Seared With Scars

by C. J. Archer

  "Do you know that lad?" I asked one of the girls still hovering nearby.

  "Nope," she said between mouthfuls. "He's new. Been 'ere a few days, just standin' 'round. Me brother asked 'im what 'e wants, but 'e wouldn't say."

  This part of Clerkenwell didn't get many strangers wandering in, particularly children. If he were an orphan hoping to get into the school then he should have knocked on the door and asked for help. He would have been given a bed, food and clothing without hesitation and with no questions asked.

  So if he wasn't there for the school, what did he want?

  I stared at him and he stared back, those piercing eyes boring into me. Then he suddenly lowered his head and began to stroll away. I started toward him.

  "Excuse me!" I called out.

  He sprinted off and was long gone before I even reached the corner. There wasn't a sign of him anywhere. It was as if the rookery had swallowed him up. Orphan children had ways of disappearing into thin air. When I'd been his age, I could crawl into the tightest of spaces where adults wouldn't think to look. I decided not to pursue the child. If he were indeed an orphan in need of the school, he would return. Hunger would encourage him to knock on the door eventually. If he wasn't there for the school but to spy on me, then it was best that I didn't follow him. He might lead me to the master's ghost and a trap. There was even a chance that he was possessed by the master's spirit himself.

  I hurried off and made my way to the busier, safer, main road. I caught an omnibus to the Home Office on Whitehall. It was housed in one of those gray, imposing buildings that dominate the street in much the same way Mrs. Peeble looks down at her students in cookery class. I was directed to a bald, bespectacled man sitting behind one of the gleaming polished desks arranged around the hall.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked without looking up from his paperwork.

  "I need to know what crime a particular person committed," I said.

  Perhaps he wasn't expecting a female. His head jerked up at the sound of my voice and he blinked owlishly at me. "Why?"

  I sighed. I had a feeling this was going to be a long and fruitless conversation. "Can you just tell me if that sort of information is on public record?"

  "If he went to trial, yes."

  "I'm not sure if there was a trial."

  He set his pen down in the wooden ink stand at the edge of the desk and steepled his fingers. "Then how do you know he committed a crime?"

  "I suppose I don't. All I do know is that he was arrested and sent to Newgate for a few days before being released."

  "Why was he released?"

  "I don't know," I said with a tight smile. "That's what I'd like to find out."

  He opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a piece of paper. "Fill this out."

  "Is this a form to make an inquiry?"

  "That's right."

  "But I thought I could make the inquiry here, with you, and you would look up the records while I waited."

  He laughed and picked up his pen. "Fill out the form and someone upstairs will answer it. The response will be sent to the address you put down here." He pointed to a space near the bottom with the end of his pen.

  "How long will that take?"

  "Four weeks."

  "Four!"

  "Or five." His glasses slipped down his nose and he regarded me over the rim. I thought he'd laugh again, but he did not.

  "Why so long? It's just a simple thing to look up the records. I can give you approximate dates to make it faster."

  He pointed to another space on the form. "Make a note of them here."

  I could have screamed. The old me might have tried flattery and a flirtatious wink. Instead I simply gritted my teeth and asked, "Is there no way to circumvent this process and get an answer sooner?"

  He shoved his glasses back up his nose and resumed checking his paperwork. "Not officially."

  "What about unofficially?"

  He looked up again. "I suppose you could try, but it involves visiting the prison itself. And then it will only work if the governor remembers your criminal."

  It was not an appealing thought. Prisons had terrified me from a young age. My mother had told me stories of friends and family who'd been caught stealing and sent to prison, only to die in a dank, crowded cell from starvation or disease. Jack, Tommy and I had been lucky to escape capture on several occasions, thanks in large part to Jack's talent. He'd set more than one copper's trousers alight so that we could slip away in the resulting chaos.

  I handed the form back to the clerk. "Thank you. I won't be needing this."

  I set my frustration aside and headed to Newgate. The formidable, solid walls of the prison ran alongside the street, but passersby seemed unperturbed at having dangerous criminals housed a few feet away on the other side. It took me several deep breaths before I could summon the courage to enter the adjoining governor's house. I'd never been inside a prison before and I wasn't sure what to expect. Certainly not the office where a servant directed me. It was a normal office with two clerks pouring over almanacs and ledgers at their desks. Books bound in greens and browns lined the shelves behind them and a dresser, housing dozens of small drawers in rows of eight, was pushed into a corner. I waited for one of them to speak to me, but they continued to study their books and ignore me. Fortunately, the governor finally appeared.

  He too wasn't what I expected. He was a small man with soft hands and the most magnificent gray whiskers that reached past his chest in wiry coils. He smiled gently at me. At least, I think it was a gentle smile. It was difficult to see his lips amongst all that hair. The corners of his eyes crinkled, confirming my suspicions. He introduced himself as Governor Draycott.

  "What's a pretty young girl like you doing in a filthy den like this then, eh?" he asked, sitting back in his chair and regarding me.

  "I'm on an errand to find out some information for a friend," I said.

  "What sort of information?"

  "It's to do with a gentleman who was here for a brief stay, perhaps a year or more ago."

  "Gentleman, eh? Don't get too many of those in here. But that sort of information is kept with the other records at the Home Office. The bureaucratic bobs over there can help you." He folded his hands over his paunch and interlinked his fingers. He was waiting for me to say something. Testing me?

  "I haven't got time for them to shuffle papers from one pile to the next and back again," I said.

  He chuckled and leaned forward. His eyes sparkled amid all the crinkles. "Nobody has, and yet it's the way things are done."

  "The proper way," I said carefully.

  "Aye, the proper way. But you're here to go the improper way, am I right?"

  I smiled. "I don't have the luxury of time. I'll be leaving London soon and I'd like to be in possession of the information by then. I thought you could help me. Going straight to the source is always better than second-hand knowledge, and since the information is public anyway, I hoped you could spare a few moments of your valuable time."

  "Valuable, eh? Not too many in the Home Office would think my time worth a penny. I'm just another prison guard to them, only my whiskers are grayer." He chuckled again and stroked his beard. "But since I can't resist a pretty face, I'll try to help you. Tell me about this gentleman and I'll see if I can remember him. I've been here long enough to have seen most gents who've passed through in the last ten years or so and my memory's as strong as ever."

  "His name is Samuel Gladstone. He's the son of Mr. Henry Gladstone of Oxfordshire. The younger Mr. Gladstone wasn't incarcerated here for long, so I suspect his case didn't make it to trial and he was released without charge."

  The governor held up his hands for me to stop. "I'm sorry, miss, but I can't help you." He opened up a large ledger on his desk and studied it. I'd been dismissed.

  "Why not?"

  "That information is confidential," he said without looking up.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Confidential means I c
an't tell you."

  "I know what it means. I don't understand why it's confidential."

  "You should try the Home Office. That's the proper course of action for these sorts of inquiries."

  "I have tried them!" My frustration was boiling over. I'd wasted a lot of time between the Home Office and now Newgate, and I'd gotten precisely nowhere. I threw up my hands and let them slap down on the desk. The ink in the well rippled. "A moment ago you were eager to help, but as soon as I mentioned the Gladstones, you closed up. Why? What is it you're not telling me?"

  "Nothing. Now, kindly see yourself out. I'm very busy." He licked his finger and flipped a page of the ledger.

  "But—"

  "Don't make me call the guard, miss. He's rough and I'd hate to see a pretty lady like yourself manhandled to the street for all to see."

  I clenched my teeth and somehow managed to keep my temper from erupting. I stalked out of his office, past the guard and out to the street. Screaming would have been cathartic at that moment, but there were too many people around. So I walked all the way back to the hotel very fast, so that by the time I reached my room my anger had dissolved.

  I flopped down on the bed, the fight having gone out of me. The fog that had descended upon me cleared and I was able to think clearly again. The governor had known about Samuel's case, that much was obvious. He'd been keen enough to help me until I'd mentioned the Gladstone name. There was only one explanation for it: Mr. Gladstone had paid him to destroy all records of Samuel's stay at Newgate.

  I had no doubt I would have struck a wall at the Home Office too, or perhaps a well down which certain inquiries were tossed, never to be seen again. Whether Mr. Gladstone had paid the police to drop the charges or not I couldn't be sure, but my guess would be that he had. He didn't want any whiff of the scandal to reach the members of the upper classes.

  I sighed. In a way, it confirmed that Samuel had indeed been to Newgate, but I was still in the dark as to why. All I had to go on was Bert's accusation. I didn't want to believe Samuel capable of that crime, yet I had to be sure.

  There was really only one course of action for me to take next. I couldn't remain in London, but I didn't want to return to Frakingham and idly wait for the master's spirit to be whisked away. I would learn nothing there, and I desperately wanted to know whether Bert spoke the truth. I had to know. It consumed me now that I saw the extent of Mr. Gladstone's cover-up. It had to be something terrible, something that could ruin Samuel's future and the Gladstone name.

  Although I had never quite trusted Samuel and his hypnosis, I did think him a good man overall. I couldn't bear to be wrong. I didn't want to be even more afraid of him than I already was. Yet it was looking like Bert was right.

  I must go to Samuel's home and somehow make inquiries without him seeing me.

  CHAPTER 8

  I paid the school one more visit on the morning of my departure. To my surprise, a magnificent coach waited out the front. The driver was having a devil of a time keeping the children away from the gleaming black paintwork and horses. I was afraid he'd use his whip on them, so I ordered them to stand back.

  "Perhaps let them take turns patting the animals," I advised him. "That's if you'd like fewer finger marks on your doors."

  He thanked me and tugged on his cap. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, he'd hopped down and was organizing the children into two rows.

  The coach didn't belong to the Beauforts and I was curious to see who had ventured into Clerkenwell. Few toffs would dare.

  "Miss Charity!" Tilly said, upon seeing me setting my valise down in the hall. "What luck. There's a fine lady here asking after you. Mrs. Peeble was about to send her on her way, but now you're here, there's no need. She's in the drawing room, miss."

  "Who is the fine lady?" I asked.

  She didn't get a chance to answer me. Mrs. Peeble appeared with a lovely dark haired woman dressed in green silk. I recognized her as Ebony Carstairs, the woman who wanted to marry Samuel.

  "Miss Evans," Ebony said smoothly. "Mrs. Peeble has just finished telling me that you weren't in the city. How fortunate that you're here after all." Her tone was icy, her smile false.

  "Mrs. Peeble wasn't aware that I'd returned," I lied. Mrs. Peeble had only been protecting me, and I saw no reason to tell Ebony the truth.

  "Now that you have, perhaps we could speak." She was already in the drawing room by the time she finished her sentence.

  Mrs. Peeble rolled her eyes at me. "Want me to come in with you?" she whispered as I passed.

  "I'll be all right."

  "Very well, but I'll remain out here."

  I entered the drawing room after Ebony. "Would you like some tea, Miss Carstairs?"

  "No, thank you. I won't be staying long." She sat primly on the edge of the sofa, her body twisted to the side to give her bustle ample space. "We must talk about Samuel."

  "There is nothing to discuss," I said. "As I told you last time, there is nothing between Samuel and me. We're friends. I've explained as much to his family, too."

  "Friends? Come now, Miss Evans, we both know that's not possible."

  I bristled. "Why not?"

  "A gentleman and a woman of…" She eyed me up and down, not bothering to hide her disdain, "…a woman cannot be friends. It's unthinkable."

  "To you, perhaps."

  She gave me a pointed look and another false smile. I'd been prepared to like this woman. She'd been demure and polite upon our first meeting at Claridge’s, when I'd also met Samuel's parents for the first time. But now that we were alone, she was proving that first impressions could be misleading. Like most of her class, she thought herself above me in every way, not only by birth but by right. No matter what I said or did, I would never change her opinion.

  "I am not entirely unsympathetic," she went on.

  "Do tell."

  She pressed her lips together, no longer bothering with the smile. "I know what you want from him—"

  "No, I'm not sure that you do."

  "Stop interrupting," she snapped.

  "Stop saying things that require an interruption."

  "I don't know what he sees in you." Her gaze focused squarely on my chest. "On second thoughts, perhaps I do. I'm not blind and nor is he."

  My face heated, much to my horror, not in embarrassment but in pent-up frustration. This beautiful woman must know how irritating it was to be seen as nothing more than a useless ornament, there to decorate a gentleman's arm. She wouldn't know the dangers of such beauty like I did, protected as she was by her father's title. I prayed she never would. No matter how much I disliked her, I didn't wish that kind of misfortune on anyone.

  "I feel I must defend Samuel," I said. "He does have a little more depth than the average gentleman. He's quite capable of intelligent conversation with a woman without staring at her…bodice."

  "Intelligent?" She laughed. "My dear, you may have perfected the accent, and I admit that you probably have a rudimentary grasp of reading, but do you honestly think that your education can compare to mine? I've been tutored from a very young age on all manner of subjects."

  "Dear Miss Carstairs," I said, matching her supercilious tone. "Didn't your vast array of governesses and tutors tell you that education and intelligence are not the same thing?"

  Her lips stretched into a sneer, but it was fleeting and replaced with the false smile again. She smoothed her hands over her lap, slowly, deliberately, and pinned me with that green stare. No matter how much I wanted to think otherwise, there was intelligence in her eyes.

  "Let me be perfectly clear with you, Miss Evans."

  "You mean you haven't already?"

  Her gaze narrowed. "Samuel is a good man. If you marry him, he'll be brought so low as to be inconsequential."

  I thought it an odd thing to say, yet I supposed being someone of consequence was of the utmost importance to Ebony and her ilk. I doubted Samuel cared very much, although I didn't know him well enough to be sure. Perhap
s hiding at Frakingham had been forced on him, and what he really wanted was exactly what Ebony wanted too—to be important.

  "I'm not going to marry him," I told her as directly as I could. I didn't tell her that I'd already turned him down. That particular arrow wasn't mine to shoot. Besides, it might lower Samuel in her eyes. I couldn't do that to him when there was a chance he might still wed her. The upper classes did things that went against their heart's desire all the time. Now that Samuel's father was dead, he might see the sense in marrying Lord Mellor's daughter.

  "He doesn't pay for mistresses." She wrinkled her nose, as if the very word disgusted her. "He doesn't need to."

  "Have you been speaking to his brother lately?"

  "Why?"

  "No reason." I blew out a breath and forged on. "Listen to me, Miss Carstairs. I sympathize with your position. I do. I can see how it must look, but I am not Samuel's mistress, nor do I wish to be, nor does he wish me to be."

  "Untie Samuel from your apron strings, Miss Evans. Let him go."

  "Believe me, he is very much untied. Indeed, he left Frakingham House for his own home. I suspect he won't be able to leave there for some time, if at all."

  "Let's hope the death of poor Mr. Gladstone has shown Samuel the need to remain there. He will inherit, one day."

  "His brother is not dead yet," I said.

  Her eyes sharpened. "Of course. He may live for years. Let's hope so, if only to give Samuel time to settle into a more fitting role first."

  "More fitting?"

  "Didn't you know? He's going into politics?"

  "Samuel? A politician?" I laughed at the absurdity of it. Samuel's interest in politics reached no further than mine. Of course we both had a passing interest, but that was it. I'd learned some time ago that I was quite powerless at influencing the government and so paid it little attention. Since Samuel never once mentioned politics or government policy, I'd assumed he shared my opinions.

  I may not have known Samuel particularly well, but I did think I was right on that score. He had far more interest in August Langley's research than attending political meetings. But it was not my place to tell Ebony that. Indeed, she suddenly stood, her chin tilted defiantly. I suspected my laughter had finally undermined her confidence.