‘What’s that?’ Hannah exclaimed. ‘I think I hear horses.’ The occupants of the kitchen became deathly silent. Even the cook stopped stirring the pot. ‘Yes, oh, glory be, it is and the carriage, too. She’s back,’ Hannah jumped to her feet and Porter followed.
‘Go. Git,’ Mrs. Dunn shouted, also staggering to her feet, but much slower as she clutched at an arthritic back. The two maids scooted to their previously allocated tasks, Stanley to polishing the house silver and Porter to beating the rugs.
Hannah thought long and hard about Porter’s plan. It sounded easy the way Porter put it but what about the risks? ‘What if we are caught?’ She asked Porter.
Porter shook her head with vigor. ‘We won’t be, I tell you. All the stuff from her country estate is in two bags, well hidden at this very moment inside the coal cellar. The old witch knows nothing about them. I brought them back here to Deptford without anyone knowing. All we have to do is drag them out and leave them just inside the gates on Saturday night at midnight. Then, Albert Skinner will do the rest.’
‘What do you mean, he’ll do the rest?’
‘He’ll just open the gates. They don’t squeak, you know. He’ll just reach in and put the bags on his cart and away he goes. Easy, just like that.’
‘And when do we get our money?’
‘On Sunday, our day off, when we go and see him.’
‘How much do we get?’
‘He says two pounds for the lot.’ Porter chuckled. ‘Hey, Stanley, come on. She won’t miss them until she goes to the country on her next visit and that’s in the winter, months away. Think of it, Hannah, a pound each. Now what am I going to buy first, I wonder?’
Hannah sighed. ‘I guess I’m in.’ She held out a hand to shake but Porter brushed it aside, stood up with a giggle, and hugged her. As they clung together, Hannah knew she was committed, for better or worse. Nothing could go wrong, Porter had said. She’d better be right. Despite her trepidation, the thought of a wonderful whole pound in her pocket, to spend as she wanted, was over-whelming. She had never even touched one, now she thought about it...
They spoke in whispers under the solitary candle, aware it was nearly time to act. The house was deathly silent, broken only by the irregular snoring of the cook in the next alcove. They waited for the quarter to midnight chimes of the grandfather clock that would propel them into action. Porter kept glancing at a gentleman’s pocket watch that had somehow came into her possession but Hannah thought it wasn’t working properly. It had a weak tick and, besides, they had trouble telling the time from its face. The figures were confusing. Hannah rose to open further the door to the hallway just as the chimes rang out.
‘Quick,’ Porter commanded and blew out the candle.
They tiptoed down the long hallway and paused before the mahogany staircase, startled by a sudden noise, someone coughing. Hannah mentally located the source. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered to a wary Porter. ‘It’s Mrs. Dunn.’ Porter nodded and they continued down the staircase. A timber shifted with a sudden squeak and they stopped to listen to the silence for a moment. Mrs. Dunn had stopped coughing. Porter tapped Hannah on the shoulder and they resumed their descent. They paused in front of the back door. The pad-bolt was unlocked as they’d left it an hour before and Porter eased the door open and they slipped outside. Hannah eased the heavy door back onto its hinges.
It was light outside in the brilliant moon and the shadow of the huge elm stretched from yard to house. ‘Come on,’ Porter urged as Hannah paused and they followed the path down to the cellar. They had no trouble getting the bags out, although the metal gate made a grating noise as they closed it, causing them to startle momentarily and listen before continuing. Satisfied, they clutched the cumbersome bags to their bodies and dragged them back down the path and around the elm tree. Turning the corner, Hannah could see the gates clearly now. They were almost there. She jerked on the bag with rejuvenated enthusiasm, her breath misting in the cold night air. Porter closed up behind, an urgent scamper paralleling her own.
They were past the roses, now, just a few yards to the gate. It was then that they heard the dog’s deep growl. In the moonlight, it was the devil incarnate, standing at the gate, ears down, body stiff with menace, yellow eyes fixed unerringly on its prey. ‘Oh God,’ Porter gasped, dropping her bag. ‘It’s always in the house of a night time, that evil beast. It sleeps at the foot of their bed. What is it doing here?’
The dog’s head rose and a howl emanated, then another, long threatening spine-tingling sound that reverberated powerfully through the still of the night.
‘Here, shove the bags in the rose bushes. Over there, see? Yes, there. Hurry.’ With unsteady hands, Hannah dragged her bag into the shrubbery and Porter followed. A flicker of lit candles appeared in the house in more than one window as they scurried away. ‘Faster, Hannah,’ Porter gasped. They skirted the elm tree and scooted up the path. The back door swung open as they neared. In the doorway, the master stood in nightgown and cap, a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Mr. William Dawson, Esquire leveled the musket at them. ‘What’s this then? Do not move now. Do not move,” he warned as they stepped warily towards him. “Stay there now, exactly as you are.’ He turned his head to look into the house. ‘Elizabeth, are you there?’
‘Yes, I am here and my God, I should have known it would be those two irresponsible wretches.’ Mrs. Elizabeth Dawson peered over her husband’s shoulder. “Why did I ever take them in?”
“What’s the meaning of this?’ The perplexed master lowered the pistol as the mistress pushed past him to confront two shivering, terrified girls.
‘Please, ma’am, we . . . ah . . . we have been out with the lads and we just got back when the dog started to bark . . .’ Hannah’s voice faded away unconvincingly. Her fear accelerated as Porter’s grip tightened on her fingers.
‘That’s the truth, sir,” blurted Porter, searching the master for support.
‘What, dressed like that?’ The master eyed them up and down. ‘Upon my soul . . . and dressed in your nightgowns, too. You can see—’
‘That’s enough of that, William,’ the mistress snapped. ‘Brazen hussies they are. I would think they’ve been stealing, probably hiding something.’
“Perhaps they have,” the master agreed, ogling the sheer nightgowns. Recovering his poise, he turned to the servants crowding in the doorway. ‘Get lights and search the grounds. Look for any stolen items.’ He gestured at the two women. ‘Get in the house, you two.’
‘Yes, sir, please, sir,’ Hannah held out her hands. ‘We—’
‘No, I won’t have them in my house,’ the mistress shouted, shoving the two women back. ‘They can freeze out in the cold for all I care.’
‘All right, my dear. They can go in the coal cellar until we sort out this business. Hurry up, see to it.’ He gestured to Francis, the butler.
‘I bet they have hidden something in the yard,’ Mrs. Dawson observed loudly as the girls were led away.
‘Perhaps, my dear,’ the master replied with a yawn. ‘Who knows what these type of people get up to?’ He closed his eyes, happily recalling the curves under the nightgowns.
Within the grimy confines of the pitch black coal cellar, Hannah hugged a weeping contrite Porter. She no longer blamed her about the dog or what went wrong. What was the use anyway? She patted Porter’s straight auburn hair and tried to comfort her. They sat on heaped, filthy hessian bags and listened to the commotion outside. Soon, there came shouts of exhilaration and Hannah realized its implications. She didn’t need any further confirmation and resigned herself to the news as old Johnathan rattled on the locked grate. ‘Sorry, young Hannahs, but they found two bags of clothing in my rose bushes. The master says the runners will come in the morning. I’m sorry for ye both.’ He rattled on the grate in farewell and then they were alone in the now foreboding silence of the night.
Porter raised her head from Hannah’s lap. ‘We’ll be for i
t now, won’t we?’ She wiped at the tears on her cheeks.
‘Yes, we will but worse—’
‘What could be worse?’ Porter sniffed.
‘We won’t be able to meet the lads on Sunday as we planned.’ Hannah gave a wry smile. ‘That is the worst part of it.’
‘Oh, God, don’t make me laugh, Stanley, and here’s me,’ Porter giggled, ‘with me new blue bonnet that I badly wanted to show off.’
The two women looked at each other and shared a half-hearted laugh.
‘Try to sleep,’ Hannah sighed.
She forced herself to close her eyes and follow suit but visions of what tomorrow would bring were all too real and threatening for sleep.
Chapter 2
MANSIONS DINING HOUSE. LONDON
28 March 1809
Lord Chief Baron MacDonald extracted a habitual pinch from the mother-of pearl box and inhaled with an elegant flourish. The stimulation from the snuff penetrated his sinuses and his eyes begin to water. ‘By gad, that’s strong,’ he exclaimed to his fellow judges. ‘But very spicy,’ he added, with relish. He steered the box into the middle of the table. ‘Here, try it, gentlemen, it is top grade, you know.’
‘Not for me, Your Grace, but I thank you.’ The Honorable Justice shook his head. ‘I still fancy the pipe although my wife is always complaining about it. You know what women are.’
‘Indeed. How is your good wife, Heath? My lady and I haven’t had the pleasure of your company for some time.’
‘She is fine, thank you, sir.’
‘I’ll try that.’ Sir Brook William Bridges leaned forward, took a pinch and inhaled. ‘By George, Your Grace, it’s got quite a . . . punch indeed.’ He broke into a violent, repetitive sneezes that created amusement in his colleagues.
‘Tell me, Heath,’ Lord MacDonald asked. ‘Is this your first trip to Maidstone?’
‘Yes, for the Assizes, although I have been there as a visiting magistrate on the circuit.’
‘The Assizes are something entirely different. Aren’t they, my dear Bridges?’ On receiving a nod of agreement, the Baron continued. ‘You’ll be dealing with the dregs of Kent, scoundrels all of them but . . .’ He gave a chuckle and rolled his eyes. ‘They’re all innocent, of course.’ Heath reluctantly joined in the laughter that echoed through the elegant dining suite of Mansions House. ‘That is until we put on the black cap.’ Sir Brook Bridges gave Heath’s ribs a playful elbow. ‘That’s when they suddenly admit their guilt — quickly recover their amnesia — and beg for mercy.’
‘Sir, I see there remain over two hundred offences on the statutes that automatically merit the death penalty. Isn’t it about time a lot of these were removed?’ Heath asked.
‘Maybe so,’ Lord MacDonald gave Heath a questioning look. ‘Remember, my dear Heath, comparatively few —perhaps one in five — of these scoundrels are hanged these days. Not like the 80s, eh, Bridges? Then it was the norm, an incentive for the rascals to behave. Nowadays . . .’ He paused to withdraw his pocket watch. ‘By Gad, where is that damn coachman? He’d better be here soon or I’ll have his guts for garters.’ He lowered his eyebrows and frowned.
‘We need convict labor in the new land of New South Wales,’ Bridges said, ‘and besides we can get rid of the useless sods over there.’
‘Quite so, Bridges, quite so. Upon my soul, gentlemen,’ Lord MacDonald partook of another sniff, ‘losing the American colony was a tragedy for us all. If only we could have dispatched more troops in time, it would have been a different story. I say curses on those damn rebels. They want the stinking country, let them have it. That’s what I say. It’s full of illiterate farmers and savages who would slit your throat, anyway. Good riddance to them.’
‘There are savages in New South Wales, too,’ Heath pointed out.
‘Yes, but we’ll get them under control when Macquarie takes over. He’ll have them eating out of his hand and won’t stand any nonsense,’ Bridges said. ‘He’s just been nominated as Governor. He’s a good man—’
‘Humph, perhaps, but some say he’s too soft for the job.’ Lord MacDonald shrugged his shoulders.
‘Ah, I do declare our carriage awaits. Here is the coachman now.’ Lord MacDonald stood, slid the snuff box into a side pocket of his laced coat, and waved the lackey ahead. ‘About time, my good man, you are late. Where have you been? No, I won’t listen to your excuses. Come, my dear colleagues, work awaits us in bonny Maidstone.’
The Honourable Justice Heath hastily threw down his brandy and followed his Lordship and Sir Bridges to the entrance of Mansions House.
‘Thank you,’ Heath said and the doorman bowed his head in surprise at the politeness.
As Heath stooped to enter the carriage, he wondered what his first Assizes had in store for him. It would be exciting and challenging. Of that, he had no doubt. Notwithstanding, he had no qualms about his judgmental expertise in dealing with the poor unfortunates currently rotting in Maidstone Prison. They would be no better or worse than the human debris from Newgate that he had processed at the Old Bailey. He had sentenced criminals who had committed minor offences — in his view — to death or transportation before and he would do it again if warranted. It was the law. He didn’t like it — wasn’t he continually pushing for reform against strong opposition? — but there was nothing that he could do about it at the moment. He could only apply the current legislation. That’s what he was paid to do and he would do it . . .
Justice Heath rested his head against the jarring, cushioned interior of the coach and tried to sleep. The conversation had long since flagged. His eyes flew open as the wheel struck a large obstacle and the carriage lurched. The Baron uttered an oath and shouted out the window at the coachman to take care. A nervous ‘Sorry, my Lord,’ filtered down to the passengers. Bridges and Heath exchanged secretive smiles and resumed their inert positions. Heath pulled the velvet curtain aside. The dismal facade of the notorious Dauphin‘s Arms tavern came into view. He knew the Baron would not stop there for refreshment. Every prostitute and thief in Gravesend and Dartmouth considered the place home. Besides, they still had three hours or so before they reached Maidstone and he knew the High Sheriff intended to open the commission that very afternoon, with the judges present. Heath closed the curtain, repositioned his head on the cushion and shut his eyes. Soon the clip clop of the horses’ hooves lulled him into lethargy. A vision came to him of a black cap and its effect on a terrified wretch begging mercy before he slipped into an uneasy slumber.
MAIDSTONE PRISON
30 March 1809
Tilly had vomited in the corner, Hannah saw when she woke. The stench was overpowering. Why hadn’t she cleaned it up? That’s what the water bucket was for. Typical of those from the north, she thought. She nudged the inert body at her feet.
‘What?’ Porter yelled, rearing up belligerently from under a tattered blanket. ‘This had better be good.’ She combed fingers through straggly hair and eyed her disturber. ‘What’s up now, our Hannah?’
‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘No and I don’t give a fig if it’s the King’s birthday. I’m going back to sleep. What’s that foul stink?’
‘It’s Tilly. She must have been sick through the night.’
‘She’s sick, all right, in the bleedin’ head.’ Porter stood and flung the blanket aside. She glared at the inert form in the corner. ‘Hey, you, Tilly ‘arold, get up and clean up your mess, you dirty little tart.’
‘Maybe she couldn’t help it,’ Hannah offered. ‘Let’s go and see if she—’
‘She was on the rum last night. She could help it all right.’ Porter sniffed. ‘You may remember old pox face Albert came for her last night and it wasn’t for her ‘ealth sake.’ Porter gave a raucous laugh. ‘You can bet your last farthing on that.’
‘Nevertheless, she could be really ill.’ Hannah stepped carefully around the vomit and shook the seventeen-year old from Manchester. ‘Tilly, hey, Tilly, wake up. Tilly.’
‘Jesus, save us. Look, Hannah, at the blood in this mess and on her, too. See? There are pools of it. Oh, my God.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Hannah felt for a pulse in the neck, her fingers on the cold, lifeless skin. Her throat was coated in ugly, blue bruises and the right cheek swollen and covered in dried blood. Hannah jerked the blanket down and put her ear to the chest. There. was no pulse of life. Tears filled her eyes. She covered Tilly with the blanket and stepped back.
‘Is she . . . is she . . .?’
‘She’s dead,’ Hannah said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s been bashed to death.’
‘Dead? I wager they will think we did it. Oh, Hannah, what will we do?’
‘We have to tell Captain Cornelius.’
‘I don’t like this, Hannah. I have a bad feeling.’
‘What else can we do?’ Hannah Stanley thumped on the cell door. ‘Help,’ she shouted for what seemed an eternity before faltering footsteps heralded the arrival of George, the oldest turnkey in the prison.
‘Is that so?’ He tittered, when she told him about Tilly. He winked one rheumy eye and sauntered away. An hour passed before the superintendent of Mansfield Prison arrived accompanied by two of the guards. The two Hannahs were pleased to see that the one that Porter called Pox Face, the despicable Albert Tremilles, was not one of them.
Benjamin Cornelius wasted no time. He nodded his head at Hannah’s story and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I believe you,’ he replied sharply, ending her explanation and ordered the guards to take the body away.
‘Captain, sir,’ Porter hung her head and focused on the superintendent’s highly polished boots. ‘Thank you, sir. We don’t know anything, sir, about this—’
‘Porter?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Shut up. You talk too much.’ He stepped aside allowing the attendants to manipulate Tilly’s body out the door. ‘Oh, and by the way, you two are in court this morning. So, girls,’ he smirked. ‘I suggest you first clean up this mess and make yourselves presentable for the Justice Heath. He likes pretty women, so I’ve heard. Apparently, never short of one to warm his bed, if the stories we’ve heard are true.’ He winked at Hannah, pursed his lips into a smacking kiss and left, slamming the cell door behind him.
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