Laura Kinsale (33 page)

He looked up. He blinked. He began to wonder if he had not somehow wandered completely into dreams.

For there, clean and neat and properly dressed, with no sign of the bruises left by two Tahitian bodyguards, was Robert Stark.

And he was saying under oath that he had been the first lieutenant aboard H.M.S.
Mistral
seventeen years ago.

“I had debts,” Stark said. “Captain Eliot paid them and took my note.”

That was how he explained witnessing the
Mistral
’s falsified logs.

The rest was “orders.” It was “orders” that had made him keep a steady course when smoke was sighted and the
Arcturus
had signaled intention to investigate. He’d gone to inform the captain, Stark said, but Eliot had refused to come on deck.

Later, it was “orders” that had caused Stark to set alight two tins of bright varnish in the hold of the
Arcturus
. It was a little more than orders that had made him then betake himself and the marine lieutenant back to the
Mistral
so quickly—at that point, it was worrying for his own skin, in case a can of varnish should have been tipped over by the rolling swell sooner than convenient.

“And what did you expect the burning tins of varnish to do?” Serjeant Wood asked tonelessly.

“I expected them to set fire to the ship. That was what I understood my orders to be.”

“Did they do so?”

Stark shrugged.

“Was that a yes or a no, Mr. Stark?”

“Well—” Stark said defensively, and stopped.

“Did you see any smoke?”

“No.” Then he added quickly, “but it got dark soon after.”

“Was there any light, then? Light as from a fire.”

Stark said, “Well—no. But we’d gone off, you see. Far off.”

“How far?”

“Oh, ten leagues, at least.”

“Thirty miles?”

“Close on.”

“Have you ever seen a ship burn at night, Mr. Stark?”

Stark cleared his throat. “No.”

“Are you aware that when an empty frigate burned off Blackpool some years ago, it was seen as far away as the Isle of Man—a distance of some sixty miles?”

“No, sir.” It was said very low.

“Is it possible the ship didn’t burn?”

“I don’t know. I suppose—if the tins never fell over.”

“Is that likely, given the heavy swell you spoke of?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“Likely. I asked you if it were likely that neither one of two separate cans of burning varnish tipped over in a disabled ship in a rolling swell?”

“Not likely, no. Not very likely.”

“What are the other alternatives for why the ship didn’t catch fire from the tins of varnish?”

Stark hesitated a very long time. Then he said, “I can’t think of any.”

“None, Mr. Stark? Not one single one?”

Stark looked unhappy. He glanced around at the company and then back at Serjeant Wood. “I suppose someone might have put it out.”

A soft sound whispered through the chamber. Grady, Gryf thought with an ache.

“Can you think of any other reason why a rolling ship should not be set afire by an open tin of burning oil and resin?”

Stark appeared to be giving the question considerable thought. At length, he said, barely above a whisper, “No.”

“Speak up, Mr. Stark. Their Lordships may be interested in your answer.”

“No,” Stark said. “No, I can’t.”

“Then if that ship where you left the burning cans seventeen years ago is still afloat and in good condition today, there must have been someone left behind alive on her that day?”

And Stark said, “Yes. There must have been.”

The testimony went on and on. The ship was positively identified as the
Arcturus
by the original drawings, the men who had built her, and the discovery of the original figurehead and name boards hidden in a false bulkhead. The handwritten will, signed by Alexander Meridon, naming Gryf as heir, was found to be authentic by no fewer than five respected graphologists. Even Mahzu, with his catlike stride and his tattoos, came to testify and tell how he had joined a crew of two, a man and a twelve-year-old boy, on the western coast of Africa in early 1851.

And finally, old Badger shuffled into the chamber with the aid of a gowned official. Gryf tried not to look at the elderly retainer; but he found his gaze pulled helplessly that way. As Badger took his oath, he met Gryf’s eyes and held them with a trembling, determined frown. After a moment, Gryf looked away, knowing this time Badger would tell the truth.

It seemed to come as a surprise to the lord chancellor when the old man who had fumbled and wept his way through the first trial now stood firm and said that he had invited the prisoner into the house himself.

The chancellor said, “Mr. Bridgewater, that is not what you testified on the witness stand earlier.”

Old Badger’s lip quivered, but he said nothing.

“Mr. Bridgewater, I remind you that you are under oath.”

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Mr. Badger said. “I’m telling you the truth. I was—I was lying before.”

“Mr. Bridgewater,” Serjeant Wood said quickly, “you say you were lying in earlier testimony. Exactly what part of your earlier testimony do you now say is false?”

“I said before that I first found him in the cellar in the morning. ’Twasn’t true. The night before, the bell rang, and I answered it and asked him to come in.”

“But you did not tell the police this?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Bridgewater, why did you lie to the police?”

“Because when he—when he first come in out of the storm, he asked me to swear to never say that I had seen or heard of him.”

“The prisoner asked you to swear to that?”

“Yes, sir.” Badger looked at Gryf, and there was pleading in his eyes. Gryf gave his head one tiny shake, forgiving. It wasn’t important any longer. There would have been no good in Badger repeating his shaky attempt to perjure himself. Not with Serjeant Wood boring in on his point.

It took all of half a minute to come out.

“Mr. Bridgewater,” the tall barrister said, “when you opened the door and saw the prisoner, did you recognize him?”

“I thought so, sir.”

“Who did you think he was?”

“Lord Alexander, sir.”

The chamber hummed.

“But Lord Alexander has been dead for seventeen years, has he not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long did you entertain this misconception?”

“Until he told me he wasn’t Lord Alex, sir.”

“Was there sufficient light to see well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before he told you he was not Lord Alexander, how
did you account for a man you knew to have been dead for seventeen years standing there before you in the flesh?”

Badger pursed his lips. “You’ll think me an old fool, sir.”

The advocate’s face softened. “Of course not, Mr. Bridgewater. I only want you to tell what you thought. No one here can laugh at you for telling the truth.”

“Well, I thought he was a ghost, sir.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“He’s the image of Lord Alex, sir, and he had blood all over his neckcloth. They said, you know, they always said that the pirates must have slashed his throat, sir. Lord Alex’s.”

“You’ve said that the prisoner told you he was not Lord Alexander. Who then did he say he was?”

“He said he was Arthur’s son Gryphon.”

The counselor gave no sign of hearing the stir in the room. “Did you believe him?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“But in all this time when no one could determine the identity of the prisoner, you knew who he claimed to be and never mentioned it to the police?”

“Not to anyone, sir. I’d swore not to.” And then, as he had in the hall of Ashland Court, Mr. Badger burst into tears. “I never thought he’d let them try to hang him.”

The barrister waited a few moments, until Badger recovered a little. Then he said softly, “Do you still believe the prisoner to be Gryphon Meridon, the grandson of the late marquess?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Yes.”

“Mr. Bridgewater, am I correct in saying there is a portrait of Lord Alexander at Ashland Court?”

“Yes, sir, there is.”

“Where does it hang?”

“In the tapestry room, sir, on the north wall by the door. It used to be in the gallery, but Mr. Eliot took it upstairs after his father died.”

“Your Lordship,” Serjeant Wood said to the lord chancellor, “I ask permission to bring before the lords the portrait mentioned by this witness. It is a full-length study by Sir George Richmond. Lord Alexander sat for it in December of 1849, when he was thirty years old.”

The portrait was carried in covered by a sheet of blue felt, as tall as the men who handled it. Serjeant Wood directed them to stand the picture next to Gryf, where it was in full view of the lord chancellor.

The barrister pulled off the felt.

Gryf couldn’t see the portrait, but he could see the face of the chancellor. The venerable white eyebrows went up. He nodded slowly. “I believe you make your point, Serjeant. Have it turned to display to Their Lordships.”

The ushers carried the portrait up the short flight of steps in front of the empty throne and faced it full on to the gallery. A ripple of sound went through the room.

The painting was of a young man. Behind him, instead of the usual dog and Greek temple, was the shoulder-high wheel of a ship. In his right hand was a sextant. He leaned easily against the steering box, his blond hair windblown and a daredevil grin on his face.

“Is this the portrait of which you spoke, Mr. Bridgewater? That hung in the tapestry room of Ashland Court?”

“Yes, sir,” said Badger. “It is.”

Gryf might as well have been looking at himself in a mirror, at the wheel of the
Arcanum/Arcturus.

Tess could not bring herself to stay in the chamber for the vote. When they dismissed Gryf, she slipped out, on the
slim hope that she might be able to speak to him. He had not seen her in the House, she knew. She was nearing the edge of her sanity with wondering what he thought and felt, and how he would greet her. But the armed guards formed a phalanx around him, and by the time Tess had slipped back into the hall, he was gone.

She spent the endless half-hour of waiting in the same office where Serjeant Wood had left her earlier. The barrister did not appear. She wondered if he was with Gryf, and felt another surge of frustration. Gryf needed her. She was his wife—didn’t she have a right to be with him now, while the future of both of them hung in the balance? Why didn’t he ask for her?

But she knew the answer to that. He had sent her away before because he didn’t love her. There was no reason to think he had changed his mind. None. Except—he had come to save her from Stephen. Surely that meant something, that he had risked his life for her sake. She clung to that hope, knowing all the time that it was flimsy. Guilt, anger, duty—there were any number of reasons that might have brought him back to rescue her, and none of them had to do with love.

The same junior barrister came to fetch her for the announcement. She could tell nothing from his bearded young face, and could not bring herself to ask. She stepped quietly into the same place she had held before and watched as they brought Gryf into the room. The dead, uncaring emptiness was in his eyes again. He did not look up as he came to a halt before the lord chancellor.

“My lord,” the chancellor said, and paused.

Serjeant Wood, standing near Gryf, cleared his throat meaningfully. Tess distinctly saw one of the guards nudge the side of Gryf’s foot. He looked up.

The chancellor gave Gryf a peculiar little smile and
said again, “My lord, your peers and equals have considered the allegation that you are in fact Gryphon Arthur Meridon, Marquess of Ashland. They have likewise considered the evidence, and everything which has been alleged in your favor, and upon the matter their Lordships have unanimously agreed to accept in your person the person of Gryphon Arthur Meridon, the Most Honorable the Marquess of Ashland, with all rights and privileges appertaining thereto.”

Tess swallowed hard. She felt her spirits rising, and did not trust the elation. There was still a trial for murder yet to go. Gryf looked completely unmoved by his change of circumstance, even though by that one sentence he was made instantly into one of the wealthiest men in the Empire. It was too much, perhaps. Too hard to comprehend.

The proceedings went inexorably on. A clerk read the indictment against Gryf, and the finding of the Winchester jury. And then the lord chancellor spoke to Gryf again.

“You are brought to this bar to receive your trial upon a charge of murder of Stephen Eliot of Hampshire,” the chancellor said. “An accusation, with respect to the crime and the jury who make it, of the most solemn and serious nature.”

Tess wrung her hands, and then made herself hide them in her skirt.

“Yet, my lord,” the chancellor went on with greatest formality, “you may consider it but as an accusation, for it is a happiness resulting from Your Lordship’s birth and the constitution of this country that Your Lordship is now to be tried by your peers in full Parliament.”

The chancellor looked very intently at Gryf, as if waiting for a response. None came, and after a moment, he added, “What greater consolation can be suggested
to a person in your unhappy circumstances, than to be reminded that you are to be tried by a set of judges whose justice nothing but the whole truth can influence or direct?”

Gryf did not appear at all consoled by these circumlocutions. He looked tired. She wished they would invite him to sit down.

“How plead you now,” the chancellor asked. “Guilty or not guilty?”

The ensuing silence stretched into monstrous proportions. Once again, Serjeant Wood stepped into the breach.

“His Lordship pleads not guilty, my lord.”

Another man rose. Tess recognized him as the attorney-general. Here would be the prosecution’s case.

“Your Lordships,” the prosecutor said, “after anxious and careful consideration of the new evidence which has come to light, we have reached the conclusion that there is no case to be submitted to Your Lordships on which we could properly ask you to convict the prisoner. Therefore, we offer no evidence against him.”