engagement. He’s . . . mistaken.” Finally her voice broke.
But when Sebastian took a step toward her she shrank back, letting go of the bar. He halted, shocked. “Rachel,” he whispered. “Rachel, for God’s sake.” She wouldn’t look at him; her frozen profile shut him out.
Vanstone was saying something. A woman laughed; he thought it was the maid, Sully’s confederate, but when he looked up he saw it was Lydia Wade. She was clutching her knitting to her chest and muttering to herself. Had she gone mad?
He needed to sit down. He couldn’t think. Rachel wouldn’t look at him and he couldn’t think what to do or say next. He slicked his dripping hair back with his fingers and used his sleeve to wipe the water from his face. Now Vanstone was winding up; whatever he’d said, it end
ed with “when the assize judges meet in September,” and Carnock nodded heavily in agreement, muttering something about “unfortunate” and “no other choice.” Two against one.
Was this the end, then? Was he going to just stand here while they took her away? Five months ago he’d gotten his way, in this same circumstance, through bluster and intimidation. They weren’t working today—but the blow that completely defeated him was Rachel’s repudiation. Her situation couldn’t be more desperate, but she wouldn’t let him save her. Wouldn’t let him come near her.
Christy Morrell had come into the hall. Sebastian didn’t notice him until he walked to the front of the room, drenched and dripping, leaving a trail of water from a closed black umbrella. He was out of breath. “Forgive me for interrupting. I’d have been here sooner, but I was delayed. May I speak to—”
“Excuse me, Reverend,” the mayor broke in, “we aren’t taking testimony in this matter anymore. Your wife spoke eloquently in Mrs. Wade’s behalf, and we don’t require any further evidence. Thank you.”
“Let him speak,” Sebastian burst out. “Whatever he’s got to say, I’d like to hear it.”
Vanstone threw up his hands. “Speak, then.” He folded his arms and scowled.
Christy moved closer to the magistrates’ table. “A matter has just come to my attention, gentlemen, something extremely important. I have to speak to you in private.” He gestured to include all three justices.
“Does it bear on Mrs. Wade’s case?”
“It does.”
“Then take the stand and say it for the record,” the mayor decreed, and for once, Sebastian agreed with him.
But Christy didn’t move. “With respect, Mayor, this isn’t something I can say in open court. I’d ask that you adjourn this hearing indefinitely.”
“That’s out of the question. If you have evidence that relates to the case, you can say it under oath, here and now. Otherwise, we’re prepared to rule.”
Christy shook his head. “That would be a mistake. I’ve misled you—what I want to say doesn’t relate to this hearing.”
“Then—”
“It relates to Mrs. Wade’s original case. I’ve come into possession of evidence that she was wrongly convicted of murdering her husband.”
Patricia Gaffney - [Wyckerley 02] Page 32
