by A. W. Exley
She waggled a finger at him. “You are the one who fails to understand the situation. I was already broken. You broke me when you ripped me from Nate. Without him, I am only half a piece. You need both of us to make a whole.” In that moment, clarity dropped over her, and for the first time in innumerable days, peace washed through her limbs.
She had never been alone, because they were one.
Light and dark. Ying and yang. Dragon and phoenix.
ith his anger spent, the beast within Nate settled. He sat on the bed and ran through his options. Loki and Miguel still hadn’t returned from their trip to the Southern hemisphere. Even if they were available, this deep underground there would be no rescue by swooping down with the Hellcat while blaring Wagner and throwing smoke bombs overboard. In the hangar by the Thames they had devices to drill through the earth, but they were noisy and would likely rattle Enforcers Headquarters long before they reached his cell. He hoped the matter would be resolved without fuss by McToon. Otherwise, that only left his contingency plan. If he dared implement it.
Five thousand loyal men drawn from the Rookery would secure his release by force. Victoria would hunt him down for unleashing war on London, for the Enforcers showed they would not give him up easily. He would no longer straddle two worlds, but embrace his place in the darkness never to return to the light of gentile society. Taking that final step didn’t just affect him, but all his men and more importantly, Cara.
Like Hades, he would take Persephone to the underworld to be his queen. Cara would be the spring warmth and hope in their new dark world. The beast stretched but rested in its corner, for it knew its time was near.
Two hours later, Fraser returned and shoved pen and paper through the slot under the grill. His gaze wandered to the tissue and blood smeared over the wall and he left without muttering a word. Half an hour after that, Nate’s door opened to admit a doctor. An Enforcer filled the doorway as the medic dropped his leather bag on the bed and picked up Nate’s bloody hand.
He tsked under his breath as he probed the knuckles. “You’re lucky it’s just tissue damage, you could have easily broken it, taking on the wall.”
Nate huffed. “If I were lucky, I wouldn’t be here.”
The doctor bathed Nate’s torn knuckles and then wrapped a bandage around to hold the shredded skin in place.
Broken or not, he didn’t care. The pain centred him, gave him something to cling to within the void. The ache in his hand became his life raft on the sea of uncertainty. His fate rested in the hands of others and he didn’t like it one bit.
Once alone, he penned a quick missive to McToon for an update and another to the queen, requesting her discrete intervention. Then he did nothing. He could only wait and watch the second hand on his pocket watch make its sweep over the mother of pearl background.
The Curator held Cara captive for ten days now, and he wondered how she bore the confinement and monotony. His imprisonment had lasted less than five hours and he already wanted to bash his head on the wall just for something to do. He tried to pass the time imagining exactly what he would do with her once they were reunited, which created a whole new problem.
His train of thought was derailed when the flap in the door drew back with a clang and an envelope shot through and hit the ground. He picked it up and cast a glance over the back; a prompt reply from the Queen. He lifted the royal seal with his thumbnail.
We cannot intervene in this matter; justice must be seen to be done.
He swore and crumpled the letter, then threw it at the wall. “It’s up to you now, McToon, otherwise I shall unleash hell.”
They came for him the next morning after a restless night. He prowled his confines like a wolf in a trap, unable to lay down and sleep this deep in his enemy’s lair. A grim looking Fraser gestured for the uniforms to shackle Nate’s hands. Another two kept their electric batons drawn and charged, no doubt waiting for him to bite.
“Taking me out for lunch?” he asked as they slipped another set of cuffs around his ankles and chained the two together.
Fraser’s lip curled. “Your friends have been busy. Overnight the Minister of Justice has ordered a deposition hearing and I have been instructed to take you to court.”
Things are moving fast, and he’s not happy about it. With the heavy iron clanking around his wrists and feet, he mounted the steps out from the bowels of the building. Outside in the light snow, a few hardy reporters waited, shouting their questions, which he ignored. His eyes scanned the crowd as his jailers shoved him into a cramped steam carriage and he spotted the numerous entwined light and dark pins on coat lapels.
Not far from headquarters in the legal precinct, the court ground through criminals day after day, century after century. The Old Bailey had occupied the same spot since 1585. The Great Fire burnt it to the ground and it was rebuilt twice before being extended in 1824 to handle the increased workload. Dark wood panelling from the last renovation created a closed atmosphere despite the soaring ceiling. Thick glass obscured any sign of the outside world while only letting a sliver of light into the gloomy interior. Over time, the old tallow candles were replaced with electric lights that flickered with the sporadic connection and occasionally plunged the room into complete darkness. The lights were a very handy flaw exploited by barristers for dramatic conclusions, if they could judge the flickers and time their speech just right.
The public gallery contained an assortment of London life. From the homeless wanting somewhere warm to escape the bitter cold to retired middle class people who came to yell outrage or support. Several reporters elbowed their way to the front and rested their notepads on the railing. Despite regulations against livestock in the courtroom, there was always at least one woman with a basket containing chickens that squawked and flapped their wings when bored.
Nate shuffled in with his armed guards at though they escorted the most dangerous prisoner in Europe. He stopped at the defence table, where McToon waited for him. The barristers were all draped in their mournful black robes with tightly curled white wigs perched on their heads.
The Scottish solicitor took one look at his bound client and pointed to the chains. “Don’t be so daft you lot, it’s not the Sunday roast you’re trussing up. Viscount Lyons is a peer of the realm, not a convict awaiting deportation to Australia. Take those off,” he demanded with his soft burr.
Fraser’s face twisted into a grimace but the reedy prosecutor took one look and said, “Yes, do get them off him before the judge arrives, it doesn’t look good.”
Connor jangled the keys on the chain at his waist and stared at each one, trying to find the key for the lock. After a couple of long minutes, the shackles fell to the floor.
Once free, Nate took the offered chair and waited for the Enforcers to move to their side. Then he leaned in close to McToon. “What’s going on and why are you here? You’re my solicitor, not a barrister.”
The Scotsman glanced around the room and pitched his voice low. His bushy eyebrows added extra cover. “The queen can’t publicly intervene but she knows which strings to pull. She gave the Minister of Justice a serve over candied fruit last night and this morning I received special dispensation to act as both your solicitor and barrister. Along with a notice of an extraordinary hearing to determine if the Enforcers had sufficient evidence to hold you.”
Nate nodded. This is what the queen meant by justice being seen to be done. Let Fraser have his time in the sun, and then they could settle matters between themselves, preferably in a dark alley. “I do hope you earn your exorbitant retainer today, McToon.”
The man adjusted his wig. “Oh, I intend to, milord. I must say I am quite looking forward to my day in court.” He winked and tried to contain his wide grin.
The clerk strode to the front of the room. “All rise.”
Chairs scraped, joints groaned, and a chicken squawked as the assembled mass stood while the magistrate entered and climbed the three steps to his throne that towered over everyo
ne else. He took his seat and stared over the top of his glasses at those below. Draped in scarlet with a brilliant white fur trim and a riotously curled wig tumbling down his back, he wielded his gavel like a weapon. Counsel bowed to their superior and then sat, everyone else present followed their example.
The judge pointed the little wooden hammer at the clerk. “Let’s get this moving, this room is blasted cold and I don’t want to freeze my arse off all day.”
The clerk cleared his throat and read from a sheet of paper clutched in his sweaty hands. “Nathaniel Trent, Viscount Lyons, you are charged with the murder of Saul Brandt and sundry others. The court sits today in this deposition hearing to determine if there is sufficient evidence of these charges for the crown to pursue its case.”
McToon coughed into his hand and raised an eyebrow.
The judge glared at him, the gavel swung from clerk to barrister. “Yes?”
McToon rose from his seat and curled his fingers into the lapel of his robe. “Sundry others? The prosecution cannot be serious.” He glanced to the man on his right, who was preoccupied with getting his wig to sit without sliding off one side. “You would charge my client with murder, but cannot even name the alleged victims?”
The prosecutor abandoned his wig wrangling with it perched at a jaunty angle and stood. He pointed a finger in Nate’s general direction and waited until all attention settled on him. “Your lordship, the accused is a notorious criminal. The deaths at his hands are too numerous to name.”
McToon picked up a stack of papers from the desk and flicked through them, as though bored already. “Well, following my learned friend’s logic, let’s just do away with all forms of evidence then. In fact, milord, why are we even here wasting your valuable time? Perhaps we should break out the lynch mob and a length of rope to deal with the villain?”
The judge made a noise deep in his throat and glanced from one man to the other.
McToon tossed his papers back to the desk. “Milord, Lord Lyons is a peer of the realm and in the employ of our Queen. We are British and have built our national reputation on fair play and adherence to the law. Surely, we should follow a bare minimum of procedure?” He took his seat and tented his fingers on the desk.
The judge banged his gavel and then pointed it at the prosecutor. “Either name the victims or strike them from the charge.”
“Yes, milord. Very well, milord.” The slight fellow shifted through the papers on the desk, no doubt looking for the manifest of the macabre. Fraser handed up a note and the prosecutor scanned the document. He sucked in his lower lip before speaking. “We shall proceed with just the named victim.”
McToon coughed into his hand and rose again. He cast an apologetic look to the bench.
The magistrate fixed him with a black gaze. “What now?”
Nate kept his face bland but inside he bit back a chortle, he knew where the canny lawyer was leading Fraser and his case—straight to the compost bin at the end of the garden.
“Saul Brandt, milord.” A speck under his fingernail held his attention and he threw out his remarks in a distracted manner, without looking up. “Might I enquire of the prosecution as to the general whereabouts of the alleged deceased?”
The judge frowned. “He’s dead, Mr. McToon, that normally that means they’re in the ground.” He moved his gaze to the prosecutor. “Where’s the stiff planted?” The judge didn’t like to mince around a topic, better to slice it straight down the middle.
The prosecutor swallowed. He leaned down and ratted around his papers as though expecting to see Saul laying underneath a file. He leaned down for a hurried exchange with Fraser. The inspector tapped a pencil on the table top, his response lost except for his sharp tone.
McToon’s counterpart straightened and glanced at the bench. “It would appear there is not a body, as such, milord. The family refuses to divulge the place of his burial.”
“As such?” McToon huffed a laugh at the description. “So, failing to identify Mr. Brandt’s final resting place, if there indeed is one, was there a medical expert present at the time of this alleged injury to declare him dead?”
More rustling of papers from the prosecution and the man’s wig listed further to one side but he failed to notice.
Fraser’s hazel gaze flashed behind his glasses. Unable to sit still any longer, he shoved back his chair and rose. “There is an eye witness to Mr. Brandt being murdered in cold blood, milord. If you will allow it?”
McToon turned and folded his arms. “The witness was a doctor, mayhap, qualified to make such a declaration as death by foul means?”
“No. But we have the victim’s daughter.” He pointed to Fanny at the back of the room, flanked by her cousin and three other men. “She will testify to the court that the accused stabbed her father in the chest and he fell to the floor, dead.”
“Oh, that would make a compelling recital, I am sure,” McToon said as he sat again.
Nate stared at the pile of papers on the desk and flicked through to find one in particular. He slid it along the tabletop to the Scottish solicitor. The solicitor stood, his whole attention absorbed by the words until a cough from the judge promoted him to look up.
“Out with it.” The gavel waved at his head. “What have you got now?”
“I just find the proceedings curious, milord. My client is charged with murder, but there is no body. Indeed, there is no confirmation that the alleged victim ever suffered a fatal injury. Then the key witness to this unfortunate event is a woman who, according to my investigation, receives sporadic payments from a man called Saul Brandt who resides in America.” He tapped the paper in his hand. “I’m no expert in these matters, but it almost makes one think her father relocated to America rather than dying. That would also explain why the Brandt family plot doesn’t contain a Saul.”
“He’s lying!” Fraser pointed at Nate and looked on the point of lunching across the table and grabbing him by the collar. “Any such evidence is doctored to suit his web of lies.”
Events at the back of court superseded arguments at the front, when a heated exchange broke out between Henry and Fanny. Henry jumped to his feet and started yelling about how he never received his cut and that Fanny was short-changing him. Fanny jabbed her finger at Henry, saying he was too thick to deal with his payment quietly and that he would have run off his fat gob. The men on both sides rose and a scuffle ensured. In the furore, someone jostled the basket with the chicken and it escaped with a squawk and flew to the relative protection of a wall bracket.
“Tell them what you saw! Tell them Lyons thrust a dagger into your father’s heart.” Fraser yelled over the ruckus. “And for God’s sake, tell them where you buried his body.”
“We didn’t,” she screamed back in-between taking a swing at her cousin. “His men offered us coin for the body.”
McToon glanced sideways at Nate. “Really?” he whispered. “At least you tidy up after yourself.”
Nate kept his face schooled to indifference as chaos erupted. Events were going quite well, perhaps he had no need of the army assembled in the streets outside after all.
The judge banged his gavel repeatedly as the Enforcers strode into the melee and tried to pull the combatants apart. “Sit down everyone or I’ll have the whole lot of you dragged from my courtroom.”
Enforcers and bailiffs manhandled the troublemakers in the back and Fraser could only watch as his star witness was hauled from the room, still screaming like a banshee that the money was the least of what she was owed.
“Not going quite as you planned, Fraser?” Nate whispered at the inspector, frozen like a statue as his work disappeared out the door.
“You evil bastard—”
“You’re either silent or absent, pick which one, inspector.” The judge issued his ultimatum, still waving his gavel like it were the sword of Damocles.
Fraser glared at Nate and returned to his seat.
“This is preposterous, milord.” The prosecutor made a
series of gasping noises as he choked on his tongue. Red crept up from under his high white collar. “This case has been years in the making by a most diligent member of Her Majesty’s Enforcers.” He waved to the sullen looking Fraser.
“All that time on their hands, one would have thought somebody would have looked for a body,” McToon said.
The judge flicked through the papers the clerk handed up. “What is this?”
“It’s from the Bank of England, milord. I believe the accountants call it a ledger.” The solicitor emphasised the word as though numbers were some mysterious species invented to perplex the legal community. “It shows instructions given to the bank by a firm of American solicitors. They deposited money to be withdrawn by Miss Brandt, here in London.”
The judged made a noise in his throat and stared at the page as though he expected it to sprout teeth and leap for his jugular.
“I have an employee of the bank available, milord.” McToon gestured to a scrawny man seated in the front row. He clutched a battered satchel in both hands and had bright, excited eyes behind his thick glasses. “He is more than happy to explain in minute detail all about these accounting ledgers and the numerous financial entries. I’m sure his testimony wouldn’t take more than three or four hours.”
The judge stared at the bank clerk, then down at the scrawled numbers in tight rows, then back at the bank employee. A tick worked in his jaw and after a long silence, he handed the sheet of cramped digits back to his clerk. “That won’t be necessary.”
The scrawny gentleman looked crestfallen as the words registered, and McToon signalled for him to stay seated. The man’s top lip quivered as though the cream slid from his jam scone just as he was about to sink his teeth in.
The judge took up his gavel. “No body, no medical witness to testify that he suffered any harm, and he’s sending money to his daughter from America. The last payment was only a month ago. What say you in closing, Inspector Fraser?”
Fraser rose to his feet looking somewhat more composed than five minutes earlier. “Your Honour, the payments are obviously a fiction constructed by Lyons to make people believe the murdered man is still alive. Lyons has businesses in many countries. It would not be difficult for him to deposit funds to assuage his guilt. There is no proof Saul Brandt was the originator of the funds.”
