by Julie Daines
“Thank you, Dr. Palmer. Mr. Northam,” the magistrate called out. “Please bring your witness forward.”
Mr. Northam ushered Marianne to the wooden chair Dr. Palmer had just vacated. He then proceeded to explain to Mr. Cranmore the nature of the crime Bartholomew Hayter was accused of—highway robbery and attempted murder. He did not go into any details, but merely stated that, “Miss Wood has important testimony about the nature of Mr. Hayter and how he is the worst of men and how, if given the chance, he will steal and murder again.”
Marianne dared not look at Hayter sitting in chains directly across from her. Even under guard, it seemed he might be able to reach out and finish what he started two years ago. He was very quick with a knife.
“Miss Wood.” The magistrate leaned back in his chair as he addressed her. “Please proceed.”
She glanced over at Mr. Northam. He gave her a nod.
“Two years ago—”
“Speak up, Miss Wood. If you please.”
She cleared her throat and started again. “Two years ago, this man killed my family.”
A murmur drifted across the crowd like a breeze through the treetops. She explained how he had set fire to her family’s carriage. How she’d also jumped to freedom only to find herself in the clutches of Bartholomew Hayter. She carefully kept her eyes either on Mr. Cranmore or Mr. Northam. This was the reason she’d come here, and she’d not let Hayter’s glare deter her.
“He slit my dress.” She looked down at her hands clenched in her lap. “And then . . . before he was fully upon me, another carriage came along and scared him away.”
Dead silence filled the room, as if not a single soul dared breathe. Marianne gave Mr. Northam a quick glance, but his eyes were fixed on Hayter with a burning malice she’d never seen from him before.
“Hang him!” someone called from the crowd, this time with even more fervor. A chorus of agreement erupted, sending the room into chaos.
The magistrate stood, waving his hands for order. “Quiet,” he said. “Quiet.”
The ruckus slowly settled, but before Mr. Cranmore could speak again, Bartholomew Hayter rose to his feet. “It’s a lie. What proof does she have for any of this?”
The entire room looked at her, waiting for her proof.
She had no proof. It was her word and Dr. Palmer’s against his.
Hayter was going to go free unless she could show something tangible against him. Her family would never have justice. He would hunt her down like a fox, corner her, and kill her.
“I do not need proof,” she said to the magistrate, her voice soft but clear. “I was there. I saw his hand on my father’s burning coach. I saw it on my brother’s clothes, casting flames into the sky. I saw his face in the terror frozen in my mother’s empty eyes. He left his proof right here.” She pulled her fichu aside, exposing a good portion of the scar. “I will never forget his face. It is branded on my body and in my soul.”
Another hush settled in. A few men in the rear stood, craning their necks to see her scar. She fitted her fichu back into place.
“Why did you not go to the authorities with this before?” Mr. Cranmore asked. “You might have saved Dr. Palmer and perhaps others.”
“He made it clear that if I did, he would kill me,” she said. Maybe she should have. Certainly waiting and hiding were not the brave things to do—especially if it meant he was free to pursue his life of brutality. What made her so special that her life was worth more than someone else’s? Staying quiet had seemed her only option. Now that she was here, at last exposing him for the demon he was, a great veil of darkness lifted from her. Her part in her family’s restitution was finally over.
Almost over. If the inquest found him guilty, she’d have to do it all over again in Taunton.
One of the jurors raised his hand and stood. “Sorry about your misfortune, miss.” And he seemed like he truly was sorry. “But I was wondering, didn’t the magistrate up north make an inquest? Three dead bodies must have caused a stir.”
Mr. Northam came to his feet. “Perhaps I can shed some light on this.” He waited for the magistrate to nod permission. “Indeed the constable and his people went to great lengths to find the culprit, but, without anything to go on, they could not make progress. I have cuttings from the newspapers describing the event, if you want to see them.” He turned to the jurors. “You must imagine how frightening it was for Miss Wood, to see her family slaughtered like that. With the cold sting of his blade still fresh upon her, we cannot blame her for making a quick escape where Mr. Hayter could not find her. Her very life was in danger.”
The men nodded in agreement.
“Mr. Cranmore,” said Mr. Northam. “This has been difficult for Miss Wood. Surely there is enough now to make a decision. Perhaps Miss Wood could step down?”
“Very well,” Mr. Cranmore said.
Mr. Northam was beside her almost immediately, helping her back to her seat while the crowd clapped and cheered for her. Mr. Northam held her as if she might faint.
“I can still walk,” she whispered to him.
“I know,” he said. “But this looks better for the jury. Though there can be little doubt they will rule in favor of a trial.”
“Jury,” said the magistrate. “You may retire to confer. Please avoid the bar until after your decision.”
The men of the jury shuffled out through the side door.
“How long will it take, do you think?” she asked.
He stared at the door where the jury had disappeared. “I cannot say, though I think not long.”
“I hope I did not say the wrong thing.”
Mr. Northam turned to her and whispered, “You were excellent. Strong and brave, as I knew you would be. And so powerful. We make a good team.” He smiled at her. “I can’t imagine how taxing this has been for you, but you’ve borne it like a soldier.”
“Is he still there?” She didn’t want to look at him, for she knew he’d be glaring at her, his eyes hungry for more.
“He is. They will take him away after the jury gives their report.”
All right, then. She would keep her eyes on the other gray walls. But then, she didn’t have to. The side door swung open, and the men filed back in. The crowd hurried back to their seats, many of them steadying fresh mugs of ale.
When they’d all found their seats again, the magistrate asked for the jury’s decision.
The man with the wig sitting closest to the magistrate came to his feet. “We have concluded that Mr. Hayter was the man who set upon both Dr. Palmer and Miss Wood.”
Marianne could scarcely hear the final words of the statement. The crowd had come to its feet in a roar.
Mr. Cranmore tried to speak above the clamor. “Mr. Bartholomew Hayter, I must now inform you that you will be committed to trial and the next Taunton assize.”
The crowd cheered again, stomping their feet, until Marianne could not hear another word from the magistrate.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Northam said. But before they could get through the throng of people, Dr. Palmer was upon them. He shook Marianne’s hand.
“I must thank you, Miss Wood.” He released her and placed his hand back on his crutch. “I’m not sure they would have come to the same conclusion without your most powerful testimony. Let’s hope that finally the world will have seen the last of Mr. Hayter.”
“Indeed,” said Marianne.
The magistrate called to Mr. Northam.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Northam said, making his way through the field of people thicker than gorse. The crowd only grew louder as the guards dragged Bartholomew Hayter out, all the while shouting his own innocence.
“Again, let me say how sorry I am for your loss,” Dr. Palmer said. “I cannot come close to your level of grievance against Mr. Hayter.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you, I do hope you will come to me directly.”
“You are very kind,” she said, tryi
ng to keep her voice low but finding it difficult to be heard over the commotion. “Already I feel better for having at last come forward. I’m thankful to Mr. Northam for his summoning me here, even though I hesitated to respond.”
“He is the best.”
“Might I inquire,” asked Marianne, “why you hired Mr. Northam to be your barrister?”
Dr. Palmer nodded, then nudged Marianne aside, where it was a little quieter. “It was what he did for Mrs. Warren.”
“Mrs. Warren?” The spouse of the man she’d met in the Pump Room the other day. The woman who’d been pickpocketed and spent a season in Scotland to recuperate her nerves.
“Aye. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but after what you did for me here today, I think I owe you.” He winked at her. “I’m her doctor, you see. Turns out the man was a bit more than a cutpurse and, well, she ended up with child. She didn’t want her husband to know, so Northam here set her up with a plan to visit relatives in Scotland until after the delivery of the child. Little lad came early, I understand, and didn’t make it. Sad, really, though probably better for them all.”
First Mrs. Strumpshaw’s Jamie, then Mrs. Cricklade, and now Mrs. Warren. Mr. Northam had quite a bit of benevolence tucked up his sleeve. She smiled over at him, his head bent in conversation with the magistrate. Somehow, he sensed her gaze, and he lifted his head, returning her smile with a questioning cock of his brow.
She must be sure to congratulate him later on his generous ways. Just when she thought she was beginning to understand him, she was surprised anew.
“That was very kind of him,” Marianne said to the doctor.
“Indeed, it was.”
“You find Mr. Northam kind, do you?” said a man’s voice from behind her.
Marianne turned and came face-to-face with Mr. Shadwell.
Chapter Seven
Pieces of Heart
Mr. Northam had warned her that Mr. Shadwell was here only to make trouble. She glanced back at Dr. Palmer, but he was already gone.
“Have you never wondered why Harby Northam is so interested in your case?” the man asked. “How he, alone, was able to track you down and bring you in?”
“Well, I . . . It is his job, is it not, to find what evidence he can to help his client?” She hadn’t really given much thought to Mr. Northam having reasons beyond the obvious. The obvious was already reason enough.
The man nodded, and his untidy hair wisped to and fro as he did. “Perhaps you ought to have a conversation with him. I think there’s something he’s not telling you.” The man glanced over her shoulder. He pulled a small card out of his pocket and handed it to her discreetly. “I’ll be at The Three Crowns this afternoon if you want answers.” Then he slipped away, out the door.
She glanced down at the card long enough to read the name. Robert Shadwell. The next instant, Mr. Northam was beside her. “What was that about?” He had a dark look on his face.
Marianne slipped the card into her reticule. “What did the magistrate say?”
“Just the usual. Hayter will be transferred to the Taunton jail tomorrow to await the assize.”
“So he will be out of Bath. That will be good.” She would rest easier knowing he was gone.
Mr. Northam’s formidable body parted the crowd as they made their way out to the street. The carriage waited for them a little ways down, and they walked to it in silence. Mr. Shadwell’s advice was for her to press Mr. Northam as to why he was so invested in her case.
Mr. Northam closed the carriage door and tapped on the roof that they were ready. They’d gone the length of three buildings before he turned to her and asked, “What did he say to you?”
“Who?” Though she knew exactly whom he meant.
“The man from the jail. Shadwell.”
“He said I should ask you how you found me. And why you care about this case.”
Mr. Northam gave a nod and then turned to look out the opposite window. Several minutes passed, and he said nothing.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well, what?”
“You know what.”
The streets were slow as always, crowded with horses and people. The honey-stoned buildings reflected the yellow sun, and the whole city seemed bathed in gold. But it was plate gold only, for inside each of these dwellings lived real people with real lives. She understood as well as anyone that what went on behind those doors was vastly different than what appeared on the gilded facade.
Is that what Mr. Northam was? A facade? He presented a fine figure from the outside, but she had very little grasp of what went on inside.
“The man you spoke with doesn’t know anything. He likes to make trouble,” he said without turning away from the window. “To draw your witness away from Hayter. It is a case I’ve been following for some time. I had already heard about your misadventure long before Dr. Palmer’s encounter with him.”
“Why?” There were many cases of highwaymen and marauders. Her case was one in a hundred, although not all of them ended in such a violent way. “And how did you know my attacker was also Bartholomew Hayter?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s part of my job. As a barrister, I must keep myself familiar with such things in the event they come up at trial.”
This could not be the entire truth. Whatever his true reasons, he was keeping them from her. And if Mr. Shadwell didn’t know anything, why did Mr. Northam appear so bothered by him?
She’d seen him play his character perfectly to everyone they’d met thus far, but now he seemed not to have the mask he needed on hand. The look on his face was completely disrobed.
“Mr. Northam,” she said. He still had not turned to meet her eyes since they’d begun this subject. It was odd to see a man so thick and strong on the outside suddenly so vulnerable. “I wish you would look at me.”
He let out a breath. When he did turn his head, his smile was back in place.
She let it drop. It wouldn’t be too difficult to go to the inn and ask Mr. Shadwell herself for the information she wanted. Of course, she would rather hear whatever it was from Mr. Northam himself, but if he wanted to guard his privacy, she would not pry. After all, she well knew the need to keep some things to herself.
“Thank you for your help today. I could not have gotten through that ordeal without your support.” She smiled at him so that he might know she did not blame him for his silence, but it only seemed to bother him more.
“Do not smile at me now,” he said. “Do not, after all that we have been through, offer now your kindness.” Just when she thought she’d seen all of his many faces, now this. His eyes were like a pane of glass, sharp enough to cut but so easily shattered.
“I didn’t . . . I’m not . . . I’m sorry.”
They had already traveled the short distance back to Green Street. The carriage came to a stop outside her rooms.
He reached for the door, but stopped. “May I be perfectly candid with you?”
“I wish you would.” This was what she had wanted all along.
He watched her for a long moment. “Miss Wood.” That was all the honesty he seemed able to muster.
“Yes?”
“You have been the most unexpected surprise of my life.” His tone gave no indication if that was good or bad. “What I mean is, and please do not think me untoward, but I must speak while I can.”
“I’m sure I would never think you untoward.”
He didn’t seem wholly convinced by her statement, but he went on nonetheless, this time with a voice that reached her soul. “What I mean is, I have never met a woman like you. You have captured a piece of my heart, Miss Marianne Wood, and I don’t think I will ever get it back.”
She looked down at the broken strings of her reticule. He had spoken with a rawness, an earnestness that made her believe for the first time she was chipping away the gilded facade. What lay behind gave her the smallest hope that at last her long night was ending, that when she turned her face to Mr.
Northam, she followed the sun.
“Forgive me. I wanted to tell you this before.”
Chapter Eight
Unmasked
Marianne made her way to the counter to ask the whereabouts of Robert Shadwell. Before she reached it, someone tugged on her elbow from behind. She turned to find Mr. Shadwell. He must have been waiting for her. It irked her that she was so predictable.
“That didn’t take long,” he said. “I take it Northam did not answer your questions?”
Marianne did not respond. To be so easily anticipated left a bad taste in her mouth.
“Or maybe you didn’t have the backbone to ask him?”
Still, she did not answer. This man worked for Bartholomew Hayter and could not be trusted. She would not be handing out any free information.
“No matter. I’ve got us a table here in the corner where we can talk away from the noise.”
She followed him to the rear of the room. The Three Crowns was a decent place. The table was clean, and the inn seemed well cared for.
“So, you’ve come to learn the truth of Mr. Northam.” He had a glass of mead already half gone.
“Yes. I suppose. That is, if you’ve got anything of truth to say.” The chances of getting facts from this man seemed rather slim. Mr. Northam had warned her twice not to listen to him.
“Oh, I’ve got lots of truth. More than you’ll be wanting, so just let me know when you’ve had enough.”
She waited for him to continue, but instead of speaking, he sipped his mead. At last, she realized her mistake. She fished into her reticule for a few coins and set them on the table.
Mr. Shadwell swept them into his hand. “Bartholomew Hayter is Harby Northam’s father.”
Ridiculous lies, as she had suspected. “We’re through here,” she said, pushing back her chair.
“’Tis the truth. Northam’s not the only one who can do investigating. I’ve found some things out he’d rather keep buried.”
“How can you possibly expect me to believe such a wild claim?” It was the most absurd thing she’d ever heard. As if Mr. Northam could have any connection at all with such a horrible man—a man he wanted to see hanged.
