A Dangerous Madness (30 page)

“Would you like to walk out with me while we talk, Miss Stevens?” he asked the woman waiting for him.

She gave a relieved nod, and James slipped Newman another coin as they let themselves out.

“Do you mind my asking the financial situation Mr. Bellingham and his family are in?” It was a little late for this question, given he knew Gascoyne had been behind Bellingham’s payments, but as someone who lived with them, Miss Stevens would surely know the truth.

She gave a bitter laugh. “They are so poor, Mrs. Bellingham had to take their son out of school, because they couldn’t afford the fees, just after Christmas. But there is a hundred pounds in Mr. Bellingham’s box in his cell. I just saw it now, while he was looking for something in there while I was visiting.”

“He wasn’t doing any work that could earn him that kind of money?”

She shook her head. “He was doing the books for our business. That was the sum of his life since he returned from Russia, until he came down to London. He told us he was coming to sort out a mix-up one of our suppliers made, sending us too much ribbon, and that he had a small part in an iron sale, where he’d earn a little money. Then he didn’t come back. Mrs. Bellingham wept when he finally wrote and admitted he was caught up in the madness of that Russian business again. Wept as if her heart would break.”

She was silent until they had descended the stairs of the prison and stood on Newgate Street. “What happened to them in Russia has haunted their lives. And Bellingham won’t let it go, even though he promised her he would. It eats at him like a sickness, and when he’s in its grip, it’s like a fever comes down on him, and he’s insensible to everything.”

“You think he’s mad?”

Miss Stevens looked up at him, and then nodded. “When it comes to this one thing, yes. He’s a good father, I would swear to that, and when he’s busy working as our bookkeeper, he is a good accountant and husband, too. But mention Russian, mention his time in jail, and he cannot be reasonable. He simply cannot.”

“Will I see you tomorrow at the trial?” James lifted a hand to call her a hansom.

She shook her head. “I’m going back to Liverpool tonight. I stayed on an extra few days when I heard what he’d done… But I cannot leave the shop so long.”

“Did he give you a letter to his wife?” James hadn’t seen anything in her hand when she’d left Bellingham’s cell, and wondered at that, now.

She shook her head, and then gave a sad smile. “No. He says he will be able to tell her of his success himself. That he simply cannot be found guilty, and they will at last be compensated. That justice will finally be served.”

There was nothing to say to that.

“I saw him on Sunday afternoon, you know. The day before he…” She rubbed her forehead. “He took me and the friend I’m staying with on an outing, and he told me he had been putting something off, avoiding it, but that he would finally put it to rest on Monday, and be home shortly.” She shook her head. “I was just glad he would be coming back soon. I had no idea…”

A hansom pulled up, the horses dancing beneath their reins.

“Have a good journey, Miss Stevens.” James helped her up to the cab, and then paid the driver her fare.

“It’s all such a waste,” Mary Stevens said, as she settled herself in her seat.

James looked back at Newgate, dark and forbidding, and as the hansom disappeared down the street, thought the same.

Chapter Thirty-eight

J
ames’s club was quiet.

It was a good hour before dinner, and only a few stalwarts occupied the deep armchairs scattered around the main room.

Dervish was in his usual place, and James saw he had called in Durnham and Aldridge as well.

He took a seat, and there was silence for a beat, while the murmur of voices and the clink of crystal glasses lulled them all.

“You have something?” Dervish asked at last.

He looked exhausted, and James guessed he had had almost no sleep since Perceval was murdered. He would have been getting as much intelligence as he could about how close England was to revolution.

James gave a nod. “You will not like it.”

Dervish closed his eyes and leaned back his head. “I’ve understood that since the moment I heard of the assassination.”

“Much as Henry II’s advisors would have felt, when they heard of the assassination of Thomas Becket, I imagine.”

There was absolute silence now. None of the men sitting in the small, private alcove so much as moved.

Dervish’s eyes had snapped open, and he was looking at James with such horror, James might as well have told him he’d murdered his mother.

“If it helps,” he said, “there is no way to prove it definitively. Harmer won’t be able to find anything to use in the trial tomorrow.”

“My God.” Dervish exploded from his seat, turned to the door, and took a few steps towards it. Then he stopped, turned back and sat again, hands gripping the arms of his chair. “Tell me.”

James looked at each man in turn, and saw he had their undivided attention. “A horrible coincidence happened sometime in February. The Prince Regent received a petition from John Bellingham, a seemingly ridiculous petition, and mentioned it to his friends. One of those friends happened to be General Gascoyne, who, as the Member of Parliament for Liverpool, where Bellingham lived, had received a personal visit from Bellingham around the same time. Something about Bellingham made him think the man was close to a very fine edge.

“This would have been just after Perceval had publicly humiliated the Prince Regent when he tried to remove Perceval from power. Words were most likely spoken in the Prince Regent’s private chambers, threats of violence against Perceval made. And suddenly, Gascoyne and a few of the Prince’s friends, including Sheldrake, Halliford and Bartlett, decided to help their friend be rid of the man who had been nothing but a thorn in the Prince’s side since he came into government.”

“And it didn’t hurt that it would be in their own interests, as well,” Durnham said. “Especially Gascoyne’s. Getting rid of Perceval would be a good way to get rid of the Orders in Council. The very thing that is ruining trade in Liverpool.”

“You say it will be hard to prove?” Durnham spoke as if his voice was rusty.

“Gascoyne admits to giving Bellingham money through an iron merchant who often acted as an informal bank, but pretends it was a charitable act, not a calculated move to make it possible for Bellingham to continue to stay in London. And I think Wilson, the iron merchant, will be long gone by now. Also, Sheldrake used one of his maids to befriend Bellingham, and pass him ridiculous legal advice that made it seem as if the law would be on his side if he took justice into his own hands. Sheldrake also hired a man to befriend Bellingham and encourage him.

“But in the end, it’s the maid’s word against a dead peer of the realm. Gascoyne won’t give himself away. He’s frightened, but he won’t lose his nerve, I don’t think.

“The only evidence we have is the original petition, which the Prince Regent must have left in his rooms after he’d laughed over it with his friends, and which Sheldrake must have stolen, just in case things didn’t go as planned. There was also a written list on how best to kill Perceval, but that was written by Bellingham himself and will only make the case against him stronger, if it existed, which it no longer does. Sheldrake burned it before he ran for the coast.”

“We’re forgetting the trial,” Aldridge spoke softly. “There is something wrong there, too.”

“Sir Vicary used to be the Prince Regent’s legal council, before he was made Attorney-General.” James steepled his fingers. “Someone has pressured him into getting this matter settled as fast as possible. Whether he thinks it’s to secure national peace, and get the threat of a radical revolution off the cards, or whether he thinks he’s shielding the Prince Regent from even a whiff of suspicion, is anyone’s guess.”

“No matter what the reason, he’s an accomplished enough lawyer to know he’s committing a travesty of justice.” Dervish’s voice was grim.

“And Bellingham is going to sail into that courtroom tomorrow, convinced he’s going to not only be found not guilty, but finally receive the compensation he’s been after since he returned from Russia.”

“You’ve spoken to him?” Durnham stretched out his legs, but he didn’t look relaxed, he looked furious.

James nodded. “I couldn’t question him too openly about what he knew with a guard right there, but he is in a delusional world when it comes to this. He sees everything that happened to him to keep him here in London as from his own efforts or luck. He is convinced he did this on his own.”

“And the Prince Regent?” Dervish looked like he wanted to leap out of his chair again, but managed to control the impulse. “How much of this does he know about, do you think?”

“He knows something. Enough that he’s nervous. Probably not the details, is my guess, but the general gist of it? Yes.”

“And he’s most likely nervous because it didn’t go the way they planned. They hoped the crowds would be pleased Perceval was gone, but the crowds didn’t stop there. They called for the Prince Regent to be next. It’s brought the whole country very close to revolution.” Aldridge’s smile was savagely satisfied.

James nodded. “He honestly didn’t realize how unpopular he was.”

“He can have no illusions about it, now.” Dervish finally stood, but carefully. “I’m going home.”

They all rose from their chairs.

“I’m sorry there isn’t anything more substantial to bring you.” James said.

Dervish gave a bitter laugh. “I’m not. What would I do with it?” He rubbed a hand over his head, so his hair was sticking up at all angles when he was done. “And even if you did, no matter that they manipulated a man obsessed, he did pull the trigger himself.”

James inclined his head in silence. He felt he had let Bellingham down. “He wouldn’t have done it, you know, if they hadn’t given him money, given him terms like ‘without malice aforethought’ and encouraged him. From what witnesses said of his behavior after the event, he was in shock, and he dragged his heels over the deed, putting it off time and again. Sheldrake panicked because he thought he wouldn’t do it, but would start talking of it, and implicate them all. If it weren’t for them, Bellingham would have gone home.”

They were all quiet for a moment.

“Well then, when I’ve gotten some rest, and my temper under more control, I think I’ll just mention some of this to the Prince Regent.” Dervish’s eyes were as cold as his voice.

He bowed to them all and left, and James felt a small measure of satisfaction. Dervish would use this to rein the Prince Regent in a little.

It was better than nothing.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Friday, 15 May, 1812

P
hoebe woke slowly, as the light of dawn spilled through the one uncovered window in her room. She lay staring across at it, wondering why the sound of the birds calling in her garden below was so much louder than usual, and then remembered she had left the window open.

She sat up abruptly.

She was still on top of the covers, just as she’d been when she’d lain down after dinner last night to wait for Wittaker. She was in her night shift and a gown, but someone had pulled a blanket over her.

There was a scent in the room, that green, spicy scent of Wittaker after he’d climbed the ivy to her window, and she saw ivy was trailing, in a whimsical drape, across the end of her bed.

There were roses and daisies threaded through it, and as she leaned forward to brush a finger across a velvet rose petal, she wondered if he’d brought them up the first time, or if, finding her fast asleep, he had gone back down into her garden for them and climbed back up to place them here for her.

She lifted her hand, and found it was trembling, and that she suddenly had tears pricking the back of her eyes, as an emotion so big, so vast it felt as if her body couldn’t contain it, swelled up inside her.

She slid off the bed, and the movement dislodged a note on her bedside table. It fluttered to the floor, and she picked it up:
I will fetch you at nine tomorrow to attend the trial, if you would like to go. James.

James. She had given him her name, but men, and especially men with titles, were different. She knew her aunt never referred to her uncle by his first name. If fact, Phoebe didn’t even know what it was. Her mother, from her more middle class background, had wanted to call her father by his first name, but he had always discouraged it.

A warmth trickled through her, and she had the idiotic urge to kiss the note.

Like a schoolgirl.

She gave a derisive snort and put it in a drawer, unkissed.

She had already eaten breakfast and was ready to go when her aunt joined her, earlier than usual because she was leaving just after nine o’clock herself, back to her sprawling house in the country.

“You looked exhausted last night, but you seem much better now. Positively glowing,” she said as she kissed Phoebe’s cheek. She eyed her carriage outfit. “You’re going out?”

Phoebe nodded. “To Bellingham’s trial.”

Her aunt’s eyes widened. “How are you getting in? I read in the papers yesterday evening it’s by ticket only. One guinea a ticket!”