My Favorite Thief (25 page)

 

N
EWGATE
P
RISON WAS A GRIM-LOOKING FORTRESS OF
austere granite, the mere sight of which could ignite a flame of fear deep within the bosoms of even the most law-abiding of London's citizenry. There had been a prison standing on its misery-soaked site from the early twelfth century, although it had been rebuilt in 1770 and again some ten years later. For nearly a hundred years since it had enjoyed the dubious distinction of being London's chief prison, and until 1868 had been a favorite place for finding the foulest entertainment. To that year all executions at Newgate were carried out in view of the public, and they proved wildly popular.

Every Monday morning at eight o'clock a veritable tidal wave of shoving, shouting men, women, and children would swarm the road outside the Debtor's Door, to watch the parade of despondent souls condemned to be executed that day. Murderers were hanged on Monday, and they proved a far greater attraction than watching those being hanged for burglary, forgery, or sodomy writhe and kick at the end of a rope. When the lever of the gallows was pulled the condemned dropped only about one or two feet, which made it almost certain their deaths would take several minutes. For those flush in the pocket, a seat could be found overlooking the gallows for as much as ten pounds—a fortune, but generally agreed upon as well worth it. Booths selling food and drink were set up around the scaffold, and vast quantities of warm ale, watery brandy, and greasy pies made of questionable meats were consumed, the dank air heavy with merry camaraderie.

Unfortunately for those who loved nothing better than a good hanging, a change in the laws during the 1830s limited the crimes punishable by death. In 1868 public hangings were abolished altogether, putting an end to what the socially conscious of British society argued was a grotesque form of amusement. After that, murderers were hanged in private, their bodies discreetly buried in unmarked graves within Newgate's virtually impenetrable walls.

For that small boon, Harrison was supremely grateful.

He leaned against the cold stone wall of his cell, his arms folded across his chest, staring up at the pale wash of sunlight filtering through the heavy black bars of his tiny window. The furnishings surrounding him were spare: a rickety stool that threatened to collapse beneath his weight, a table bearing a badly cracked jug and basin, a roll of gray bedding, a shelf bearing a Bible, prayer book, plate, and mug, and finally, in a corner, a chipped and stained chamber pot. There was an iron candlestick embedded in the wall, bearing the half-melted remains of a cheap yellow candle. Spartan furnishings by any measure, and certainly a significant departure from the luxuries to which he was accustomed.

Strangely, he found himself not terribly bothered by the rough simplicity of his cell. There was nothing there of beauty or color save the lemony-gold beam of sunlight, which trickled through the window with cheerful abandon, utterly oblivious to the fact that the architects who had designed and redesigned Newgate over the centuries had clearly intended for each cell to be relentlessly somber. The sunshine cast its golden veil across the bleakness before splashing against the worn stone floor, the stripes of the bars breaking it into smaller segments that could be counted and contemplated as they shifted in size and brightness over the course of the morning. Staring at that playful puddle of light had given Harrison the means to calm himself and focus his mind, to set aside the rage and frustration that had consumed him from the time of his arrest to his arrival at Newgate.

When he had first trudged through the prison's endless narrow corridors, through countless locked gates and iron-fortified doors, his hands shackled helplessly behind his back, he had been overwhelmed with a fury and despair unlike anything he had ever known. A dull ache had started to seep through the front of his skull, and his vision began to blur. He knew then that if he succumbed to one of his incapacitating headaches, for which no laudanum would be provided, he would truly be lost. He forced himself to breathe deeply, even though the air was fetid, and worked to calm the rapid pounding of his heart, which seemed to be in tandem with the throbbing in his brain.

To his amazement, he was able to hold the headache at bay.

He was able to enter his cell, which his decrepit little warder proudly assured him was one of the better ones, assigned only to those prisoners of the more respectable classes like himself who had the ill fortune to spend time at Newgate, and look as if he gave it his discriminating approval. He was able to remain standing while the warder removed his manacles and chatted away about how all the prisoners used to be kept in common wards until Newgate was redesigned into a single-cell system, and how he was lucky enough to have his ward all to himself, Newgate being decidedly short of respectable prisoners on that day. Harrison was able to stagger to his bedding and lower himself onto it, to keep his breathing steady while squeezing his eyes shut, telling himself that he would not,
would not,
permit his goddamn treacherous body to succumb to its infernal weakness.

Incredibly, his headache had been suppressed.

It had tormented him, certainly, for several hours, but not to the extent that had long been its norm. It had never progressed to anything more than a pounding pain that was unpleasant, even nauseating, but scarcely debilitating, comparatively speaking.

On a day when his very life was crashing down around him, he found that small, unexpected victory enormously gratifying.

Once his pain had abated, he had been able to think more clearly. He realized then that he would have to shackle his emotions, tightly leashing both his anger and his fear, so he could assess his situation and determine what, if anything, could be done to improve it. It was difficult, but not impossible.

The beam of sunlight had helped immeasurably.

His greatest concern at that moment was for his mother, Charlotte, and Flynn. He had faith enough in Telford to know that his butler would never reveal to his mother what he had undoubtedly learned by now: that Harrison had been arrested for burglary and murder. His arrest had occurred too late to make the early edition of the newspapers, but London would be rampant with talk of it, which meant that every gossiping servant, delivery person, and newspaper reporter would be hammering on his door, demanding to know if it were true, pleading for some titillating details. Telford would protect his mother for as long as was possible, making some excuse or other for Harrison's absence, which she would most likely accept, at least for a short while.

Harrison planned to send letters to Margaret and Frank, telling them what had happened and asking them to come as quickly as possible. Although Harrison hated the thought of disrupting their lives, there was no help for it. Frank would have to leave America and focus on learning the details of running the properties and managing the investments. If Harrison's trial went badly, his younger brother might well end up being the next Earl of Bryden. He tried not to think about that. And Margaret would have to leave her children for a period to help tend to her mother, who would be devastated when she finally learned that Harrison had been arrested for murder.

For the first time he could remember, he found himself hoping that his mother's delusional state continued to separate her from reality. Somehow that seemed a kinder fate than facing the truth.

His other great concern was for Charlotte and Flynn. Harrison's barrister was to have arranged for the money he had requested and brought it to his home that morning. After his arrest, Harrison had sent word to Mr. Brown to meet him at Newgate instead. When he arrived, Harrison would direct him to discreetly take the money to Charlotte, along with a note he had yet to write.

There was much he wanted to tell her.

He wanted her to know that he wasn't the thief and murderer she believed him to be—at least, not entirely. He also wanted to warn her that under no condition was she to face her father alone. Finally, he wanted to make her understand how much she had come to mean to him, despite the fact that they had known each other such a brief time. That she was stronger and more inspiring to him than any woman he had ever known. That her courage, her determination, and her selflessness had shone a brilliant light into his life, at a time when he had felt surrounded by bitter gloom. All this he wanted to tell her, and more. But to do so would only implicate her, should the letter fall into the wrong hands. And so he would merely pen a brief note, saying it had been a pleasure to meet her, and wishing her all the best with her refuge house.

Not even the cleverest of prosecutors could extract much incriminating evidence out of that.

A key scraped in the lock, and the heavy wooden door swung open. Reluctantly, Harrison tore his gaze away from the shaft of sunlight. The emaciated form of his warder, Mr. Digby, with his stringy yellow hair and his pitifully stooped frame, clad in an ill-fitting frock coat and striped trousers that seemed far too fine for wearing while skulking around a prison, entered his cell.

Behind him limped a remarkably alive Inspector Lewis Turner.

“Inspector Turner here to see ye, yer lordship,” announced Digby solemnly, holding himself as straight as his stooped back would permit.

The warder's generously furrowed face was sober, and Harrison thought he detected just a hint of pride in his flaccid-lidded eyes, as he waited for Harrison to acknowledge his announcement. It was clear that Mr. Digby may have once aspired to something better than being a prison warder, and was consequently impressed by both the social stature and notoriety of his latest prisoner.

“Thank you, Digby,” said Harrison politely, his tone betraying none of the relief he felt at seeing that the inspector had survived the Dark Shadow's assault. He was about to add “That will be all,” more because he thought the man might appreciate it than because he thought Digby might actually hover around waiting to see if he could provide something further to his charge, but Inspector Lewis quashed the opportunity with a curt dismissal.

“Leave us,” Lewis commanded abruptly, banging the walking stick upon which he leaned.

Digby cast a questioning glance at Harrison.

“That will be all, Digby,” Harrison said to him. “Thank you.”

“Yes, yer lordship,” the warder replied, bowing his head slightly. “If ye need me, all ye need do is call.”

With that he backed his way out of the cell and turned the key once more, leaving Harrison and Lewis alone.

“Inspector Turner, I am delighted to see you looking so well,” Harrison remarked cordially. “Won't you sit down?” He gestured at the decrepit wooden stool.

Lewis glared at him and stayed where he was. In fact he would have liked very much to sit down, but he wasn't about to accept hospitality from the bastard who bashed him on the head and then shot him while he lay helpless and unconscious. Fortunately, Bryden was an extremely poor shot—either that, or the darkness of the room had hindered his ability. Whatever the reason, the bullet had only entered the upper part of Lewis's thigh. After an interminable amount of poking, prodding, and stitching at the hands of a surgeon who would have been better suited to a career in butchery, Lewis had been told he was extremely lucky and that he should take to his bed for a week, to rest and give the wound a chance to heal.

Instead Lewis had demanded a walking stick.

“I see you've got your warder placed firmly under your heel,” he observed acidly, detesting the way the old man had acted as if Lord Bryden were some kind of hero. “I suppose compared to most of the scum he's had to guard over the years, you're almost royalty.”

“Maybe I'm just one of the few prisoners who have ever treated him with a modicum of respect,” Harrison countered. “You might want to try it one day yourself—you'd be amazed at the results.”

Lewis regarded him evenly. “Don't you dare lecture me, Bryden. You're the one who has spent the better part of his life breaking into people's homes like a common thief, pilfering jewels and murdering people. If you're under the illusion that you are somehow better than me because you were born with a title, then you are sadly mistaken.”

“Forgive me. I would never profess to believe that I was better than you, Inspector Turner. You are a man of education and intellect, and you have a singular determination which I happen to admire. I have little doubt that if you work hard, your career will be nothing short of brilliant. I know of very few men born to titles who can make the same claim.”

Lewis stared at him guardedly. Was Lord Bryden actually complimenting him?

“Why did you do it, Bryden?” he demanded, curious. “I understand that when you started, years ago, it was because your father had squandered your fortune. You were determined to get some of it back, even if that meant stealing it. I'm sure you believed you were only reclaiming what by right was already yours. What made you start again? I've investigated your finances, and unless there is something buried in there that not even your bankers are aware of, your financial situation is sound. Why start running about in the middle of the night stealing jewels, most of which you could have afforded to buy if you wanted to?”

Harrison stared impassively at the rectangles of light upon the floor. His situation was impossible. If he admitted to the thefts he had committed sixteen years earlier, then he would be inextricably tied to the more recent rash of thefts, two murders, and one attempted murder, which could only be punishable by hanging, his status as an earl notwithstanding. Somehow he did not think Inspector Lewis would accept his explanation that yes, he had committed those earlier thefts, and yes, he had been present at several of the recent thefts, including the one the previous night where the inspector had unfortunately been shot, but only because he was actually trying to capture the man who was running about pretending to be him—or, more accurately, pretending to be the man he had once been. It sounded preposterous even to him, for God's sake. Therefore his only choices were to deny everything, which was ridiculous, given that he was caught trying to climb out Lord Whitaker's window the previous night, or say nothing, which would be interpreted as a sullen admission of guilt.