His Lordship Possessed (4 page)

“Bloody hell, Kit,” he snapped, startling a pair of

passing nans. “Have you any idea of how much trouble

you’re in? Th ese are serious charges. Violation of trade

practice law carries a sentence of three to fi ve years, hard 25

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labor. What the devil have you been up to on the Hill?”

“I tried to help someone.” Before he could shout

again, I added, “You needn’t fuss at me, Inspector. I was

warned; I knew something like this might happen.”

“And you did it anyway.”

“Some things are worth a bit of risk.” I smiled up at

him. “I don’t suppose you’d pay attention to the fl owers

for the next few minutes.”

“I wish I could, Kit, but my beaters are standing just

over there, and they’d give chase.” He held out his hand.

“I’ll speak for you at court.”

“And say what? You know I’m a good lass because we

played together as children? You’ll get the sack.” I turned

round and held my wrists behind my back. “Do your job,

Inspector.”

A few moments later the cold steel cuff s of Doyle’s

shackles clamped over my wrists. “Charmian Constance

Kittredge, you are charged with practicing magic in a

prohibited area. Be advised that anything you say while

in my custody can be entered into evidence and used

against you. You are permitted representation before the

magistrate. If you cannot aff ord such representation, an

aid-solicitor will be summoned to counsel you and speak

on your behalf. Do you understand what I have told you?”

Th e reasons, no, but the words, of course. “I do, sir.”

“Right, then.” He arranged my cloak so that it covered

my manacles and then took my arm. “Let’s go.”

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Chief Inspector Doyle spared me the humiliation of

taking me to Rumsen Main fi rst to be glassed and

recorded. While I knew eventually I would have my

image and personal information added to the vast

number of criminal countenances and case fi les kept in

the police archives, the reprieve gave me a bit of time to

decide what next I would do.

My enemy—either Dredmore or Walsh—had thrown

down the gauntlet by having me hauled before the

magistrate. My choices were to fi ght, arrange bail and

fl ee, or surrender myself to an unhappy fate.

I wasn’t going to run away or give up, which meant I

needed to arm myself.

Montford District, the building where the magistrate

courts were housed, stood in the shadows of Montford

Central, the judgment courts. Both were named for Lord

Montford, the Queen’s Architect, whose building designs

had been brought over along with Crown law after the

Rebellion had been crushed. Th e only way I’d ever see

the inside of Montford Central was if I killed someone,

burned down a block of houses, or something equally as

dastardly; Montford District was reserved for civil and

common criminal cases.

I suppose I should have admired all the grandeur of

the soaring Doric columns and the heavy chiselwork

above the archways, but the stodgy, Crown-nodding

aff ectedness of the building’s design ruined any

appreciation I might have for the bloody place. So did

being hauled to it as a prisoner.

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Doyle brought me into the great hall, which had been

hung with paintings depicting the Empire’s triumph over

the rebels and stone plaquettes inscribed with tiresome

axioms about the nobility of justice.

“‘Th e law of the Crown is a spring of life,’” I read one

out loud as we passed it. “Do you think our forefathers

would agree, Chief Inspector, seeing as it put most of

them facedown in shallow, unmarked graves?”

“Be quiet,” he warned as he steered me through

a security checkpoint and down to an entry marked

Advocacy
.

Inside were two chairs, a table, and a balding solicitor

in a shabby suit who barely glanced at us. “Morning. Th is

the Murphy gel, or the Holmes boy?”

“Kittredge,” Doyle told him.

“Damn it all. I told Scotty I didn’t want that one

before I left the offi ce.” Th e solicitor dug through his

papers until he found a thick bundle of papers and

scowled at me. “You know why you’ve been brought up

before the magis, miss?”

“I’ve been wrongly charged with practicing magic in a

residential area,” I said, sounding as forlorn as possible.

“And what is your name, sir?”

“Douglas Clark, at your service.” He didn’t bother to

get up or bow. “You can leave her, Chief.”

Doyle removed my manacles. “Keep your chin up.”

“Always.” I watched him go before I sat down beside

my aid-solicitor. “I’m not lying, sir. Th e charges being

brought against me are utter nonsense.”

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“Th ey always are, dearie.” He turned to me. “You’re

young, which will help, although you can’t claim

ignorance of the law. Th at always sets hissonor’s wig

on end. Someone coerce you to wave your wand in the

wrong place? Your da, maybe?”

“I’m an orphan.”

“Th at’s too bad. Got a teller off last month for having

a home seeing by blaming her brother for not paying

their rent. And her without a proper license at all.” Clark

studied my face. “What sort of magic you practice?”

“None.”

He shook his head. “Can’t go in denying your

business, miss. Th ey wouldn’t fi le charges without hard

evidence.”

“Th ey have none. I’ve never practiced magic.”

He turned back to the papers and scrabbled through

them, his frown deepening with every page he turned.

“No witnesses, no confi scations, no testimonies. Th at

can’t be right. Hang on, here it is.” He pulled out a paper

and held it up. “His lordship charges that the defendant

bespelled her physical residence to protect the occupants

and repel intruders.”

“I did nothing of the kind,” I assured him.

He nodded absently. “Th ey’ve listed some enchanted

objects that were found openly displayed on the exterior

of your residence.”

“Seven wardlings, nailed above my entry,” I said. “Put

there by a police warder, not me.”

“Th e cops?” He glanced up, completely perplexed.

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“Why’d they want to ward your place, then?”

I detailed the attack on me by the snuff mages as well

as my subsequent detainment and drugging at Rumsen

Main. “I did not fashion or display the wardlings.

Th ere is no other magic item on the premises or in my

possession.” I almost reached for my pendant before I

thought better of it. “Nor have I uttered a single spell.”

“Hang on.” He dug down to the very last page of the

charge statement, and after reading it sat back in his

chair. “Th e charges are being brought by Lord Nolan

Walsh. Himself’s one of them bankers downtown what’s

got more money than H.M. What in sweet Mary’s name

did you do to bring his wrath down on your head, gel?”

So
Walsh, not Dredmore.
An invisible burden lifted from my shoulders, not that I welcomed the tiny surge of

relief that came with it. “I’m working for Lord Walsh’s

wife, Lady Diana. Someone inside his household has

been—”

“No.” Clark held up his hand. “Don’t tell me any

more. I can’t have knowledge of that and stand for you.”

He studied the statement a second time. “Th is police

warder, will she bear witness that she was the one that

put up the protection at your home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ve never read so much as a tea leaf in your

kitchen?” When I shook my head, he gathered up his

papers and stuff ed them in his case. “Th is is how it will

go, then. I’ll refute the charges, have you repeat the

statements you’ve made to me to the magis—and only

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about the coppers warding your place, if you please—and

then we’ll see just how much money the banker spent on

this.”

“Do you think he bribed offi cers of the court?”

“To bring you up on charges, probably several of

them.” Clark regarded me steadily. “But it’s your lucky

day, my lass. He didn’t think to bribe
me.
”

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Clark and I were summoned before the bench a short time

later. Th e wood-paneled courtroom was divided into two,

and my aid-solicitor led me to a stand on the right in front of several rows of pews that were occupied here and there

by several gentlemen, including Tom Doyle.

I nodded to Doyle but then saw the face of the young

clerk sitting beside him. “Mr. Gremley?”

Clark hushed me and had me sit in one of the two

chairs behind the stand while he took the other.

“Not a word out of you until I say so,” he warned.

“And naught a peep about Walsh or working for the

wife.”

Th e bailiff entered, calling for everyone present to

stand. “Attention, attention, the seventh court of Rumsen

city is now come to order, the Honorable Jason Newton

presiding.”

A stout middle-aged man in an ancient white wig and

dusty-looking blue robes trudged in and took the chair

behind the magistrate’s desk on the platform at the center

back of the court. He looked at me for several moments

before saying, “Be seated. Mr. Jones, you may present the

fi rst case.”

Th e magistrate’s clerk rose from his seat to the right

of the bench and called out, “City of Rumsen versus Miss

Charmian Constance Kittredge.”

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Clark urged me up on my feet again as the clerk

handed the magistrate the warrant.

Magistrate Newton put on a pair of reading spectacles

and reviewed the warrant. “Aid-solicitor Clark, Miss

Kittredge appears to be charged with illegal practice of

magic. How does she plead?”

“Not guilty, your honor,” Clark said promptly.

“Barrister Fordun,” Newton said to the prosecutor. “I

dislike seeing unprotected young ladies in my courtroom.

Th is had better be very good.”

Th e man standing behind the opposite stand adjusted

his new wig before standing, which gave Clark time to

speak in his place.

“If it pleases the court and the Crown,” Clark said

quickly, “my client wishes to enter statements that will

doubtless convince Your Honor to dismiss these charges.”

“Oh, doubtless.” Newton eyed me. “Well, young miss?

What have you to say for yourself?”

I went to the stand and tried my best bewildered look

on the magistrate. “Your Honor, I am being charged

with practicing magic in my home, which is located in a

residential area. I have never done so, and the evidence

being brought forth to condemn me is police property.”

“Naturally it is in their custody,” Fordun said. “Th ey

confi scate any magic paraphernalia in such cases, so that

it might be presented in evidence.”

“No, sir,” I said. “Th e wardlings that were found

nailed above the entry to my fl at are property that
belong
to the police, and were put there by a police warder. Th ey

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are not mine, nor is their display my doing.”

“Is this warder present?” Newton snapped.

“Her supervisor is, Your Honor,” I heard Doyle

say behind me. “I am Chief Inspector Th omas Doyle,

assigned to Rumsen Main. After Miss Kittredge was the

victim of an unprovoked and brutal attack, I sent our staff

warder to search and secure the young lady’s home, in the

hope of preventing a second assault on her person.”

Th e magistrate turned to Fordun. “What other

evidence do you have to support these charges?”

“Th is woman’s home has not yet been searched, Your

Honor,” Fordun said quickly. “I am convinced that when

it is, we will fi nd ample evidence of her crimes.”

Newton sighed. “Inspector, you said your warder

searched the young lady’s home. Did she fi nd anything

unlawful?”

“No, Your Honor,” Doyle said, “and she searched the

premises quite thoroughly.”

“It sounds to me as if someone is trying to use my

court to attack this young lady again.” Th e magistrate

handed the warrants back to his clerk. “Miss Kittredge,

have you at any time practiced magic in your home?”

“No, Your Honor—”

“I have a statement to the contrary given by a titled

gentleman,” the prosecutor said. “He was most emphatic

about her criminal behavior.”