A Broken Vessel (42 page)

“What about Nathan?”

“Oh, I expect he’ll find me again. He always does.”

Sally asked after the matrons.

“They don’t come here no more,” said Florrie. “Mrs. Jessop’s husband won’t let her have nothing more to do with Mr. Harcourt, and Miss Nettleton has the ’sterics at the very thought of him. Mrs. Fiske is selling her house and leaving London, I hear tell she never goes out, not even to church. She ain’t been once to see her hubby nor her son.”

“Too bad. If there’s one thing Blinkers deserves, it’s a visit from his ma. I wouldn’t wish it on Bristles, though—he’s mortal sick. They’ve had to put him in the infirmary.”

“Poor Mr Fiske. Still, it’s a lesson, ain’t it?”

“I don’t want no more lessons. I’ve had enough to last me all me life.” She jumped up. “Come on, let’s go upstairs. I want to have a last look round.”

They left the kitchen. On their way upstairs, they saw the two workmen inching their way down from the first floor with Harcourt’s desk. One of the men had a Greek urn tucked under his arm. As they reached the door, Wideawake Peg came running down the stairs after them. She wore a plain but handsome blue wool gown, with a cameo broach at the neck. “Stop!” she cried sharply.

The men set down the desk and looked around. The one with the urn said nervously, “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Harcourt?”

“Mrs. Harcourt?” Sally gasped.

“Hush!” Florrie drew her into the shadow of the stairs.

“Give that to me!” Peg held out her hands for the urn. “How can you be after carrying it in such a cow-handed fashion?”

“I remember that there urn!” whispered Sally. “It’s the one where she hid her—”

“Is anything amiss, Margaret?” Harcourt appeared on the stairs above.

“No, nothing, Gideon. I’m only trying to teach these shabaroons a bit of respect for other people’s property.”

The man with the urn squinted inside it, frowning. “There’s some’ut in here.” Turning it upside down, he gave it a shake, and a small pouch fell out. “Why, it’s ’bacca!”

Peg snatched the tobacco from him. “Why, you wicked man, you miserable sinner! How could you bring your foul weed into a Christian house—and me husband a man of God!”

“But, Mrs. Harcourt, this ain’t my—”

“I’ll not be hearing any of your excuses! And to hide it in me husband’s own urn!” Her voice broke, dropping from anger to sorrow. “Don’t you know the harm you’re doing to your soul? Doesn’t it pain you to think of the worm of vice eating away at it, till it’s all tatters and not fit to be seen on Judgement Day, at all at all?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harcourt. It won’t happen again, ma’am.” He touched his hat and signalled to his partner to heave up the desk again. They escaped as quickly as they could.

Harcourt joined Peg downstairs. He looked distracted, disheveled, and sleepless. “You’re very eloquent, my dear.”

“And isn’t it all your doing?” she cooed. “Haven’t I been a new woman, ever since you took hold of me heartstrings and led me down the path of righteousness?”

“Margaret—” He tried to take her in his arms.

“Shame on you!” She dodged him playfully. “In broad daylight! What would all your fine patrons say?”

His face darkened. “I haven’t any to worry about now.”

“But you will.” She slipped her arm through his. “When we’re safe in the country—when the scandal’s died down—you’ll work your magic again. And this time you can’t fail, because you’ll have me to help you.”

She stroked his cheek lightly and went upstairs. He turned about and hastened after her.

Sally came out of hiding and gazed after them. “Looks like it’s her as is leading him—and not by his heartstrings, neither.”

“He was very low, after his Reclamation Society went down the wind,” said Florrie. “He moped about a good deal, and Peg was the only one as could put him in spirits. And after a while he started looking at her—well, the way he never looked at any of us gals before. He had nothing else to think about, you see.”

“So he fell off his high horse, and Peg was there to catch him.”

Florrie nodded. “They was married yesterday, and they mean to light out to his rectory in Norfolk straight off, afore the bailiffs comes in. I hear tell the refuge is deep in debt, and Mr. Harcourt hasn’t a penny to bless himself with.”

“I dunno,” said Sally skeptically. “He’s such a pinch-fist, I expect he’s put a bit away where the catch-club won’t find it.”

“It’s queer, though, ain’t it—Peg marrying Mr. Harcourt?”

“It ain’t, then. She wanted to get into the morality trade, and this was her chance.”

“But she always hated him like poison.”

Sally disagreed. Later she told Julian, “I think she al’ays meant to have him. And when a gal really means to have a cove, there ain’t much he can do.”

“I take your point.”

She grinned. “I’d like to take yours again some time.”

Fiske’s prediction proved true: before the next Old Bailey sessions, he died in the infirmary at Newgate Prison, with only a hastily summoned clergyman for company. Rawdon stood trial alone. There were numerous charges against him, the most serious involving the deaths of Lady Lucinda Braxton and a Scotswoman, first known as Megan MacGowan, but afterward identified as Mrs. Charles Avondale.

The news of Avondale’s marriage caused a sensation among the Quality. Everyone was avid to know how Miss Grantham felt about her near brush with bigamy. But she cheated the gossips by leaving London to stay with a school friend in Bath. She had broken off her engagement to Avondale, who had then departed for France—to bring back his daughter, people said. He was expected back in time for Rawdon’s trial.

The furore over Lady Lucinda’s rape and murder had begun to die down, but Rawdon’s trial whipped it up again. Despite a thick, lugubrious November fog, anyone and everyone who could squeeze into the courtroom was there. Among the crowd Julian perceived Avondale and Mr. and Mrs. Digby. Sally pointed out Florrie and other former inmates of the refuge. Lord Braxton sat at the front of the courtroom, bristling with impatience for the trial to begin. Everyone knew that all his wealth and political power were marshalled behind the prosecution. Nothing short of a conviction and sentence of death would satisfy him.

There was a gasp of awe when Rawdon was brought into the dock. Hatred seemed to emanate from him; the spectators felt it like a wave of heat. He looked pale, but otherwise healthy and well-fed. Sally supposed he must have enough money to pay the gaolers well for his food and lodging. He no longer wore his goldrimmed spectacles, but of course he had not needed them anyway. They had merely been a part of his disguise—his mask of ordinariness. Perhaps he had acquired them when he transformed himself from Caleb Fiske into Joseph Rawdon.

He did not take the witness stand, since the law could not compel him to incriminate himself, and would not allow him to testify in his defence. He had no lawyer and presented no evidence—only listened to the parade of witnesses against him with a look almost of satisfaction. Power, thought Sally—it’s what he loves best. This whole show is on account of him, and he knows it. So much blunt’s been spent to bring him to trial, all
the newspapers is writing about him, mothers is using his name to frighten their kids. He’s never had so much power as now. Pox take him!—this is just how he would have wanted to die.

The trial lasted all day and into the evening, but the verdict was never in question. Rawdon was convicted as an accessory to the kidnapping and murder of Lady Lucinda Braxton, and as a principal in the attempted murder of Miss Sarah Stokes. He was also found guilty of killing Mrs. Charles Avondale, though that death was held to be manslaughter. He would not be sentenced until the final day of the sessions, when all the prisoners convicted in this round of trials would be herded into court to hear their punishment. But already his fate was sealed. No one could doubt that the judge would don the black cap for him and order that he be hanged by the neck until he was dead.

When the proceedings were over, Samuel Digby shook Julian’s hand and invited him to call on him at his earliest convenience, so that they could settle their accounts. He pronounced himself well satisfied with the outcome of the investigation, but Julian suspected he was just a little bit sorry Harcourt had not turned out to be guilty.

As Julian was leaving the courtroom, Avondale fell into step with him. “They’ll make a hero of him, of course,” Avondale said bitterly, “the way they always do with the worst criminals. There’ll be broadsheet-sellers hawking stories about his crimes, ballads about his final days—”

“Last words he spoke,” said Julian, “or would have spoken, if he’d had any sense of history.”

“Shall you go to the execution?”

“Good God, no! I’m leaving London tomorrow for a shooting trip in the north.”

Avondale smiled wryly. “Just remember, if you cross the border, be careful what you promise.”

Julian cocked an eyebrow at him. “Would you take it amiss if I asked after Rosemary?”

“No, not at all. I’ve brought her back from France and set her up at my house, with a nurse-governess my mother engaged.
Between them, they’ve made it a different place altogether. It’s so wholesome and respectable, and so cursed
feminine
, I feel like a visitor. The odd thing is, I don’t mind it so much as I would have thought. Rosemary’s a taking little thing—I’m devilish fond of her. She’ll be a beauty one day—you can see it already. My governor’s stumped up to build her a nursery. I’m taking her and her nurse away for a holiday while the work’s being done. To Bath,” he added casually.

“Indeed?” Julian lifted his brows.

“Oh, of course I know what you’re thinking. Ada’s there. But, you see, Caroline told me Thorndike offered for her again, and she refused him. That means I may still have a chance! I’ll call on her in Bath—just a friendly call between cousins. If she won’t receive me, I’ll lie in wait for her at the Pump Room, the Assembly Rooms—she won’t be able to turn around without seeing me. I want to show her Rosemary. She’s such a charmer, how could anyone help but fall in love with her? Ada’s generous, she won’t hold what Megan and I did against our daughter. And in time, she’ll see that I’ve changed. I can be as steady and constant as Thorndike. I’ll prove it to her, by God.”

Julian had to smile at hearing him vow reformation, while plotting to regain Ada’s favour by dangling his motherless daughter under her nose. He had changed, perhaps, but not a great deal. Still, it would not surprise Julian if he won Ada back. Didn’t he always manage to get what he wanted in the end?

Sally was still living with Mrs. Mabbitt, keeping her company and helping about the house. Lord Braxton had made her a present of twenty pounds, which seemed like a fortune to her. She did not know what to do with it, or with herself. She and Julian were rarely alone together, and their relationship had subsided for the most part into a friendship. She was restless at first, chafing against the placid life she led. But as the weeks
went by, she settled down surprisingly well. She grew thoughtful, talked less, and smiled to herself a good deal. Julian supposed that combating evil and facing death had made her more reflective. Dipper thought she was up to something.

Julian was to leave for his shooting trip on the morning after the trial. He had arranged to stop at MacGregor’s along the way, to give him a first-hand account of the solution to the murder. If Dipper was sorry to leave Annie Price for several weeks, he gave no sign. His love affairs were an enigma to Julian—he got in and out of them with a balletic grace, leaving no bitterness behind. It was an extraordinary talent. If it could be bottled, it would knock spots off Summerson’s Strengthening Elixir.