by Holly West
He’d given me a head full of things to ponder. Prior to that night’s conversation, I hadn’t given Sir Richard Winser’s potential involvement in Adam’s murder more than a passing thought. Now, it was all I could do to convince myself he wasn’t the man responsible for Adam’s death. I’d allowed my sentimentality to influence the investigation into the murder, discounting the fact that Sir Richard had at least as much of a motive as Stowe and Clarke had.
There was no news from Sir Richard when I got home. Neither had Susanna returned, and I had no inkling of where else I could look for her.
I intended to go to Newgate as soon as day broke. I wanted to interrogate the man who’d broken into Benjamin Stowe’s home. It would be difficult getting access, but perhaps if I could convince Constable Foxcomb to accompany me, I’d have better fortune.
I’d scarcely admit it, even to myself, but I had another, pressing reason for wanting to visit Newgate—I needed to know if Sam had been apprehended.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Saturday, 25 January
Newgate Prison’s menacing gates loomed up from Newgate Street in much the same manner as I imagined the gates of hell did. The Old Bailey stood just across the street in order to facilitate the transfer of prisoners from the gaol, but beyond location, the two buildings had little in common. The courthouse was cold and efficient, while Newgate was as putrid and infected as a festering wound.
Constable Foxcomb had declined my request for assistance, saying his word held no sway at Newgate. My guess was that he didn’t wish to involve himself in my troubles. And so I went alone, with nothing but hard determination and a purse full of coins to bolster my demand to speak with Chester Plum.
I’d previously dealt with Mrs. Richardson, the gaoler’s wife, and knew her to be a hard-nosed but practical woman who would do my bidding if the price were right. But when I knocked upon the door, the gaoler himself opened it, looking none too happy to have been raised so early in the morning.
“Lady Wilde,” he said. I was thankful that he’d at least recognized me. “How can I help you?”
I didn’t know if Mr. Richardson would be as cooperative as his wife was, but the position of gaol keeper was a purchased post—and a lucrative one if all income-earning opportunities were taken into consideration. Everything could be had for a price, be it better accommodations, an overpriced bottle of cheap gin, or in my case, information.
“I’m here to see a prisoner, but first I want to know if a man named Sam Turner has been taken in,” I said.
The moment it took him to answer seemed like an eternity. “No, I don’t believe he has.”
Relief swept over me. It didn’t mean that Sam hadn’t been arrested, but knowing he wasn’t here was encouraging. “Very well then. I’d like to see Chester Plum. He was arrested for the attempted murder of Benjamin Stowe sometime in the past few days.”
Richardson regarded me grimly. “I know who he is, but you’re too late. He was murdered in the taproom two days ago.”
My surprise was quickly overtaken by outrage. “How is that possible? Who did it?”
“At the moment, we don’t know. But rest assured that we’re conducting a thorough investigation.”
Despite this declaration, I imagined that any scrutiny given to Plum’s death was cursory, at best. “Was there an altercation between prisoners?”
“As I said, Lady Wilde, we’re looking into it.”
“Did he have any visitors while he was here?”
He sighed, clearly frustrated that one of the king’s mistresses had arrived on his doorstep, insisting that he do a bit of work before he’d even had a chance to break his fast. I knew how illusory my own power was, but perhaps he wasn’t quite aware. At any rate, he didn’t suggest that I give him a coin, and I didn’t offer it.
“It’ll be just a moment whilst I check the record,” he said.
He closed the door, leaving me outside to suffer the cold. Not that I minded. The thought of waiting inside his wretched home, which stood just left of Newgate itself, was unappealing. Nevertheless, I wished he would hurry for the icy wind bit my nose and cheeks.
While he was gone, I contemplated the situation. Someone had hired Chester Plum to kill Benjamin Stowe, and quite possibly, Tom Clarke. Plum had been careless enough to get caught and he was arrested and incarcerated at Newgate to await trial. But before those proceedings happened, he was murdered.
It was no uncommon occurrence for prisoners to be killed in gaol. Fights broke out constantly, especially in common areas like the taproom or the holding cell. Had Sam not come to my rescue, I could’ve suffered such a fate myself in Marshalsea Prison.
That said, I didn’t believe for one moment that Plum’s death was the result of an unfortunate but random gaol-scuffle. Someone had conveniently arranged for his murder, effectively silencing him before any evidence could be brought forth at a trial.
Mr. Richardson came out holding a ledger book open. He balanced it on his forearm and flipped the pages with his other hand. “Plum...Plum,” he mumbled, running his index finger down the page. “No. No visitors.”
“Perhaps someone came whilst your wife was minding the gaol and she forgot to record it in the book?”
His eyes meandered down the page. “Wait a moment. Here’s one. Frederick Wilson came to visit Mr. Plum on 27 January.” He looked up at me. “That’s the same day Plum died.”
My heart felt as though it had moved from my chest into my throat. Frederick Wilson was Sir Richard’s faithful servant. “Do you know what the two of them discussed?”
“Surely your ladyship does not expect me to be privy to every conversation that takes place within these walls?”
“Does the book indicate if Mr. Wilson visited any other prisoners that day?”
He perused the record. “It seems he also visited with Horace Applebee.”
“And Mr. Applebee, I suppose, is still living?”
“I’ve not been inside yet this morning, but yes, I assume that he is. But before you ask—he’s no longer permitted visitors.”
“Under whose orders?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your ladyship’s concern.”
I held a shilling in front of his face. “Will this buy me a meeting with Mr. Applebee?”
His eye gleamed for a moment, then returned to their usual dull brown. “I’m sorry, my lady, but there are rules to be followed.”
“Two shillings?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
Whoever had arranged for Chester Plum’s killing had no doubt paid dearly for Richardson’s sudden discretion. I knew I’d do well not to waste any further time or money here.
“Mr. Richardson,” I said, not bothering to disguise the contempt in my voice, “I’ll leave you to your breakfast. But if it’s true you want to find out who murdered Chester Plum, I’d begin the investigation with a thorough interrogation of Horace Applebee.”
* * *
I was shaken enough by the time I arrived home. But when Charlotte met me at the door frantically shaking a piece of paper, I became truly frightened. “Oh, my lady, thank goodness you’re home! You received a message from Sir Richard. It must be about Susanna!”
It was folded in threes and I hastily broke the seal. It was difficult to read the childish scrawl and misspelled words.
Deer Lady Wild:
I am riting to tell you Susanna is at Bingly Hous. Safe but upset and has ask for you more than once but the family refuses to summon you. Plese com soon.
L
It must be from Lucinda. She’d taken a great risk in sending it, but it shouldn’t have surprised me. Lucinda had been Margaret’s ally from the very beginning. Now, it seemed, she was Susanna’s, as well.
But a chill ran through me. I no longer
believed that Susanna had run away. Sir Richard had kidnapped her.
“Oh Charlotte,” I said.
The gaoler’s revelation that Wilson had visited Chester Plum and Horace Applebee further convinced me that Benjamin Stowe’s accusations against Sir Richard were true. It appeared that Wilson had paid Horace Applebee to murder Chester Plum in prison. There was no longer any question in my mind who had killed my brother: Sir Richard had learned about Adam’s deception and had him murdered, just as he had done with Tom Clarke and Chester Plum. The bitter certainty of this caused a lump to form in my throat, but I swallowed it back and considered my options.
“What is it, Lady Wilde?” Charlotte said, her eyes already brimming with tears.
I’d frightened her without meaning to. “She’s there. Our girl is all right.”
Charlotte put her hand to her chest and exhaled in relief. “Oh, thank God!”
Despite what Sir Richard had done to her father, I didn’t think Susanna herself was in any immediate danger. Sir Richard might’ve been angry enough to kill Adam, but he wasn’t a monster—he wouldn’t hurt his granddaughter. Would he?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Though it wasn’t more than a couple of hours long, the journey to Bingley House seemed the longest of my life.
Distraught with worry, I could hardly sit still. I didn’t know what I’d find once I arrived there. Was Susanna all right? Lucinda had written that she was safe but if Sir Richard considered her a threat of any sort, she might be in trouble. I lamented not having anyone to speak with whilst I made the trip, if only to calm my nerves, but I’d insisted Charlotte remain at home for her own safety.
Charlotte had obtained a small pistol for me a few months prior, and I had it concealed, loaded and ready to fire, in my muff, along with a pouch of gunpowder. At the time, I’d chided her for purchasing it, but nevertheless, I’d allowed Sam to teach me how to use it. Despite a somewhat wobbly aim, I was glad to have it, though I prayed I’d have no need for it.
The day was sunnier than usual, which I considered a good omen. At the very least, it made for a quicker trip. I hoped to make it before darkness fell.
When Elijah brought the carriage to an abrupt halt, my head and torso flew forward and back, straining my neck muscles. God’s blood, what was that? I thought, rubbing a painful spot near my shoulder.
He shouted and I peered out the window just as someone pulled him from his perch. The carriage door swung open and a behemoth stood there, a mask covering his face so that I could only see his angry black eyes. I shrank toward the far end of the carriage, kicking my feet out as hard as I could, hoping that I’d land a blow to his head. But despite my efforts, he easily grabbed hold of my legs and pulled me out. The back of my head hit the edge of the carriage, dazing me for a few seconds.
I came to my senses and realized there were two of them. Elijah’s assailant stood over him, kicking his head while he rolled around, holding his arms up, trying to protect himself. “Stop it,” I screamed. “Don’t hurt him!”
I felt for my pistol with one hand and used the other arm to block my attacker’s attempts to pick me up. I grabbed on to the metal handle, knowing I’d have little time to shoot it and even less time to aim. I only had one shot. My plan was to disable my own assailant first and then help Elijah.
The shot deafened my right ear, reverberating through the open fields with nothing but trees to mute its sound. My aggressor cried out and clutched his right arm with his left hand. “You stupid cunt,” he yelled. “You’ll die for that!”
“No, Jarvis,” the other man cautioned. “He wants her alive.”
Apparently, the bullet hadn’t done Jarvis any real harm, for now he growled and came after me with renewed enthusiasm. I raised the pistol, still intertwined in my fingers, and thrust it against the side of his head. He faltered, stumbling backward, allowing me a chance to get to my feet. The reprieve didn’t last long, however, for a moment later he ripped the gun from my hand and smashed the butt of it against my skull.
I glimpsed Elijah lying on the ground beside the carriage, unmoving. Please don’t let him be badly hurt, I prayed. And then, everything went dark.
* * *
I woke up in a cold, dark room, pain pulsing through my brain. The air was damp and musty, as though I’d been tossed into a deep well. I tried to move and realized my arms were tied in front of me. My legs were also bound, around the thighs and at the ankles. I shut my eyes, unable to take anything but short, quick breaths, which quickened my heartbeat and made my consciousness swirl.
I willed myself to breathe more slowly. When I’d gathered my wits, I squinted into the pitch-black darkness. The ground beneath me was dirt, and the air was foul with the stench of a hundred years of decay and waste. I recalled my cell in Marshalsea Prison and my heart thumped again. What gaol was this?
Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.
I’d lost all sense of time. I didn’t know if I’d been in this acrid chamber for an hour or days. But aside from my throbbing head and a terrible thirst, my only discomfort came from being bound on the hard dirt floor. I felt well enough, though it was impossible for me to determine how long I’d been here.
A door creaked open and I glimpsed a thin slice of sunlight before it closed. Footsteps crunched in the dirt as someone walked toward me, his torch lighting the room. I kept my eyes shut tight, hoping that whoever had entered would still think I was unconscious. I sensed the person kneel beside me, shining the light into my face.
“She’s still out,” a male voice said, prodding me in the side with a finger. It caused a ticklish sensation and it took all my concentration not to move.
Was Elijah in the room with me? Together we’d have a far better chance of overpowering our attackers, whoever they were. But even stupid men would know it was smarter to separate us so as not to consolidate any muscle we had, feeble as it might be. And for all I knew, they’d killed him.
“You should never have brought her here,” a second voice said.
“Enough, Wilson. She’ll die when I say she dies and not a moment before.”
Wilson. I must be at Bingley House, I thought. But I realized the other man I’d heard wasn’t Sir Richard. It was his son. James.
The light moved away from my face and James kicked up the dirt as he walked away, causing my nose to twitch. I tried to swallow my sneeze, but to no avail.
“She’s awake,” he said, rushing back. He bent toward me and scrutinized my face in the light. “How do you feel, Isabel?” There was concern in his voice.
Wilson stood on the other side of James, my pistol held at the ready in his right hand. I needed them to believe I posed no threat to them, so I pretended confusion. It wasn’t so far from the truth since the throbbing in my head was much worse, probably from the strain of having to stay still for so long. “Where am I?” I asked.
“You’re at Bingley House,” James replied. “Do you feel all right?”
“Bingley House?”
“There was a dungeon put into the house when it was built. An unexpected convenience, I must say.”
I blinked. “How long have I been here?”
“Not long. Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“I don’t understand. Why’ve you done this?”
He leaned back on his haunches, balancing the torch above him in one hand. “You mean you don’t know?”
And all at once, I did know. It was James who had murdered my brother, not Sir Richard. Despite his lack of interest in his father’s business, James would’ve certainly been privy to the details of Adam’s deception. He’d always resented Adam, and he might’ve decided that it wasn’t enough to just have my brother arrested. Adam had to pay with his life. My brother had desecrated the Winsers’ good name by secretly marrying Margaret and put their business at risk with the fraud
he’d perpetrated. These actions could not go unpunished.
The reason it had taken me so long to suspect Sir Richard of my brother’s murder was because I knew intuitively that he would never have hurt my brother. God’s blood, it would’ve broken the man’s heart just to have him arrested, let alone killed. But James had no such love for Adam and no doubt considered it his responsibility to avenge the family’s name.
When I didn’t reply, James said, “Truly, I never wanted it to come to this, but you’ve left me no alternative. Father asked you to stop your inquiry, I asked you to stop—this wouldn’t have happened had you heeded our requests. And after all my father’s done for you.”
I recalled Wilson saying something similar to me, but I still didn’t know what he’d meant. “I’ve always been grateful to Sir Richard for taking us all in,” I said weakly. “He’s like a father to me, you know that.”
“You misunderstand me. My father’s the one who paid your debt to get you out of prison.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sir Richard had paid my debt. All these years and I never guessed. God’s blood, if it weren’t for him I might still be in prison. “Why didn’t he tell me?” I asked.
“If you want my opinion, he felt guilty for helping me to cover up Adam’s killing. Whatever the case, he insisted upon remaining anonymous, which was a mistake. If you’d known what he’d done, you might’ve listened to him when he asked you to quit your investigation.”
“But why tell me this now, when what’s done is done?”
“You need to know how ungrateful you’ve been,” James said. “My father has shown you every kindness and you repaid him by trying to ruin our family’s reputation.”
“I only wanted to learn the truth about Adam,” I said. “What else could I do? He was my brother.”
“I don’t fault you for wanting to know what happened to him. When Margaret ran away I was desperate to find out what had become of her. Imagine my astonishment when I found out she’d gone against the family’s wishes and married Adam.”
