Beauty's Doom

by Christina Britton Conroy

  He looked at Elly, her strained smile breaking his heart. “I’ll stay as long as I can.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He spied the soiled chamber pot and cloudy wash water. “When do these get cleaned?”

  The matron smiled proudly. “Twice a week. Regular as clockwork.” Making an awkward curtsy, the matron slowly closed the door, and quietly turned the bolt.

  Elly sighed with relief. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I promised I would.” He hugged her tight. “Didn’t you believe me?”

  “Of course I did.” Embarrassed, she stood back, wiping tears from her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m in such a state. I’m sorry.”

  “What have they done to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  He was not convinced. “Really?”

  “It’s just this place, and the food. I have to eat it.” She swallowed hard. “They force-feed prisoners who don’t eat.”

  “With tubes and funnels. I’ve read about it. It’s horrible. Have they threatened you?”

  “It’s just the matron. I’m sure nothing will happen, as long as I eat.” Ned’s face was full of worry, so she changed the subject. “She certainly likes you.”

  He looked around the tiny space. “She should, for the size of the bribe I gave her. You’re sure they’re treating you all right?”

  She swallowed and forced a lie. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  He reached into his greatcoat, pulled out a thin cloth packet, and unwrapped a perfect, white camellia. Intoxicating perfume filled the room.

  “You darling man.” Elly took the flower, inhaling the heavenly fragrance. “Whatever made you think of this?”

  “La Traviata inspired me, but it was a simple enough deduction. If prisoners aren’t allowed to wash and nothing gets cleaned …” He reached into another pocket and handed her a heart-shaped lavender soap. She floated the camellia in her cloudy wash water, and slipped the soap down her front. Next he pulled out a packet of fresh stockings and silk drawers. Blushing, she hid it under her pillow, and gave him her used set. He pushed it into his coat pocket. Finally, he gave her a miniature copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She held it to heart before putting it under the mattress. “Tomorrow, I should have letters from Isabelle and Mother. I’ll bring paper so you can write back.

  “That’s wonderful, thank you so—”

  “Just one last thing.” He reached deep into a low pocket, and held out a small packet of waxed paper.

  She carefully unwrapped a custard tart. “Oh! How perfectly lovely.” She giggled, took a bite, and savored the smooth creamy texture. “I feel like it’s my birthday.”

  He laughed as he slipped out of his coat and shivered. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I try not to think about it.” They sat together on the cot.

  She nibbled her tart while looking at his trim moustache, elegant suit and polished boots. “I know you promised to visit every day, but you shouldn’t. You should never come to a place like this.”

  “You should never come to a place like this either, but since you’re compelled to be here, I shall visit every day. I’ll be no good for anything else, as long as my thoughts are here with you.”

  She smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Ned. Thank you so much.”

  “Sam Smelling telephoned. His story about this hell-hole will be tomorrow’s early edition. He doesn’t think they’ll let him in after that, but promises to send you notes.”

  Elly’s eyes went wide. “I see.”

  “Eventually, he plans to do a whole series of scathing articles. He’s afraid they’ll take it out on you, so he’ll wait to publish until after you’re released.”

  Elly’s eyes widened. “That’s very considerate. I hope he doesn’t have to wait too long.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be out of here in a fortnight.”

  She stared at the wall. “Of course.”

  He hesitated before asking the next question. “Look, darling girl, it’s none of my business, but where the devil is Robert Dennison? You two were frantic to be together, then—”

  She clamped her hand on his arm, frantically whispering, “Please, don’t even speak his name aloud. I terribly afraid for him. He had nothing to do with … that night, but he helped me run away from school, and that was the start of everything. We’ve been talking on the telephone, nearly every night, and he begged to see me. I forbade him to come anywhere near me. Some reporter was sure to see him. He’ll be called as a witness, and I’m terrified he’ll be blamed for something, when it was all my doing.”

  “So, that’s how it is.” Ned sighed, whispering, “As you wish. Do you want me to telephone him, pass on a message?”

  She gasped with relief. “Oh yes, please. Tell him …” She thought for a moment. “Just tell him I’m well. His number is Bloomsbury 868.”

  ****

  Two days later she was ushered into the barristers’ consulting room. The large, unadorned space had bare floors and large barred windows at one end. Rory stood behind one of two long tables. She happily rushed toward him, then stopped when he nodded politely, and looked down at his papers. Turning away, her heart leapt at the sight of Sir Douglas Thompson sitting comfortably in one of six wooden chairs.

  “How are you, sir?” Although thinner than she remembered, his eyes were clear and he had colour in his cheeks. She knelt beside him.

  “I feel well, my dear, just weak. Forgive me for not standing.” He gave her a fatherly hug. “I miss your reading to me. You spoiled me terribly.”

  “It was such a pleasure. I miss it as well.”

  “I’m sure you remember Andrew Milligan.”

  “I do indeed.” She stood up, glancing uncomfortably at the elegant barrister who had terrified her at her uncle’s trial.

  Holding out a hand, he smiled warmly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Roundtree, although I wish it could be under any other circumstances.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tentatively taking his hand, she found his grasp firm and his smile sincere. She greeted the others. “Good afternoon Mr Brown … Mr Cookingham.”

  Brown smiled broadly. “Very good to see you, Miss Roundtree.”

  Rory braved a smile and looked away.

  Milligan gestured for her to sit. “You’ve been here for three days and you look well. With luck, we’ll be in court in another ten. If you look as appealing as you did at your uncle’s trial, the jury will acquit you on the spot.” She smiled weakly and he was quick to correct her thinking. “I’m not being fatuous, Miss Roundtree. Incarceration is very trying, but you must not let it show. Jurymen are pompous aristocrats who see beauty and goodness as one of the same, especially in young women. It’s far harder to acquit a plain woman than a pretty one. I’ve seen it time and time again.”

  “That’s so unfair.”

  “Of course it is, and you can petition for legal reform after your release. For now, play the pretty woman for all it’s worth. Your freedom may depend on it.”

  She looked into his grey eyes, insightful and intelligent. “Yes, sir. I’ll do whatever you advise.”

  “Good.” He smiled and nodded. “Let’s get to work, shall we?” Rory helped her into a chair, as Milligan reviewed his papers. “How much do you remember about your interview with Chief Inspector Hayes from Scotland Yard?”

  “The Chief Inspector questioned me for a long time. He made me repeat my story over and over. He wouldn’t let me alone. Finally Isabelle – that is Lady Richfield – made him stop.”

  Milligan held up two papers. “These are copies of signed affidavits from Chief Inspector Hayes and Police Constable Wright. Both gentlemen swear you told them you pushed Sir John Garingham out the window.”

  Her stomach knotted. “I said that, but later the Chief Inspector convinced me I was mistaken. Sir John fell through the window. I ran to help him and was pulled out after him.”

  Milligan kept his eyes on Elly. “Brown, have you been able to locate that
serving girl Garingham raped?”

  “No.” Brown sighed regretfully. “It was three years ago. No one knows what’s become of her, or her child.”

  “What about the other servants?”

  “The cook’s promised to testify. My man’s still working on the others.”

  “Good. Keep trying.” Milligan returned to his notes.

  Elly whispered, “He also hurt Aunt Lillian.”

  “Did he?” Milligan’s stare was intense.

  “Well, I don’t know for sure.” Elly pictured her simple-minded aunt. “Almost every time I came home on school holidays, she’d have bruises on her face and arms. She was terrified of Sir John, even more than I was.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I was so stupid not to guess …”

  “You believe Garingham molested your aunt?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “That might explain her elation when he was killed. Did your uncle know about it?”

  “Of course.”

  “He wouldn’t have objected?”

  “Objected? He probably offered her on a platter … just like me.”

  Milligan looked to the other men and raised an eyebrow. “As Roundtree’s coachman said, ‘… he doesn’t like women, no how.’”

  The men chuckled grimly.

  Milligan turned back to Elly. “At the time of the abduction, did you know your uncle and Sir John Garingham had conspired to murder your father?”

  She shook her head, blinking back frightened tears.

  “Get used to answering, ‘yes,’ or ‘no’.”

  “No, sir. I didn’t even know Charles Roundtree was my father.”

  “Too bad.”

  Rory offered, “Sam Smelling only learned that the day before, when he visited Dr Vickers’s dispensary.”

  Milligan concentrated. “It’s all right. We can still use it. Everything will help.” He looked at Elly. “Your tears will be useful, by the way, as long as they’re not overdone.”

  Astonished, her mouth fell open. “But, sir …”

  “I know they’re sincere, just now, but always remember the three Ts.” He lifted three fingers. “Jurymen like young ladies who are T-imid, T-earful, and T-ender.”

  “And if I happen to be in-T-elligent?”

  “They’ll like you less.” Her body tensed and he chuckled. “I understand your annoyance, but give it up. You’re the defendant. Defend yourself any way you can.”

  “Yes, sir.” She demurely took a deep breath.

  Milligan looked to his senior. “Sir Douglas, since Anthony Roundtree had no legal hold over his niece, do you think we can call into play the Central Justice Act of 1885?”

  Elly watched the four men debating legal matters she did not understand. Her body relaxed. Her breathing slowed.

  An hour later, the legal team collected their papers. Elly kissed Sir Douglas’s cheek, and knelt by his side. “Thank you for bringing Mr Milligan. I think he’s wonderful.”

  “He’s a clever chap.” Sir Douglas smiled then frowned. “Andrew!”

  Milligan turned, surprised to be addressed by his Christian name. “Yes, sir?”

  “Something here needs undoing.”

  Milligan raised an eyebrow.

  “Young Cookingham and Miss Roundtree are fond of each other.”

  “Are they really?” Suppressing a smile, Milligan sorted papers into piles.

  “Richard Reims thought it a liability and made Cookingham swear to have no personal contact with her until after the trial. Being a gentleman, he has kept his word.”

  Milligan continued filing. “Well, you may have noticed that my methods are somewhat different from those of my learned predecessor.” There were smiles all around. “As I mentioned earlier, this case largely depends on the ability of the prisoner to charm the judge and jurymen. In order to be charming, she must be happy. In order to be happy, she must be surrounded by people she is fond of.” He pointed a finger at Rory. “Mr Cookingham, I charge you with keeping the prisoner as happy as possible. Is that understood?”

  Rory shuffled his feet and blushed. “Yes, sir.” He glanced guiltily at Elly and she shyly smiled back. “I’ll do my best.”

  Milligan’s handsome smile showed a row of perfect white teeth. “See that you do.” He watched Brown help Sir Douglas from his chair. The old man stretched stiffly. Milligan took the old man’s arm. “Brown and I can manage Sir Douglas. Cookingham, you stay and entertain the prisoner.”

  Chapter Ten

  The days blurred together. Each dawn, Elly woke to the cursing voice of an unseen woman. A tin tray of black bread and weak tea appeared through the hutch in her cell door. Shivering with cold, she quickly forced down the wretched breakfast. That done, she fluffed her long hair over her shoulders for warmth, wrapped up in her thin blanket and curled on her uncomfortable mattress. From there her imagination took her to a midsummer night in a wood outside Athens. She was Helena, asleep on the cold ground. She imagined Helena as a child, and created a character back-story so full of detail, even Jeremy O’Connell would be impressed.

  Some days Elly was escorted to the consulting room to meet with the barrister’s assistant. Rory waited with a picnic lunch, and the newest scene staging from A Midsummer Night’s Dream rehearsals. He walked her through the scenes staged with her understudy. After lunch, Elly went back to her cell. The matron knew Elly ate with Rory, but still left a tray of ghastly gruel by her cell door. Elly forced herself to eat every scrap.

  Ned arrived each afternoon with a fresh flower, encouraging letters from friends and family, stationery so she could respond, and a piece of sweet candy or cake. She adored his stories of growing up at Hereford Castle, and his homes in the Scottish Highlands, Paris and the south of France. He was eager to show her all of them. When Elly’s supper of bread and rusty water arrived, Ned had to leave.

  At 5 o’clock, the thirteenth day of captivity, Ned sat on her cot with samples of yarn from his highland mill. Her cell door opened.

  “Sorry, sir. Time to go.” The matron nodded politely.

  He was surprised not to see the meal trolley outside the door. “No supper today?”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but they’re inspectin’ today. Miss Roundtree’s meal will be a bit delayed.”

  “An inspection? Well, that’s good news.” He smiled at Elly. “Whoever ‘they’ are, are sure to be shocked by these conditions.” He pulled on his coat. “I wonder if our friend Sam had anything to do with this?” He did not see the matron glower. Knowing Elly would never hug him in front of the matron, he smiled and nodded. “Until tomorrow.” He nodded to the matron and took long strides, disappearing down the dark corridor.

  The matron waited until his footsteps disappeared. A soft cackle escaped her almost toothless mouth. “You’re what’s goin’ to be inspected, m’ lady. The doctor’s on ’is way. With ’is tubes.”

  “Ned!” Elly ran to the cell door, her heart in her mouth.

  The matron grinned, blocking the way. “’E can’t ’ear ya, now. Dan worry. The doctor ’ll take care o’ ya. ’Is job is to keep all the prisoners well nourished.”

  “I eat three meals a day, often more. You know I do.” She saw a bowl of gruel on the floor outside her door, lunged for it, and the matron pushed it away with her foot.

  “I ate my dinner downstairs. You saw it.”

  The matron chuckled sardonically. “I didn’ see nothin’. Yer lookin’ mighty bony to me.”

  “I know Lord Hereford’s giving you money. He won’t give you any more if you hurt me.”

  “Yer goin’ to trial in two days. I’ll get no more crowns out o’ ’im.” She slammed the cell door in Elly’s face.

  Elly sat stiffly on her cot. She waited. The sun sank. The cell darkened. The coagulated gruel remained outside in the corridor. Her evening bread and water did not arrive, and she was hungry. Suddenly, her cell door opened. Two large uniformed women stood next to an iron bin full of tubes and funnels. One woman called, “
It is 78, matron?”

  “Righ’. We’ll start wiv ’er. This way, doctor.” Elly ran into a corner as the matron appeared at her open door with a lamp. “Hidin’ like a rat, are y’?” She laughed loudly.

  A portly, elderly man appeared at the door. “Give me that light, matron.” The doctor read from a paper. “Elisa Roundtree, aged eighteen. Eaten nothing for three days, you say?”

  “That’s not true.” Elly shouted from her corner. “I eat three meals a day, every day. I eat my bread here, then my barrister brings dinner to the consulting room.”

  “What’s this, then?” The matron held the lamp over her uneaten gruel.

  “It would have been a second dinner, and I would have eaten that as well, but she didn’t give it to me.”

  The doctor leaned wearily against the cell door. “Well, matron, she certainly doesn’t lack for energy.” His eyelids were heavy. Even in the dim light, Elly could tell that his suit was frayed and his collar grimy. Braving a step closer, she saw stubble on his chin and smelled drink on his breath.

  He sniffed in surprise. “What’s that perfume?”

  The matron pulled a camellia from Elly’s wash water. “’Er fancy man brings ’er flowers.”

  Elly shouted, “He’s my cousin, and I’m in very good health, sir. I am very well nourished.”

  The matron scowled. “Just look ’ow thin she is. No bigger roun’ than me arm.”

  “Please sir,” Elly was frantic. “I’m naturally thin. I’ve never been able to keep on weight. Bring my bread and water and I’ll eat it right now. Every bite.”

  “Wasn’t she brought her evening meal, matron?”

  “She was. She refused it.”

  Elly screamed, “That’s not true!”

  As if in pain, the doctor held up a hand. “Calm yourself, please. I can’t abide hysterical women.” He looked at the old gruel and wrinkled his nose.

  The matron grabbed Elly’s arm. “She ain’t eatin’ nothin’. I swear it.”

  “And I swear I have.” Elly pulled away, but was unable to break the matron’s powerful grip. “Ouch! You’re hurting me.”

  The doctor hesitated, so the matron drove on. “Are y’ goin’ to examine ’er? At least that?”