B006O3T9DG EBOK (71 page)

After she sat to offer her testimony, she meticulously arranged her skirts. Then, with exaggerated care, she turned back her veil. Against the raven garb, her lovely face was pale as moonlight. Murmurs of admiration hummed from one end of the courtroom to the other. It was determined that her declaration would be unassailable ere she opened her mouth to speak.

She prefaced her telling of the event by relating that Mr. Thomas’s position of secretary to her husband was one of great trust. Hence, when he came to her sitting room that night, it was under pretence of obtaining her signature.

“Once he gained the room, the man went mad! He attempted to kiss me and demanded... other favours! He tore at my gown! I cried out, but the knife he held at my neck... it... it frightened me!”

Overcome with emotion, she stopped. Gasps, even moans, erupted from the onlookers, believing her ladyship might swoon. Whilst the court was quieted, Juliette dabbed at the corner of her eye with her handkerchief. (Those who were familiar with her husband’s speeches should have recognised the gesture, but no one did.) Clearing her throat, tears still troubled her. Duteous as she was to her husband’s memory, she made herself continue. Her voice trembled at the recollection.

“Just as he overpowered me, the villain was thwarted when my dear, brave husband came upon the terrible scene and put himself between us.”

Pointing to Wickham, she said, “That
démon
then plunged the weapon into my dear Henry’s heart!”

Howgrave was stabbed in the side, but the prosecutor did not want to taint her testimony by mucking about with trivialities. The victim was dead as mutton and the accused held the bloody knife in his murderous hand. Nothing more need be said. The
coup de’ grâce
was employed regardless.

Voice quivering with sufferance, Juliette continued, “I hurried to my husband and pressed my handkerchief to his wound in an attempt to stanch the blood, but in vain!”

At that moment, she withdrew from her bodice another handkerchief, this one stained with her dear, dead husband’s blood. She waved it once and laid it across her skirt. The red stain, the white of the handkerchief, and the black of her mourning dress was more an accusation than her pointing figure.

“I did what I could, but my husband died in my arms,” she said, thereby being overcome by grief.

All eyes flew to Wickham. (He was not actually hit, but recoiled as if he had been.) Weeping uncontrollably, Juliette stood, Lord Orloff rushed to her side and led her down the steps and away. It was quite fortunate that burning at the stake was no longer a penal option. Had a poll been taken, it would have been reinstated on the spot.

“She lies!” Wickham cried indignantly. Forgetting the agreed upon testimony, he yowled, “She did it! Not I! Not I!”

As Lady Howgrave was escorted from the court, a queer roaring erupted behind her. Indeed, catcalls and outraged howls became a maelstrom of denunciation—a melee quite reminiscent of the one she endured on her aborted trip to the guillotine lo those many years ago. If that came to her mind, she gave no notice of it. Another far greater ovation arrested her attention the moment her black ensemble was spied at the door. Indeed, as Orloff helped her make her away, a great surge of humanity enveloped them. Some were merely admirers; others were reporters from newspapers as far away as Vienna. All of them cried out inquiries, hoping against hope that she might make a noteworthy quote.

She had but one inexplicable statement, before stepping majestically into her crepe-draped coach.

“Vouloir, c’est pouvoir.”

“What did she say? What did she say?” was the cry.

The interpretation was swift, but unhelpful.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

It was just vague enough that each writer could make what they wanted to of it.

———

Indeed, thereafter not only were newspaper pages dedicated to speculation about Juliette, but a variety of biographies appeared. A small volume of poetry, effusive admiration of her great allurement, was published anonymously. It sold well. Lady Howgrave, however, remained concealed. Some said that she sold what she could of her husband’s estate and, over-wrought by the tragedy, repaired to the north of Italy with Lord Orloff.

Her former paramour was not so fortunate.

In the face of conflicting statements by his client, Wickham’s solicitor gave up any pretence of his innocence and told him to throw himself on the mercy of the court and plead that his had been a crime of passion. However, another suspicious death had been uncovered, the victim last seen in Alistair’s company. That, taken with allegations of the most reprehensible behaviour, meant justice was not generous. Gentleman or not, the man who smite a Member of Parliament must be duly punished.

In the end, it was deemed that Newgate or Coldbath Prisons were not punitive enough for such as him. When he was consigned to twenty years on the penal ship, Discovery, now moored on the Thames at Woolwich, Wickham suffered a fit of incontinence. He blamed that on the gaol’s constant diet of maize and oatmeal—a diet that would not improve once he was ensconced in the decommissioned warship’s hull.

The town gaols were horrid, but a man with influence or money could improve his keep in them. The rotting ships had been often used to take prisoners to Australia. Overcrowded prisons meant they had to house the overflow of prisoners from Newgate and the like. Prisoners upon the ships were chained to their cots each night lest they slip ashore. During the day most of the fettered inmates were condemned to hard labour in the maze of warehouses along the southern shore. Those who did not were subject to daily floggings.

Wickham wrote countless letters, imploring everyone he knew to speak on his behalf. In the end, no one came forward. He was truly bereft. To his solicitor, he cried, “Why am I abandoned in my great hour of need?”

“You were hardly abandoned,” replied Blackbird.

“Whatever do you mean?” inquired Wickham.

As Blackbird gathered his papers to leave, he said cryptically, “Why do you think you were not hung? As much as I would like to have the credit, leniency did not come about through my defence—or your lack of contrition. Your death sentence was commuted to twenty years. If your behaviour is beyond reproach, you may well be considered for a pardon—although that may require you to leave the country.”

Leave England? Wickham pondered that possibility, but gave no more thought who might have interceded on his behalf.

As Wickham awaited Alistair’s transfer, he had little to entertain himself save for a snuff box with a risqué vignette of Anthony and Cleopatra inside the lid. It was enamel with insets of mother of pearl and rubies. Lydia had sold all his other possessions. It was the only thing of any worth that he had kept through his travails (and a rather thorough frisking by his gaolers). It was a wonder that he had still possessed it. Through admirable sleight of hand, he was able to pass it to Mrs. Younge. She nodded her head and said not a word.

He counted upon what that box would bring to save him from floggings, fleas, and pestilence in his future abode.

Convicted of murder and mayhem and identified as a body-snatcher and pimp, Alistair Reed Thomas, the assumed name of Major George Wickham, murderer, deserter, and general all-round cad, was carted off to the Discovery penal ship. He was not taken in a coach, but sequestered in a barred, wooden-wheeled tumbrel. Accompanying him were two prostitutes (one who claimed an acquaintance), several thieves, and a man who had done business with him at the Fortune of War. One of the men reached out and pinched Wickham on the buttocks, giving him a wicked smile.

“Dare not think of that, you worthless turd,” said Wickham airily.

With great haste, all of the other passengers hovered on the far side of the conveyance from Wickham. Not because of any particular distaste for his crimes. But, as they travelled down the street, he was called the most despicable names and pelted with the rotted leavings of the costermonger’s bins. Being consigned to a pillory would have been worse, but just barely.

“I am a gentleman and cannot be treated in this manner,” he cried. “I owned a carting business!”

In the crowd observing this small parade was poor Mrs. Younge. She did not relish the notion of walking down to the stinking wharves, only to wave at poor George through a porthole. From the sum she obtained for the snuffbox, she bribed the gaolers for him to have a boiled egg, an extra blanket, and an additional bowl of jack-stir-about every day. What was left from the sale, she felt right in keeping against his debt to her. There was little enough chance that he would pay on it in the near future.

Amongst the many spectators that day were Lord and Lady Millhouse. Knowing the full history of the man, they had special interest in being assured that he was, indeed, consigned to prison. Sally Frances Arbuthnot stood next to them. As the fare to Old Bailey was two shillings, she dutifully paid the Millhouses for their trouble of bringing her. (Lady Millhouse refused her money, insisting that seeing ol’ George Wickham get his just desserts was payment enough.)

“One evil at a time, child. One evil at a time.”

As Sally watched Wickham being taken to serve his penance, she did not hoot. Indeed, she was unusually quiet. Her prayers had been answered and she gave thanks for that. At long last her dear brother’s murderer had been brought to justice. The sentence may not have been carried out in her brother’s name, but it was good enough for her. By whatever name, George Wickham had committed unspeakable crimes. She looked on the sight before her with great pleasure, but could not quite forget that the snake still had its head.

From just behind her, a garishly-dressed, undersized damsel leapt forth. No taller than a ten-year-old boy, she had an enormous bonnet and pretty fair aim. Indeed, she landed a decaying tomato squarely in Wickham’s face. The crowd cheered.

Thinking that he recognised the culprit, George Wickham was aghast.

Rotten tomato parts streaming down his face, he screamed, “There she is! There she is!”

Mrs. Younge, poor deluded creature, believed he called only to her.

Chapter 94

The Dance

News of Howgrave’s murder arrived well-nigh synchronous to Darcy apprising Elizabeth of the likelihood that Wickham had resurfaced. He showed her Sally Frances Arbuthnot’s letter, but not the vellum. She recalled the name nonetheless.

The Darcys had not truly wished Wickham dead, but would not have mourned if he was. Darcy had not dallied about when he told her all that came to pass in London.

Despite his particular dislike of the man, Darcy was most distressed when he learnt of Howgrave’s murder. It was his initial belief that the murder may have occurred due to Wickham’s unmasking. Inquiries made it clear that, despite the event occurring close on the heels of Darcy’s visit, it was entirely unrelated. Everyone in their circle knew that Alistair and Juliette were lovers. Alistair was becoming ever-bolder. It was a matter of time ere Howgrave caught wind of the affair. No one, not even her closest confidants, believed Juliette murdered her husband.

Despite the goings on, Darcy wanted to be fully assured that Alistair Thomas was actually George Wickham. He was determined to do it himself, but Fitzwilliam disagreed, insisting that he be the one to make a clandestine visit to the gaol to discover the truth.

“I daresay you will draw far too much attention in that part of town, cousin,” Fitzwilliam pointed out.

“You are hardly indistinguishable from the masses yourself,” Darcy replied wryly.

Upon most occasions that would have been so. However, wearing a modest cloak and a hat pulled low, the patch over his eye gave him a roguish look. Delighted to be able to engage in a bit of stealth, Colonel Fitzwilliam fitted himself out for Darcy’s approval before he set out for London. By observing him through the bars of his cell, Fitzwilliam made an immediate identification without Wickham being any the wiser.