Beginning, Previous Section, Section IV
Jump to new as of May 19, 2000
John found a rather wet Willie Barton waiting for him in his study the next morning, having been caught in the rain as he walked over from the rooming house where he lived. Even after he had moved out of the Barrow house, Willie had continued the habit of waiting upon his employer every morning. The scrupulously efficient Mr. Barton found these daily meetings quite useful. John regarded Willie's tall form warming himself in one of the chairs that were drawn up to the fire, one long leg crossed over the other in order to sufficiently dry his pant leg, his hatless blond head bent towards the paper in his lap.
He certainly had grown more at ease in Barrow's office and in his position, hadn't he? It took a few moments for John to calculate the number of years that Barton had been with him, first as a footman and then as an assistant. Had it really been over a decade? Time had certainly passed quickly. It was almost difficult for John to recall Willie as a young, awkward boy, the one that he had taken on as a favor to Mrs. Barton, his long-time cook, and the young man's grandmother.
John had never regretted granting her that favor. Willie had proven himself to be loyal to a fault, following his employer without question into difficult situations, bravely confronting danger because he trusted Barrow enough to know that the man would never ask him to risk his safety without good cause.
But John had to wonder if Willie would follow him without question in believing Tim's innocence?
Was it necessary that Willie believed Tim innocent?
And did he truly believe in it himself?
Barton looked up from his paper as he heard Barrow enter the room. Wordlessly, he folded the printed leaves back together, walked over to the desk, and rather deliberately laid it on Barrow's desk with the front page facing up. John already knew what was printed there.
"I've already seen the news this morning, Tim," Barrow replied, crossing the room to his desk.
"And yesterday's as well, I presume, sir." Willie added, face looking uncharacteristically grim. John was almost glad to see it. He knew that relations between Tim and Willie had never become cordial and more frequently bordered on the fractious. For some reason, Tim had never believed Barton deserving of the trust that Barrow had placed in him. Willie, frustrated, by Tim's niggling attempts to undermine his self worth, seemed to reciprocate by quietly taking tasks away from him. It had been a quiet war, one that Barrow had allowed to continue just so long as it never interfered with their work.
It would not have completely surprised John to see his assistant show up that morning with a triumphant smile on his face. The downward cast to Willie's features seemed to prove that he was above being pleased by the downfall of another.
But he was not above been curious about it. "Have you any idea why he did it, sir?" Barton asked.
John chose to sit down before he answered that. "He says that he didn't do it." Barrow admitted, sighing loudly.
"What?" Barton's eyes widened.
"He said that he didn't do it." Barrow repeated simply and kept his features perfectly calm.
"But..." Willie appeared stymied by Tim's assertion. "But you don't believe that do you?"
Barrow raised an eyebrow, tacitly cautioning Barton to reconsider his words.
"I mean," Willie attempted again, beginning to look flustered. He sat down in a chair. "I mean he was right there! It wasn't as if they had to chase him down a few streets and could have possibly confused him with another man! The news does have that right, don't they, sir? He was right there, wasn't he?"
Barrow nodded. "Yes, Tim admitted that much."
"So, how can he say that he wasn't the man who did it?"
"He says that the man, Stanhope, was already dead when he got there." John said, fighting off the need to wince as he heard himself offer such an explanation. It certainly sounded too incredible to be believed.
"Already dead?" Willie repeated.
"Already dead," John agreed.
"So, was the man's carriage set upon by a gang of murderous thieves while it was being drawn through the streets or something, because this article," he gestured to the paper on the desk, "seems to say quite clearly that his footman and his coachman were with the carriage at all times, except for the moment when Tim walked up and acted!" Willie picked the paper back up and scanned the article. "It even quotes the coachman as saying that he had wandered away to a pump with a pan in order to water the horses and that the footman had just then gone on an errand."
"Don't believe everything that you read in the paper, Willie," John warned, even though he knew that the paper's account was accurate.
"So, if he didn't kill that man, then who did?" Willie returned to the point.
"A woman." John said.
Willie nearly choked in surprise. "A woman?" he blurted out.
"That's what he said," John agreed. "He saw a woman, heavily cloaked, leave the carriage just before he walked over to it."
"And he, of course, doesn't know who this mysterious woman is," Willie concluded.
John shook his head. "It was too dark in the alley, and he wasn't really paying attention to her."
"What was he paying attention to, sir?" Willie followed up quickly.
John did wince this time. "The carriage, I assume."
Willie, realizing that there was a great deal more to the story than he had yet heard, leaned forward in his chair. "Why was he interested in the carriage?"
John hesitated, unsure of how to convince Willie of Tim's innocence in the face of such damning evidence.
"Has he gone back to thieving, then?" Willie suggested.
"I'm not sure if he ever truly gave up thievery," John admitted honestly, knowing that Willie would need to know all of Tim's story if he were able to assist him. "But, in this case, he was more interested in meeting with the man inside the carriage."
"He had business with George Stanhope?" Willie asked.
John nodded.
"It's an odd place to conduct business." Willie commented quietly.
"George Stanhope was the man who assaulted Bette," Barrow could delay the truth no longer.
Willie sat back, stunned. "He was the one who attacked Miss Maberley last year?"
"Yes."
"You know how this looks then, sir." Willie said darkly.
"Yes," John admitted. "It looks as if Tim had a motive for murdering Stanhope."
"I'll wager that he went there with no other plan in mind." Willie went on.
"Be that as it may," John added quickly, "He was thwarted in his attempt. The man was..."
"Already dead." Willie filled in, shaking his head as he did so, wordless proof that he could not believe Scoggins' story, but was not sure whether or not his employer did. He looked up at John, seemed to be regarding him carefully -- as if he were trying to figure out just how to ask him that question. Years spent serving as master, employer, and quite nearly surrogate father to the young man had shown Barrow that the boy trusted his judgment implicitly. That he considered John's relationship with Tim Scoggins to be somewhat idiosyncratic and a little misguided was also the case, but he managed to keep this opinion to himself. Barrow valued Tim Scoggins, and Willie knew that it was best not to question him on it.
But that man was now in jail and was going to be hung for murdering someone. What did Barrow think now?
"Well, Willie?" John asked, after allowing the young man to regard him cautiously for a moment longer.
"Well, sir?" Willie returned.
"Have you decided whether or not I should believe Tim's admittedly curious explanation?
"I wouldn't venture to say, sir," Willie responded warily.
"You wouldn't venture to say?" John repeated.
"It may be that..." Willie began hesitantly, feeling his way around a situation full of pitfalls, "...perhaps you have reason to believe Tim's story. Perhaps he told you something that proves that he didn't do it?"
John shook his head. "He has told me nothing more than what I've already shared with you."
"Then, what is there to do, sir?"
"Find something that proves that he did not commit that crime," John replied resolutely.
Willie's eyes widened even further. He seemed completely taken aback by that. "Find something?"
"Preferably the real killer," John added.
"But -- " Willie began.
John shot another look of warning over to the man, and he didn't say what John did not want to hear. It didn't matter. The thought was still sounding in his mind: what if there wasn't another killer?
"What would you like for me to do today, sir?" Willie asked instead, while attempting to recast his features into, if not a perfectly complaisant mask of acceptance, at least one of agreeable willingness.
"I want you to help me find that other person," John responded and, before Willie could say anything in protest, gave further instructions. "We need to find Stanhope's other enemies, enemies angry enough to kill. If Stanhope had no scruple in harming Bette in such a manner, then it is entirely possible that he could have done it to another woman."
"And one of those women may have covered herself in a cloak in order to kill him," Willie nodded, seeing the reasonableness of that. "I can certainly check through that part of the city's population tonight. I don't suppose that Miss Maberley would know..." Willie began, but stopped quickly, as if he feared making such a suggestion. John believed that he understood such hesitancy. Willie knew that Bette was very protective of her new-found respectability and would not wish to revisit old memories.
But the situation was dire; Tim's life was at stake.
"I have already spoken to Bette," John revealed. "She, in fact, was the first person I contacted after learning of Tim's arrest." Barrow went on to explain her reaction to the news, their subsequent discussion in his carriage, her identification of Stanhope as the man who had assaulted her, and how she had begged John to visit Tim. She had remained at the Barrow home until John had returned that night.
That Bette had been horrified to hear of Tim's arrest was clear to John, but less easy to discern was whether or not she truly believed him guilty. They had talked at length after John returned from visiting Tim in the strong room of the Bow Street station. Bette explained all that she recalled about George Stanhope and, while she had been quite candid with regards to his methods for providing himself with companionship for the evening, she was not able to supply him with the names of other women that he had harmed. She had no idea that he was an abuser. Had she known about his twisted proclivities, she would never have agreed to spend the evening with him. She had been unaware and unlucky, but was not a fool.
She related all of this to John in an even, emotionless voice, one that belied her connection to the murder victim and the man accused of the crime. To John, she appeared numb and he hadn't known what to do or say to comfort her. At a loss, he eventually sent her back to Smiths in his carriage, after assuring her that he would do everything that he could to see that Tim was not hung for a crime that he did not commit.
To that, Bette had merely nodded and made an unsuccessful attempt to thank him for helping Tim. This was an expression of gratitude that John had brushed away as wholly unnecessary. Of course he would be concerned about Mr. Scoggins. The man had always served him well. He would not desert him now.
And he would make sure that his assistant did his utmost to help Tim as well. "You'll have to be very discreet, Willie" John reminded firmly. "If the killer does happen to be one of his former conquests..."
"I won't put her on her guard." Willie assured his employer.
"I'll have to be equally careful as well." John commented.
"Where are you going to look, sir?" Willie queried.
John let out a long breath. "I'm going to have to see about the Stanhopes."
'Seeing about the Stanhopes' was a task that proved to be even more difficult than Barrow had imagined, especially since he was prevented from making an early start. No sooner has Willie left to begin his own investigations than Seth Shackleford arrived. The parson had read about Tim's misfortune in the newspaper and had come to offer his assistance and support. Considering that Tim was being charged with a capital offense, Seth believed that he might well be in need of spiritual guidance.
It was an offer that was both remarkable and completely in character for Seth. It was remarkable because he and Tim had certainly not started out as friends. In fact, John was well able to recall just how much the two men had managed to antagonize one another when they first met. Seth, who was more inclined to think that the only acceptable criminal was a reformed criminal, could not easily appreciate Tim's unapologetically lawless existence. In return, Tim had believed Seth much too rigidly scrupulous and uprightly moral for his tastes. John was still not quite sure what had happened to change Seth's opinion of Tim. It may have been the assistance that Tim had rendered both Seth and Mary on the night when that couple had finally came to an understanding, or Seth may have been impressed by Tim's obvious affection and care of Bette, especially during her recuperation. Regardless of the reason, John was grateful to Seth for his willingness to stand by Tim even in the face of a murder charge.
But John had to inform Seth that any question on the disposition of Tim's soul were premature. Tim still insisted that he did not commit the crime and, based on this admission, John was determined to see that he managed to disappoint the hangman. With luck, they would find the real murderer in time and Tim would have many, many more years to evade religion before he was forced to think of repenting his sins and preparing to meet his maker.
Seth was just as surprised as Willie had been about Tim's declaration and was quite nearly as skeptical. But, unlike Willie, Seth seemed to want to believe that Tim was telling the truth, that he wouldn't lie to Barrow, and -- above all -- that he wouldn't take the life of another human being. He offered to deliver the package of food and clothing that Arabella was preparing for Tim with the assistance of Simmons and Cook. As a clergyman, he had already had many occasions to visit Newgate and was familiar with the prison and its system. He agreed to defer any matters of a more spiritual nature until later.
It relieved John to have another join him in believing in Tim's innocence. He was finding it exhausting enough to keep himself convinced of Tim's guiltlessness much less try to get others to believe it as well.
And the Stanhopes were not making his investigation much easier. Surprisingly, they appeared to be defying convention when it came to mourning. Just that morning, John had learned from servants in the neighboring houses on their street that the Stanhopes were not receiving callers at their London home, had planned no memorial service in a church, and were interring the body with a great deal of haste. The earthly remains of George Stanhope were not to linger long above ground; he was to be buried that afternoon.
It was a terrible day for such an event; the rain beat down without respite, cold and penetrating. On learning about the burial, John quickly outfitted himself in a black suit left from last year's national mourning for Queen Charlotte, and arrived at the cemetery only minutes before the wagon bearing the body arrived. He watched as a very small procession of mourners followed behind, most on foot. Only one carriage had been pressed into service.
Barrow, knowing that this could be one of his only opportunities to learn anything about Stanhope's family and circle without making them fully aware of his purpose, watched the mourners carefully. A woman dressed in deep mourning was assisted out of the carriage, much of her face hidden from view by a heavy veil. She walked with hesitant, careful steps slowed by age. John wondered if she could be Stanhope's mother. Once down, she waited while a younger man was assisted out of the coach as well. He seemed to require just as much attention as the woman had and moved with the same cautiousness, even though he didn't appear to be infirm. Once out of the rig, Mrs. Stanhope took him by the arm. Holding an umbrella over both herself and the man, she appeared to lead him towards the grave.
John assumed that he had to be a family member as well, but whom?
John put this question to one side for the moment as he watched as a group of men detach themselves from the mourners and began to do their duty as pallbearers, in a uncertain, plodding manner, one even stumbling over his own feet as he helped to pull the box from the wagon. John almost felt sorry for Mr. Stanhope. It was not a very auspicious way to end one's life, was it? The men who were to be doing the final service were quite close to dumping the body out on its head. And none of his attendants cut a very dashing figure either. In fact, they all looked rather awkward and uncomfortable. That surprised John. Bette had described Stanhope as the quintessential London buck. She remembered him as a confirmed dandy who had already spent many years being careful about his appearance and keeping friends who were equally concerned about their sartorial image. These could not possibly be the same friends, could they?
It was only when three servants in livery joined the others in moving the coffin from the wagon to the gravesite that John realized that the pallbearers might not be friends at all, but servants in the Stanhope household.
This was strange. Were none of Stanhope's estimable companions available to do this last duty to a friend?
And just where were his estimable companions today? John's eye returned to the other mourners. With the exception of the pair from the carriage, none of the mourners looked as if they were Stanhope's equal financially. In fact, the women looked as if they had just taken off their aprons and pinafores in order to take part in the funeral procession. With their dowdy dresses and plain bonnets, certainly none of them could be called ladies of fashion. And they were all getting quite drenched in the rain, for none of them had brought umbrellas to protect themselves. Was it possible that they were all servants?
Were there to be no mourners for George Stanhope other than servants in his household?
John, realizing just how much he might stand out in such a crowd, quietly lowered his umbrella and moved surreptitiously around the perimeter of the group, finally stopping when he felt himself half hidden behind the wagon that had carried the coffin.
A clergyman, white surplice hanging wet around his ankles, walked to the head of the grave and began to intone the words of commitment. John, from his distant vantage, regarded the faces in the crowd. They were all uniformly grim, as befitted a burial on a cold, wet day, but -- unlike other funerals that he had attended -- none of the mourners appeared to actually be mourning. There were no sobs of grief, tears in eyes, or other downcast expressions of loss. If anything, the expressions in the crowd appeared to be hardened and resolute.
John's eyes roamed further afield and he saw a figure in the distance, hovering around the corner of the church. It was an older woman, dressed not in mourning, but colorfully, with a showily ornamented hat that contained one large, curling feather. John thought the feather very fanciful, being an odd shade of green. He would have dismissed the wearer of the feather from further examination had he not noticed how intently she was looking at the gravesite. He regarded her for a bit longer and noticed that her gaze never moved away from the coffin. John wondered who she was and if she knew Stanhope personally. It was possible that she did not. He realized that she could be working for a resurrectionist. He knew that those men sometimes employed women, former prostitutes generally, to attend interment services and report back to them with the particulars.
But she seemed to be watching the service too closely for that, with narrow eyes and a hardened, deliberate expression, as if she were waiting for something to happen.
And, in another moment, something else did, but it didn't make the colorfully dressed woman look up or any of the other mourners either. Perhaps John only did so because he was standing on the road and could hear another carriage as it drove up. Could it finally be some of Stanhope's well-to-do friends coming to pay their respects?
John watched as a woman alighted from the carriage. She was certainly dressed in proper mourning attire, but she made no effort to join the group knotted around the grave. The distance may have been too great for her to do so alone, however. During the few steps that she did take away from her carriage, John was able to see that she drug one of her legs behind her, causing one of her shoulders to dip every time she moved. She stayed on the rise near her carriage, watching the proceedings from under her umbrella with the same degree of interest that the colorful woman with the feathers did, and quite nearly the same expression. It appeared to John that, while neither woman appeared to mourn the passing of George Stanhope, they both wished to be present when his body was put into the ground.
John was watching this with mounting interest when a rustling under the bed of the wagon caught his attention. He looked under it and saw the figure of a young woman, waifish and thin, wearing only a black dress, no bonnet or shawl to keep away the chill. She crouched down between the wheels, unsuccessfully attempting to escape from the rain. John felt quite sorry for her.
"Here," whispered John, quietly opening his umbrella once again and holding it above her. "Stand up. You can't be comfortable down there."
The girl looked at him skeptically, before deciding to take him up on his offer. "Thank you, sir," she said, scrambling out from under the wagon and coming to stand next to him. She looked blankly out at the group. "There ain't any flowers a'tall, are there?" She commented. "Housekeeper said that there wouldn't be any flowers."
It was then that John saw that flowers were missing as well. "Did she?" he commented.
"Not that 'e deserves flowers," she continued, sounding sour. "'Aving us all stand out 'ere in th' rain like this," she muttered. "I don't care if they let me go, I'm not standin' in th' rain fer 'im! I'm not gettin' any chill for 'im!" And she looked up at John, her black eyes flashing indignantly, as if daring him to argue.
"Of course," John went on calmly, wondering if this angry girl could prove useful to him. She seemed not to have any sense of loyalty to the Stanhope family that might to impede her relating all that she knew about them. "And do you work in the house?"
She nodded. "Housekeeper 'as me cleanin' 'er pots in 'er kitchen," she said scornfully.
So she was a scullery maid. "Does she?" John nodded. "I'm sure that there's a great deal of work to do today, what with a funeral supper to prepare for tonight."
"Oh, Housekeeper said there weren't ta be a funeral supper tonight," the girl negatived. "Jus' th' missus and Mr. Henry for dinner, like always."
"Mr. Henry?" John inquired.
"Th' missus' son," the girl supplied. "I mean," she stopped. "Not the one wot's being put in th' ground."
"The one next to her?" John asked, looking over at the other principal mourner, the young man who had exited the carriage just after Mrs. Stanhope. He was still standing next to her, but was now managing the umbrella for them both. She was leaning on him, as if for support.
"Yeah," affirmed the girl. "That's Mr. Henry."
John regarded him further. He was neither looking at the clergyman or the coffin in which his brother had been laid. Having never seen Mr. Stanhope, John wondered if his brother resembled him. But then, he didn't look much like a wealthy scion and master of society either. This young man was tall and thin, with lank hair that was neither dark nor light, but was overly long. It fell in his eyes, but he made no effort to push it out of the way. Instead, his eyes appeared to be focused on some distant object, but when John followed his line of vision, he couldn't see anything that would hold his attention.
"Mr. Henry can't see," the girl commented, as if reading John's mind.
"He's blind?"
"Been that way for ages now." The girl agreed.
"What happened?"
"Housekeeper says it were a hunting accident. That 'e was out wit' 'is brother and 'is 'orse threw 'im. Woke up blind, 'e did."
"I'm sorry to hear that," John expressed.
"Me too," the girl said. "He's not a bad sort. Not like his brother."
"Was Mr. George a bad sort?" John inquired lightly, trying to keep from frightening the girl or making her aware of just how much she was revealing to a perfect stranger.
"Yes," the girl shook her head vehemently. "I didn't like Mr. George at all." She looked up at John, a defiant expression playing across her face. "I'm glad 'e's dead," she whispered after a moment. "Parson would tell me that I'm bein' bad ta say it, but it's th' truth."
It was shocking to hear her say such a thing, John thought, but was probably a strong indicator of just how little liked George Stanhope was. John forbore from saying that there were probably a great many people who would agree with her. In fact, the entire funeral appeared to be an indicator of how little liked he actually was. After all, none of his boon companions had actually chosen to attend his funeral. They may have thought him good company in life, but not beloved enough to mourn in death. "You're right, sometimes you have to tell the truth, even when it's not good to say," he commented instead.
The girl nodded, face looking somewhat triumphant, as if all she needed was to have someone agree with her. John wondered if he could use this to his advantage. He would have to be careful. He didn't want to ask her anything that would cause her to be curious of his motives and would have her begin to wonder just whose umbrella she was sharing. He considered and rejected asking her if she had heard Mr. George arguing with anyone or if anyone out of the ordinary had visited her master. He wasn't sure if she would even know where Mr. George was going on the night when he was murdered.
And he was pretty certain that she would not be able to answer a question about other women who he had harmed.
Or was she? John looked down at her and thought about the face she had made when she admitted to him that she was glad he was dead.
And he realized that the girl was somewhat pretty, although too thin.
But might George Stanhope have taken advantage of his scullery maid? John wondered just how depraved Mr. Stanhope was. He pushed that thought out of his mind for the moment. "I'll bet you know everyone here, don't you?" John whispered to her instead, hoping to get her to identify the group.
"Course, I do," she returned and then went on to give the names, positions, and years in service, of every mourner that surrounded the grave. John's assumption that the entire mourning party was made up servants from the household was shown to be correct.
All except for the two separate women watching from a distance.
"Well, you named almost everyone," John complimented
"No, I named 'em all!" she protested.
"But what about that lady over there," John pointed to the woman with the feathers. "Do you know her?"
She squinted into the distance. "No," she shook her head. "I've never seen 'er before. Who is she?"
"I'm not sure either," John admitted honestly and then pointed to the lady on the opposite hill. "How about that one?"
She looked in that direction. "Oh, that's Miss Aintree," she announced in surprise. "'Aven't seen 'er in a long time. Wonder what she's doin' 'ere?"
Mr. William Barton leaned up against the brick face of a building and waited for the sun to go down, watching the street as it altered gradually in the dimming light. He saw the lamplighter begin his rounds, slowly setting his flame to the posted lanterns, fire casting a dim circle on the ground below. The people in the street were changing as well. Down the way, the market had closed for the evening and the carts and wagons of merchants began to lumber past, making room for the light and quick carriages that would eventually convey the well-heeled to the theater. The farmers with their empty wagons looked tired, but at least they had sold all of their goods and produce and were headed home for the evening. Weary, Willie sighed. He had been at work all day as well, but had nothing to show for it. He had absolutely nothing to take to Barrow in the morning -- not a single, solitary clue that might lead them to the actual murderer of George Stanhope.
This was not surprising to Barton; he had never expected to find what Mr. Barrow needed him to find. Mr. Barrow had assigned him an impossible task. There was simply nothing there for him to discover! Find the actual murderer of George Stanhope? But that man was already in jail! It was Tim Scoggins! It had to be him, all of the evidence pointed to the fact that he committed the crime!
All the papers in London seemed to agree upon that!
Mr. Barrow appeared inclined to be skeptical. But then Willie had always known that his boss had always held Scoggins in high esteem -- unscrupulous, impolite, and dangerous as he was. It was the only eccentricity that Willie's otherwise rational employer seemed to have. In Willie's opinion, Scoggins was little more than a gambler, a brawler, and a thief and was in all probability a killer as well. And yet Mr. Barrow trusted him. Willie had always known that, regardless of how much it shocked and surprised him. Barrow trusted Tim to assist him with the most sensitive details of cases, always believing that Tim would never let him down, would always be discreet, would be able to find useful information, and would always show up on the appointed street corner at the designated time. And now Barrow seemed to believe that he was telling the truth when Tim said that he didn't kill Stanhope!
But it was not possible that Tim could be telling the truth about this, it was simply not possible! Willie could see that that even more clearly after having spent the entire day looking carefully at the scene of the murder. The facts of the situation were too clear and completely proved Tim to be the killer. There was the alley that Stanhope's carriage had pulled down, a short, narrow passage with an opening at each end. He could easily see why Stanhope would have used it for his assignations. It was perfect for such meetings and quite convenient. As twilight descended, Willie could even discern how dark and deserted the alley would become at night. And there was indeed a water pump just around the bend, where the coachman could have walked to fetch his horses some water. And the other end most certainly led back to Covent Garden, where the footman could have walked to fetch his master some company for the evening.
Of course Willie had not yet seen the cloaked woman that Tim had described, the one that he said left the carriage right before he came upon it. That was why he was keeping vigil in the area that night: to see if the woman would again show up.
But then again, she was probably a fiction. Tim must have made her up in order to place blame somewhere else.
So, if she wasn't real, what was Willie waiting in the dark to meet? Willie sighed deeply, raked his fingers through his light hair in frustration and didn't know exactly what to do next. Could he leave? Should he leave? He was tired and he hated wasting time! And he had wasted enough time on that day, hadn't he?
But he also hated the fact that he would have nothing to show Barrow in the morning -- no other murderer and no mysterious cloaked figure.
But even more than he hated the idea of bringing no information to Barrow, he hated the idea of bringing his employer facts that would seem to confirm that Tim was the likely killer. And that was all that he had right now. Information that seemed to prove that Tim was the murderer.
Willie wondered if this damning information might Mr. Barrow question whether or not he had done his utmost to discover the real killer. Would Barrow assume that his assistant had slacked off in his efforts? Or might he consider that Barton had allowed his own opinion of the man to influence his findings? He could see just how Barrow might develop such thoughts, even if they were unfair. Willie, though generally even-tempered, had never been fully able to conceal the fact that he didn't like Tim. Tim sorely tried his patience. He enjoyed badgering and belittling Willie, casting aspersions on his abilities to assist Barrow and undermining his confidence to do the job.
And the infuriating man continually brought up the fact that it was Willie who was with Barrow on the night when the man nearly died! It was seven years in the past and Tim still never let Willie forget. And it wasn't even his fault. Willie, young and inexperienced, was simply following orders when he left Barrow in the alleyway that night. But to Tim, it was Willie who had not watched Barrow's back carefully enough, that he should have known just who was walking up behind his employer. Willie was nowhere in sight when that unlikely 'surgeon' with a long knife went straight for Barrow's throat.
Later, Tim had made it very clear to Willie that -- as he was not capable of ensuring Barrow's safety -- Tim would be taking over that duty. He himself would make sure that the would-be killer did not have a second opportunity to do so. It hadn't seemed to matter too much in the end, however. The 'surgeon' who had cut Barrow was found dead a few weeks later.
Willie could not have forgotten that night even if Tim had allowed him to. Barrow wore a scar from that encounter -- an angry, red jag at the side of his throat. Willie saw that scar almost every day. Barrow could never fully conceal it, even with a collar standing taller than on most shirts and hair worn longer than he had before the incident.
The scar was a reminder to Willie to always do his utmost for Barrow. And he always did. Even now, when Willie appeared to be moving dangerously close to losing Barrow's own respect by casting doubt on the favored thief, he was still trying to do his best for his employer.
But Barrow might not see it that way. Their conversation that morning had bordered on the challenging. Willie recalled the phrases that he used and knew that he had almost stepped over the line into out and out questioning of Barrow's opinions. This was a completely new area for Willie. He had never questioned Barrow before and it made him feel enormously uncomfortable to do so. To Willie, Barrow had always seemed almost god-like in his infallibility. He always judged correctly, could easily perceive hidden motives, and always knew the best way to proceed while Willie had to exert himself to puzzle sense out of incomprehensible situations. Willie had to consider himself lucky indeed to be learning from such a man!
And to have been given the opportunity to learn from him at all! Willie was all too aware of the fact that, if it had not been for Barrow's willingness to hire him as footman on the strength of his grandmother's recommendation, Willie may well now be confined to a ship, swabbing the deck and scrambling up rigging whether he wanted to or not.
Or, at least, that's where he was headed when his grandmother had stepped in, certain that her grandson was deserving of more than being trapped by a naval gang making their way through the dockside pubs in search of a few less-than-willing sailors to be pressed into service. And he had been hanging around a few too many questionable drinking establishments in the months before his grandmother had intervened. She knew that he needed someone to keep an eye on him, and what better way for her to do so than to set him up as a footman in the household where she was cook? It hadn't even crossed her mind that she might be introducing him to a more lucrative occupation than he had been raised to expect. She never could have imagined that her master would take such an interest in her own dear boy and would want to begin training him as an assistant. She had been somewhat reluctant to allow him to do so. While she knew that the master's work brought him a good living, it had its share of danger. Did she want that for her Willie?
Willie's own desire for the master's line of work finally swayed her into giving her permission, but it did cause her worry. At the beginning of his apprenticeship, Willie's grandmother spent many nights in the kitchen waiting for the master and Willie to reappear, imagining the worst.
But did she ever imagine that her grandson would do so well as Mr. Barrow's assistant? He wondered if she could see him now and was proud of the decision that she had made. And of Willie himself, here he was -- almost a gentleman in appearance and manner. Under Barrow's tutelage, Willie had learned to think carefully and deliberately, to consider outcomes before making rash acts, and to speak properly, knowing that a man's worth was often estimated by the sound of his voice. He kept his own rooms now and dressed, if not fashionably, then at least appropriately. His position did not afford him the ability to hire a valet nor did he think that he would ever wish to have another man to be responsible for his appearance, but by watching what Simmons did to help Barrow to be so elegantly turned out, Willie learned how to manage on his own.
Yes, both he and his grandmother had good reason to feel gratitude towards Barrow. There wasn't anything that Willie wouldn't do for the man.
And now Scoggins had found a very effective way to cast doubt on Willie's work. Damn the man for putting him in this position!
Willie checked himself from banging his fist against the wall in anger. He would not allow that scoundrel to make him lose his temper. At a time like this, he had to think rationally. What could he do to convince Barrow that he had expended a great deal of effort in an attempt to discover another murderer, but had failed because there was no other murderer to find?
Willie laughed harshly. He would have to convince Barrow that Tim was the actual murderer before he could do that!
No, Willie shook his head; he wouldn't be able to convince Barrow of that. He would not be able to change the way that Barrow felt about Tim. Barrow would need to convince himself of that. All that Willie could do was gather all of the facts of the situation and present them in as unbiased a manner as possible.
And in order to gather all the facts, he would have to keep watch all night, holding vigil for a cloaked woman who may or may not return to that alleyway or the streets near it. He would have to make every effort to seek her out, looking for her in the nightly group of women who paraded themselves on the street corners of the area near Covent Garden. He would have to question all the women that he found there, discreetly trying to discover if they were acquainted with a woman who owned a cloak and a grudge against a certain wealthy gentleman who was now dead.
Willie leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, a great wash of tiredness coming over him instantly. He sighed loudly. It was going to take all night, wasn't it?
A giggle sounded, startling him and he turned to see two girls rapidly approaching. They laughed even louder upon seeing that they had caught his attention. They both seemed ready for the evening with tall feathers in their hair and eyes cast more prominently in their faces through the assistance of cosmetics. That was where the resemblance to each other ended, however. One was small and fair-haired with light blue eyes and a youthful expression shining through her face, despite the heavy face paint. The other one seemed much older and knowing, with dark hair and features. Both had shawls wrapped tightly around their frames, as if they were somewhat cold, but wished to appear perfectly indifferent to the weather. Their smiles widened grandly as they drew near.
Willie chose to parcel out an amount from his rather abundant supply of charm. He had learned to make the most of this innate ability. It was quite disarming when combined with his handsome features and easy manner. He could get most women, both young and old, to reveal all of their closely guarded secrets by being so agreeable. "Ladies," Willie took off his hat and bowed extravagantly, causing the pair to break into peals of excited laughter. It appeared that they believed that at least one of them had made a conquest and had secured his company for the evening. Willie knew the truth: it was he who had just prevailed. They would tell him all that they knew.
That is, if he didn't accidentally put them on their guard.
"My word, ladies, it is cold out here!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together to emphasize his point. He meant to introduce the topic of warm outer garments in the hopes that it might lead to the subject of capes, but the older of the two put herself forward.
"It is a chilly night out, sir," she agreed. "An' a gent'l'man such as yerself shouldn't be spendin' it alone." She looked suggestively at him, eyes half hidden by her lashes.
Willie smiled noncommittally. They were doomed to disappointment. He had made it a habit early on in his career with Barrow never to clutter his working hours with any other activities. His assignments required all of his energy.
But he wasn't going to let them know that just yet. "We shall have to see," he dissembled politely. "But now, tell me, what could have possibility brought you out on a night such as this without a warm cloak? Were the wolves chasing at your heels as you left home this evening and all that you had time to gather were flimsy shawls?"
The girls looked at each other and chortled happily; hey seemed to enjoy such silly teasing. "We don't 'ave any cloaks," the younger one exerted herself to say, shaking her head as she did so.
"Not have cloaks?" Willie feigned astonishment. "How can that be? How is it that two ladies so endowed with style and good breeding should find themselves lacking the one indispensable article of clothing for the season? All ladies of fashion are wearing cloaks this year!" The ladies giggled further, encouraging him to go further, regardless of the truth of his statement. "They wouldn't be caught dead without them!" he pronounced confidently.
"Is that so?" the older woman raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"Yes," Willie nodded. "And," he added. "It should preferably be colored red so that one can match their dashing regimental sweetheart. You do have regimental sweethearts, don't you?" He twitted them further.
"Wot? Do we need soljer sweet'earts too?" the older one teased back, continuing to laugh.
"Most certainly," Willie agreed. "I have to admit to being quite surprised that I should have to inform such ladies of taste and breeding about the current London trends. Surely you've seen other cloaked ladies roaming about this year?" He left the question open, wondering if he had made the question too obvious. He certainly remembered Mr. Barrow's reminder to be discreet in order not to put any other murderer of Stanhope on her guard, if indeed there really was someone other than Scoggins. Then again, as he replayed his conversation with the girls in his mind, he thought that he might have painted over the question with too many silly inanities.
The girls looked at each other and giggled, not exactly sure how to respond. "Don't see many cloaks 'round here," the younger one said, "Not near practical enough. Not like these shawls."
"Practical?" Willie did not need to fake surprise. "What? How could those light shawls be more practical than a lovely woolen cape?"
"Because of this," the older one said challengingly, and dropped her shawl, showing the daringly low cut to the bodice of her dress. Willie absolutely stared at the two pale orbs revealed by the dress. She was quite well endowed.
And she seemed to know that very well. She pulled her wrap back up over her shoulders and smiled smugly at his response. It had been the work of an instant. She had dropped her covering just long enough to give Willie an idea of what he might expect if he were to choose to spend the night with her. "You can't do that with a cloak."
Willie had to agree. A cloak would take much too long and the effect would be completely wrong. "I guess that those fashionable ladies aren't fully aware of all you can do with a shawl," he whispered, still somewhat struck.
"That they don't," the older one lifted her chin almost haughtily, causing her tall feather to dance above her. "All we ladies of taste an' breedin' over 'ere only wear shawls." She looked over at her younger friend and raised an eyebrow knowingly as if to say that such a gesture worked every time. She certainly had made a conquest. "So, 'ow 'bout it?" she asked Willie suggestively.
"You're wasting your time with him, Annie, my girl," a voice called from a distance, causing them all to turn. Walking towards them was the figure of another woman, wearing an elegant bonnet and a large, woolen shawl. A feather even taller and even grander than those worn by the two girls was displayed prominently above her head. As she came closer, Willie could tell that it was a very interesting shade of light green.
"Wot did ya say, ma'am?" the older girl identified as Annie asked the woman in a deferential tone.
"You're wasting your time with Mr. Barton, here," she came to a stop in front of Willie and smiled at him. She was an older woman, but still quite attractive, having strong features that gave her face a degree of consequence. And she certainly carried herself with confidence. "You too, Tessa," she added to the younger girl. "The gentleman isn't as obliging as he seems."
Willie stared at her. How did she know his name? And how did she know that he wasn't legitimately soliciting the company of either Annie or Tessa? "I'm sorry ma'am," Willie stuttered. "Have we met?"
The lady shook her head. "No, We've never had the pleasure, but I've known of you for quite some time. And your boss Mr. Blevins. But, of course, that isn't his real name now, is it?"
Willie felt his eyes widen. How did she know about Mr. Barrow?
"Not many things escape my notice around here," she added by way of explanation.
Willie remained speechless. Who was this woman?
"The only thing that I'm not sure about is what you're doing here tonight, talking to my girls." She stopped and wrinkled her brow as if pondering the situation. "And I'm also not sure what your boss Blevins was doing at Stanhope's burial today. Why should he care about such a man?"
She could see that she had Willie's full attention as well as that of Annie and Tessa, so she went on uninterrupted. "But your boss seems to care quite a bit about the man who killed Stanhope, doesn't he?"
Willie, recovering, was now doing his best not to allow his expression to give anything away. But how did she know about Tim? Both he and Barrow had always been so careful not to any degree of familiarity towards Scoggins, even varying the street corners that they used for their meetings. How was it possible that she could have discovered their connection?
"What's your boss thinking?" the woman asked candidly. "Is he thinking that his boy didn't do the job?"
Willie looked down and away. This woman was too good. It was almost as if she was reading his mind! He didn't want to give her any greater opportunities to recognize the truth.
"So, has he sent you over here to find the real killer?" The woman shook her head. "That isn't going to be so easy."
Willie looked up. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her why. Why wasn't it going to be easy? Shouldn't it be impossible if the real murderer was Scoggins and Scoggins was already in jail?
Then again, she did seem to know a great deal more than he did himself. Was she saying that Scoggins did not kill Stanhope? And did she know who really did?
But it seemed as if the woman's talkative mood had come to an end. "Come girls," she said to the two, gesturing as she did so. "Don't keep the other men waiting. Mr. Barton is not worth your time and effort. He has to get back to work himself." And, with that, she began to escort them away.
"Who are you?" Willie called after her, finding his voice at last.
She turned and looked back at him. "I know you can find that out on your own."
Professing to have a headache, Bette went to her room early only to lay in bed fully dressed, waiting until she heard the rest of the family retire as well. Once all was silent in the Smith home, she threw off her covers and began fumbling in the dark for her boots.
She had spent the last two days in agony, valiantly attempting to appear perfectly composed in front of the Smith family and shop customers all the while falling to pieces inside. It was exhausting keeping up such a pretense and Bette could feel her resolve weakening. It took all the strength she had not to scream at the maddeningly ever-present and considerate Robert or break down in tears while caring for Baby Frank. Her truer self, distracted and volatile appeared only at night and only in the privacy of her small attic room. It was only there that she allowed herself to indulge fully in worry over Tim's well-being and future. All of her past concerns over his inability to choose a more respectable and lawful profession were gone. How silly it all seemed now. Who cared what the man did in the future now that his even having a future was in doubt?
Bette blamed herself for what had happened. Why hadn't she better concealed who Stanhope was? Why, when Stanhope appeared at Vauxhall, did she react as she did? Did she not know what Tim would do when he discovered the identity of her assailant? He had threatened to punish the man for hurting her and he certainly had. Or at least he had tried and that certainly put him at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Bette still wasn't sure if she could believe that Tim hadn't killed Stanhope, but was very grateful to Mr. Barrow for his willingness to believe in his innocence and agree to take on his case. She had been praying that Barrow would find something, but wondered if there would be anyone there to find. She wanted to think that Tim was only mistaken for the killer, but she couldn't dismiss his violent reaction last week. Thank the Lord that she hadn't told Mr. Barrow about seeing Stanhope at the Gardens! The revelation that Tim had discovered Stanhope's identity just a few days before the man died would have simply pounded in one more nail on Tim's coffin. And she had already pounded quite enough nails in it already, hadn't she? Why on earth did she leave him on that path when she knew that Tim would follow the man?
She should have gone with Tim that night at Vauxhall. He had wanted her to. Damn her silly attempt at respectability! Damn her overweening pride that made her even think that she could pretend to be a proper young lady! If she had gone with him on that night, none of this might have happened. She certainly could have calmed him and soothed him -- in time she may have even convinced him that there was no need to punish Stanhope for his actions. She could have made him see that it didn't matter to her now that she had healed, that she had recovered completely.
But she hadn't chosen to go with him that night, had she?
Damn! She hissed in frustration and tugged at a bootlace. It snapped loudly, causing her to swear freely and with more color and fluency than she had in months. She attempted to retrieve her tattered patience so that she could quickly tie the lace back together, but it could not be grasped. Her fingers fumbled clumsily.
She couldn't decide whether she more wanted to weep or growl or scream at the top of her lungs for three minutes without pausing for breath. Damn Tim for putting her in this situation! Why couldn't he be trusted to keep his temper? The man certainly didn't deserve all the energy she and Mr. Barrow had expended worrying over him during the last few days, did he? Nor did he deserve the little comforts and sustainers that she had packaged for him earlier in the day and planned to deliver to Newgate that night. He didn't deserve the woolen blanket that she had purchased for him out of her own wages, nor the towel and bar of soap. He did not deserve the sweetbread that she had furtively baked for him while pretending to make a loaf for poor Miss Titherington, the widow who lived down the street, and he certainly did not deserve the muffler that she had knitted just for him!
Well, maybe he did deserve that muffler. It was short, thin, and had far too many dropped stitches. It was her first attempt at knitting and it had taken her much longer to learn the pattern than she had expected. She had meant to give it to him at Christmas, but had found herself having to tear out a significant section of it the week before the holiday.
The knot in the lace held, but it shortened the length considerably. She had barely enough left to tie it at the top of the boot. She stared at the boot, eyes now accustomed to the dark, and knew that she should replace it before walking any great distance. She wondered if it was worth waking up a member of the family by clomping around the storeroom in the dark in an attempt to find another bootlace. Robert's room was, unfortunately, right above the storeroom and he was such a ridiculously light sleeper.
She couldn't risk waking him up. What excuse could she possibly offer to him for being fully dressed in the middle of the night? And, regardless of what she said, what would he assume?
She was still not sure of whether or not Robert knew that Tim had been arrested. He, like the other members of the Smith family, was not an avid reader of the paper. But Stanhope's murder had been front page news. Was it possible that he hadn't seen it? Or was it possible that he did not know Tim's name? They were aware that their Miss Maberley had an admirer who occasionally worked for Mr. Barrow, but had never been properly introduced to the man. But then, it was always very difficult to determine from Robert's behavior what he was thinking at all, so consistently mild was his temper.
Or should she say so consistently bland was his personality?
She didn't have time to consider the truth of either statement now. She had to get going! Bette stood up and the bootlace held, but the knot that held her hair at the back of her head didn't. Unruly blond curls scattered upon her shoulders. Infuriated, she began to untangle the pins from her hair. She shouldn't have lain down while she waited for the Smith family to go to sleep; it would take her another ten minutes to redress her hair. And she didn't want to wait another ten minutes! The last pin refused to come quickly out of a tangled gnarl at the back of her head. She had to yank at it, painfully tearing a few strands of hair out of her head in the process. That did it! She wasn't going to spend any more time getting ready. She grabbed up her cloak and the package and opened the door. She apprehensively touched the banister of the stairs, trying to remember which step creaked the loudest, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung at the top of the staircase.
She looked frightful: hair wild around her face, dress wrinkled, collar askew, and a fierce expression on her face. All except for the lack of face paint, she looked very much like the girl she thought that she had left behind last year: disheveled and desperate. Well, that's what she was. She hadn't come very far in her attempt to become a proper young lady, had she? All that she needed to change back into that girl was her raggedy old pink shawl and a dress that made the most of her cleavage. Both she kept at the very bottom of her trunk. She wasn't sure why she hadn't burned them ages ago. Perhaps she wanted to keep something as a reminder of that past life and how she never wanted to return to it.
Not wanting to see any more, she closed her eyes and walked quickly to the outside door, not even bothering about the creak in the third stair. She opened the door and closed it behind her.
The walk to Newgate would not take her very long at all; she knew that Cheapside Lane would lead her directly to the prison. She had always taken great care to avoid that structure in her daily walks, not wishing to dwell on the misery housed behind thick stone walls, nor had she ever wanted to be caught in a crowd eager to see an execution. She had heard that those mobs of people eager to view death could be particularly rowdy.
She recognized the wooden platform first, standing out in the center of the clearing. It could only be the gallows. Bette stopped and stared, stomach starting to sicken. So this was where men and women were put to death. It wasn't a very impressive structure when compared to the soaring walls of the prison behind it. It was actually rather unstable looking, as if a good push could send it tumbling down.
"They ain't gonna be usin' that 'til tomorra, girl," a raspy voice chided from behind.
Bette turned to see an ancient face grinning toothlessly up at her.
"Course, mebbe ye 'ave come early ta get yerself a prime spot fer th' festivities?" A narrow finger pointed at the package in her hands. "I see ye've brought yerself some provisions fer yer wait. Wot d'ya 'ave in there?"
Bette instinctively clutched the package tighter.
"Don't s'pose ye'd be inclined ta share, now would ya?"
"The package ain't fer sharing!" she declared roughly. "It's for a friend!"
"Ooh, is it now?" the face wrinkled, "Yer man got 'isself locked up in th' stone pitcher?" The finger jerked in the direction of Newgate. "'E won't be comin' out of there soon, I'll warrant. Unless it's ta make an appearance up there." The gnarled finger pointed to the gallows.
Bette refused to look.
The face came closer. "Ever seen an execution, girl? No? Yer delicate sensibilities can't 'andle th' shock?"
Bette's eyes roamed the wide space in front of the gaol searching for someone to come to her assistance. But she and the man appeared to be quite alone in the square. There would be no Robert Smith to come to the rescue of a wild looking woman sharing a conversation with an old gin sodden drunkard. The man chuckled and read her thoughts. "Ain't no one comin' ta save ya, is there? Certainly not that man of yers wot's locked up in there."
Bette moved away from him, walking for a large door that she saw in the wall, but her tormentor followed her. "Ya see them fetters?" he pointed to the arch over the doorway where a set of manacles had been carved into stone. "Ya can't get very far when wearin' a set of those." Bette stopped and stared. "Yer man's wearin' a pair right now and they won't take 'em off until they've got 'is 'ead in that noose. Then, it's just a short, quick drop to death."
The man came closer, voice sounding near her ear. "Do ya wonder if 'e'll scream durin' the plunge? Lot's of em scream. Not many dyin' game these days. But th' crowd likes a good scream. 'Ow they'll cheer when it's all done!" The voice laughed again. "Then, they'll go back to the pub an' drink some more an' wait fer the next one. Quite a sight, I declare. Gives one a powerful thirst, it does."
The voice wheezed, worn out from laughter and coughed. "Ya should see it," it encouraged in a whisper. "Mebbe ye'll come when yer boy drops?"
"'E's not gonna drop!" Bette hissed angrily and vowed that she would not let it happen. But what could she do? Barrow had agreed to take on the case and she did have confidence in his abilities. But would he or Willie actually be able to find the woman who murdered Stanhope? They didn't know these women like she did. The women she knew were conniving, rapacious, and -- above all -- wary. The actual murderer would never admit to the crime nor would she be trapped into revealing herself. No amount of gin from Barrow or sweet talk from Barton was going to make a woman like that confess.
It was going to have to be drug out of her by someone who she could trust, someone who she thought she knew well. She wouldn't confess to a man and would never to a gentleman like Barrow. This woman would only reveal herself to another woman and would only do so if she felt perfectly safe, as if she were confessing to someone just like her.
She would only confess to another prostitute, to another woman who had been harmed!
Bette knew then that she herself was the only person who had any chance of learning the woman's identity and gaining a confession. And she couldn't do it as she was, could she? She couldn't show up looking like some charity lady from the other side of London, especially not with a Robert Smith in tow.
And Robert, of course, would never allow her to associate with such women.
She would have to go back. She knew that now. It was the only way to save Tim.
She would have to leave the Smiths, but that meant that -- in leaving them -- she could never hope to return to them. She was certain that they could never accept her after she had fallen back into her old life again.
But then again, remembering the reflection of herself that she had seen earlier that even, she hadn't actually come that far, had she? She would always be unrespectable. She knew that now. So, what did it really matter?
Hastily, as if any further thought might weaken her resolve, she moved to the door with the fetters sculpted over it. She had to get the package to Tim and start back for home. There wouldn't be time to attempt to see him. She had a great deal to get done if she were to leave the Smiths before morning.
She was sacrificing it all, wasn't she?
But then again, wasn't she just doing what she should have done last week at Vauxhall?
Tim could tell that it was night outside the walls of the prison only by the guard's persistent and loud instructions that all prisoners should be asleep. This was an order with which it was nearly impossible to comply -- all of the shouted reminders kept on waking him up every few minutes. Tim thought about shouting back, but believed that he knew what the guard's response would be to any type of criticism. And he had endured enough of that for one day. He needed to save his energy for more important acts of insubordination. He wasn't sure what they would be just yet, but Tim was quite able to decide which battles were worth the fight.
And he always knew when it was best to retreat, rather than be forced into defeat.
But being confined behind stone walls was beginning to wear thin. He wasn't used to staying in one place, especially with such questionable company.
In one corner of the small cell lay an old man, ashen faced and wrinkled. He looked as if he hadn't moved from his spot in a year and was now starting to assume of the characteristics of the wall next to him. Given a few more decades, Tim supposed that he might blend into it completely. Then, there was a young boy at the other end of the cell, huddled close to the door. He looked frightened and spent most of his time weeping silently into blanket that he had pulled over a mildewed pile of straw . Tim pitied him and had tried to encourage him to speak, but all of his attempts at friendliness were met with audible sobs instead of actual words. Tim hadn't the patience for it. Let the boy die on that pest infested excuse for a mattress, then.
The other inmate of the cell spent all of his time muttering to himself and slamming a hand on the floor. By now, his hand left a bloody trail on the stones. His was quite obviously crazy, but Tim wasn't sure if he had come into prison that way or not.
Tim wondered how long it had taken his companions to fall into their own type of insanity.
And he wondered how long his own mind would last.
Whenever these thoughts began to intrude, Tim reminded himself that he -- at least -- had friends and that these friends were good, intelligent, useful sort of people who would be able to get him out. Barrow was on the job. Barrow would not fail. He became almost cheerful when he recalled how different he was from the other men in the cell.
It was only when the weeping, muttering, or silence of his fellow prisoners intruded into his thoughts that he allowed himself to dwell on a morbid reflection: it wouldn't matter if Barrow found the real murderer or not, he would still be taken out of the cell before he lost his mind. He knew that the line to the gallows moved very quickly. Tim wouldn't even be around long enough to catch prison fever. He could rest easy on his own pile of stinking straw. That is, if the fetters that cut into the flesh of his ankles would allow him to move into a position of comfort.
And he would have liked a blanket. Not that he had become heartless enough to steal one away from the child in the front, or the living skeleton in the back.
"Scoggins! Where's Scoggins?" A guard who was passing by shouted.
"Here!" Tim responded, standing and moving over to the door, nearly tripping over the chains that kept his two feet tied to one another. It was a clumsy action on his part and showed more eagerness than he had meant. He knew that he should never allow the guards to detect a degree of weakness in him, but the sound of his name had startled him completely. "I'm Scoggins!" he banged on the door and looked through the bars.
"Package fer ya," the guard jeered, holding it up.
"Oh!" Tim responded, the light syllable escaping before he could stop it. A package for him! Nicely tied up in paper and string. See, he was very different from those other men in the cell; someone cared about him! "Give it 'ere, then!" he commanded.
"Not so fast," the guard drawled, beginning to tear at the carefully tied string and ripping at the paper. "Got's ta check it fer contraband."
A letter slipped out, Bette's large handwriting clearly visible, and fell to the floor. Tim's heart leapt to see it. "That's me letter!" He pointed to the floor.
The guard calmly placed one large boot over it.
"Yer steppin' on it!" Tim shouted out angrily.
"Wot does it matter?" the guard responded. "Th' likes of you can't read anyway."
"I can so!" Tim returned indignantly. "Give it over! I'll show you!" And he began to think of all the things that such a letter, written by his own dear Bette, might contain. All the words of comfort that she might have sent him, all the phrases of cheer that might give him confidence that she still loved him and cared for him and would be waiting for him when he finally was let of that place.
He wanted that letter!
Boot still firmly on half of the paper, the guard reached down and pulled the other half up, tearing it down the center.
"Watch it!" Scoggins said angrily.
"Oh," the guard sneered, "I've ruined it, 'aven't I? Guess ya can't read it now." With that, he took the two pieces and balled them into his fist. "From yer girl, was it?" He asked grandly. "Let's see wot else she sent ya." And he pulled out a wool blanket.
Tim stared. It was lovely. She must have purchased it out of her wages. And he knew that a good blanket like that didn't come cheap. It certainly would keep him warm that night.
The guard made no effort to pass it through the bars. "Nice and 'eavy," he smirked and threw it around his own shoulders. "Jus' wot I needed fer me bed!"
"No, it's mine!" Tim shouted angrily and reached through the bars in an ill-conceived attempt to snatch it away. But the guard just chuckled and moved further away from the door.
He did the same with the clean towel, the bar of soap, and the heavy socks that Bette had included in the package, enjoying Tim's continued protests. The guard lingered over the loaf of sweetbread, wrapped in a white cloth, breaking off a piece of it and having a taste before wrapping it back up and putting it under his arm. He seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in taunting the man, something that just made Tim hate him even the more. He vowed to make him pay for his pleasure later -- not exactly sure how he might do that yet.
But he sure had enough free time to come up with something appreciatively painful.
The items in the package dwindled until there was only one left. The guard considered it with some distaste. It was a muffler, misshapen and short. The guard laughed. "She may be able ta bake, but yer girl sure can't knit!"
Bette couldn't knit. She had never attempted to knit anything as far as Tim knew. But perhaps she was trying to learn a few new tricks as a part of her bid for respectability. Respectable ladies knitted, didn't they? This had to be the first thing that she had ever finished, then. And she had made it for him. Tim looked at the homely little scarf and was desperate to touch it. She hadn't made that first muffler for anyone else but him.
The guard flung it at the bars. Tim had to scramble to catch it.
"Yeah, take it," the guard muttered. "I ain't gonna wear anythin' that ugly."
But Tim didn't hear. He was already dragging it through the bars, gathering it up lovingly and pressing it up to his face. He inhaled deeply. Flowers. He could smell flowers. The muffler smelled like flowers.
Bette always smelled like flowers.
Willie, although at a loss to explain exactly how the woman with the feather knew so many details about his work for Barrow, was able to supply his employer with her name and occupation. He had spent the rest of the night making inquiries that were so discreet that they were barely recognizable as questions. That's why it had taken him all night. He didn't trust himself any longer to ask direct questions, but offered sideways comments that he hoped might eventually lead to an answer -- if he waited long enough.
And he had waited long enough. "Madame Plumeau," he pronounced without preamble to Barrow the next morning, even before the man was two steps into his study. Willie hadn't slept all night and looked it, so eager was he to divulge all that he had learned. But if Barrow was confused by his assistant's excited state, he didn't allow it to show. "I doubt if that's her real name," Barton went on in explanation. "There's nothing French about her. She runs a flashhouse near Covent Garden and is known for the protective care she takes of her girls. They all wear feathers in their hair to identify themselves as belonging to Madame when they are working the street. And," Willie paused, to allow the moment to gain a greater degree of portent. "Madame has made it known that she will personally see to it that anyone harming her girls is properly punished."
"Properly punished?" Barrow asked quizzically as he sat down in the chair behind his desk.
Willie nodded, seating himself as well. "They're all afraid of her over there. Those little feathers that her girls wear in their hair is better protection than even the sharpest of knives."
"I see," Barrow placed his elbows on his desk and templed his fingers, considering. "And does she wear a feather as well?" Barrow asked eventually.
"Yes," Willie affirmed. "She had one in her bonnet!"
"Green?"
"How did you know?" Willie asked, brow furrowing.
"A highly bright, individual shade of green?" Barrow described further.
Willie sat back, somewhat mystified by his employer's powers of deduction. "Exactly," he pronounced and then remembered the comment that the woman had made the evening before. "Oh!" he exclaimed in realization. "You must have seen her at Stanhope's funeral. She said that she saw you."
The fact that he was spotted at the funeral as well was news to Barrow. "She saw me?" he questioned, sounding each word with deliberation.
Willie nodded. "She knows who you are," he explained. "She even knew who I was and," he paused again, "she knows all about your connection to Mr. Scoggins!"
Barrow sat back in his chair, not bothering to hide his surprise this time. "Perhaps you'd better tell me the rest."
And so Willie proceeded to describe the entire exchange, beginning with the moment when the two girls in feathers and shawls had claimed his attention through the instant when their protector had come upon them and called them by name, to the conclusion when the three had walked away, but not after Madame had delivered a parting shot about her confidence that he would be able to discover her name on his own.
It was a shocking revelation and one for which Barrow was not at all prepared. A woman, unknown to him, knew all about his identity? And knew so much about his working methods and associates that she could speculate on his motives for assisting Mr. Scoggins? He was highly uncomfortable about this and his initial reaction was a strong desire to rush out and personally learn all that he could about her in return. Who were her spies and confidantes? And what were her motives for gathering so much information about him?
But he fought down that urge. He realized that such a frenzied attempt would do more harm than good. If she were watching Barrow as carefully as he supposed she was and was as discerning as she appeared to be, then she would be able to read fear and frustration in such activities.
And he was not about to satisfy her by doing that!
But exactly how much did she know?
"You say that she used the name Blevins instead of Barrow?" he asked for clarification. While he didn't relish the idea that someone unknown to him knew the name he used for business, he absolutely hated the fact that someone might have his actual name and that of his family. John was an intensely private man who liked to keep the business side of his life completely separate from that of his family, hence his decision to continue the use of the alias 'Blevins' when he had assumed the business from his long-time mentor and friend Sir John Murdock.
"Well, yes," Willie agreed, somewhat hesitatingly. "But she also seemed to know that it was a cover name. She may have been speaking from her own experience, however," Willie qualified. "I'd say that she knows very well the usefulness of a second name to hide behind."
Barrow had to agree with that. "Her name can't be Plumeau at any rate," he shrugged, looking at Willie. Upon seeing Willie's confusion, he explained further. "Plumeau means 'feather' in French." Barrow's unfinished Eton education had extended to the learning of a few French words and phrases, something that Willie's own education had not afforded him.
"Madame Feather," Willie scoffed disparagingly, not impressed.
"I think it might actually mean 'feather duster,'" John elaborated.
"Even better."
"I want her real name, Willie," he instructed quietly. "But I do not want her to know that we've learned it."
Willie let out a long, low sigh, as if recognizing just how difficult that was going to be.
"I don't want her to even know that we're looking at her," Barrow went on, considering. "And since we have to assume that she's watching us very carefully, we'll have to pretend that we aren't returning her interest. She wanted to be noticed by us, I think," he shared a hypothesis with Willie. "She came up to you in order to get you to pay attention to her." Barrow smiled wryly and shook his head. "But we're not going to pay attention. That might just infuriate her. And angry people make mistakes in judgment, don't they?"
Willie nodded in appreciation.
Barrow came to the obvious conclusion of such a plan, however. "We shall both need to continue working as we have been, making no sudden changes to our plans." Now it was Barrow's turn to sigh in annoyance. "This means that I can't do any of the work myself." He turned back to Willie. "It's all on your shoulders, I'm afraid."
"I'll get right on it, sir," Willie accepted and then went further. "Do you think that she could be the one?" he asked. "The one in the cloak?" he elaborated further. "The real murderer of Stanhope?"
Barrow did not respond immediately. "When did you come to the conclusion that there is another murderer?" he asked.
Willie was silent. It appeared that Barrow hadn't missed a single thing. "Last night." Willie admitted eventually and then went further. He would have to be completely honest with Barrow. "I'm still not completely sure what to believe, sir."
Barrow waited for him to continue.
"Everything seems to point to Tim's guilt," he elaborated, describing the scene. "The alley's quite dark and narrow, a perfect place if you want to ambush someone with knife and slit their throat."
Barrow winced uncomfortably at the image and pulled slightly at the collar tied tightly with his cravat, loosening it somewhat. He stroked a finger absently down his scar as if it were bothering him, "Yes, yes." he hastened, pushing the picture in his mind away. He didn't wish to remember a similar alley, just as dark and narrow and another ambush with a knife. No matter what he did, that recollection was never far from his mind.
He had almost died that night.
John looked up from this musing to realize that Willie had blanched white with humiliation. His eyes had widened as if he had just realized to what he had just insensitively alluded. Willie, John knew, continued to hold himself responsible for what had almost happened that night.
"It's all right, Willie," Barrow whispered, attempting to dismiss the memory.
Willie nodded and tried to recover. "But it wouldn't be right for Scoggins to hang if he didn't do the crime." Willie averred strongly, bringing himself and Barrow back to the present.
And, at that moment, Barrow felt like smiling. Regardless of the scar and the haunting memories of the night when he had received it, regardless of the mysterious woman who seemed to know too much about him and his business, Barrow felt as if a wall had been breached. Willie had truly signed on to saving Tim.
"Well, now you have something to follow," he congratulated his assistant.
It was just too bad that Barrow couldn't follow the lead himself. It was not that he had little confidence in his assistant's abilities, it was just that he preferred to be at the center of a case's activity, not keeping himself at a distance from it. But he wasn't about to give Madame 'Feather' the satisfaction of seeing him personally attend to discovering more about her. They would both have to content themselves with Willie's quiet forays on their behalf. "And we also have an interesting little fact to consider as well."
"Interesting fact?" Willie couldn't comprehend to what Barrow was referring.
"It appears that the type of ladies who might have wished to take their revenge on Stanhope do not choose to wear cloaks." Barrow elaborated.
"They wear shawls!" Willie exclaimed.
"Which could mean..." John led.
"That the woman who killed Stanhope wasn't really a prostitute!" Willie concluded.
"Or was dressing differently in order not to look like one." John qualified.
That seemed to deflate Willie somewhat. "Oh," he agreed. "So we're not any further with that, are we."
"Well," considered John, "I don't think that your regular working girl would have thought to change her outerwear before going to murder someone, or would have been able to find a cloak if she did think. While we can't rule out the fact that the killer was another prostitute who had been harmed by him, we could add the fact that she would have to be a rather extraordinary one, who may have been planning the murder for a long time."
Willie looked hardly cheered by that.
"It's still a piece of information that might become useful," Barrow concluded. He had made it a habit to dismiss no fact too quickly. "And it means that following the one lead that I've found during my own investigations might still bear fruit." He would have to engage himself in looking in that direction later that day. It would, if nothing else provide some distraction from worrying to greatly over this all-knowing Madame 'Feather.' His mind would have to be completely absorbed by it if he were to gather any information at all.
He meant to call on a Miss Grace Aintree.
The only other mourner outside of the minute family circle and servants was this former fiancée of the late Mr. Stanhope. Barrow's conversation with the Stanhopes' loquacious scullery maid had not only served to identify her, but also her history. Barrow had learned that Stanhope had broken off the engagement after a carriage had injured the girl. It was indeed a crass act to leave a lady at the altar in such an infamous manner, but would someone have actually killed him for doing so? Could it be that she or someone who loved her harbored enough hatred towards the man to meditate murder? And to do so years after the fact?
Regardless of his suppositions, he knew that there had to be a good reason why the lady would choose to attend the funeral of her former fiancé. And he planned to learn all that he could in a visit to her on that day hoping that she would receive him if he professed to be a friend of Mr. Stanhope's coming to condole with her on his loss.
Barrow was on the point of dismissing Willie when Simmons came in to announce a visitor. "Mr. Robert Smith to see you, sir. He says that it's urgent."
"Urgent?" Barrow's mind immediately turned towards Bette Maberley. He could think of no other urgent reason why Robert might call. Stomach sickening, Barrow realized that there was only one thing that Bette might do that would create such urgency in Robert. "Send him in immediately," Barrow ordered and asked Willie to remain.
"She's gone away!" Robert said as soon as he came into the room and saw that the attentions of both men in the room were turned towards him. Barrow had to pity the man. He looked completely discomposed -- closely-cropped dark hair uncombed, and the normally carefully-tied cravat missing. He appeared to have thrown his clothes on with a great deal of haste, as if he had woken up to find her missing and had immediately gone in search of her.
"Foolish girl!" Barrow hissed under his breath, immediately knowing what she had set out to do. He should have known that she would try something like this. Her manner when he had put her into the carriage two days ago was too complying. He should have known that she wouldn't sit idly by without attempting to discover Stanhope's murderer for herself. He should have never assumed her acquiescence that night.
But what was he supposed to do? Keep her under lock and key or order the Smiths to do so in his stead? Could the girl not be trusted to know what was in her best interests as well as that of Tim's? And did she have no confidence in Barrow's abilities to find the murderer without her help?
"You'd better sit down Robert," he said, sending Simmons for some sort of restorative and to call Arabella. Perhaps Arabella would know what to do to relieve her cousin's anxiety. And she would certainly want to be informed about Bette's disappearance.
Robert fell into the chair closest to the door, exhausted. "We thought that she might have come over here, to see about your maid, the one who's ill," he began. "But then we found her note." Robert then explained that she had left a letter on the bed in her room. He handed the missive over to John. It was quite brief. She had stated that she was sorry, but she had discovered that being a shop girl was not to her liking. She vaguely mentioned something about pursuing another line of work and thanked them for all their kindnesses.
"She must have written it in the dark," Willie commented, reading her words over Barrow's shoulder. "Look at how smudged and wrinkled it is."
Barrow looked more closely. The inexpensive brown ink ran and was marred in places. "Tear stains," he sighed. "She was crying when she wrote this." He handed the letter back to Robert.
"Then Elizabeth really didn't want to leave!" Robert's eyes took in the marks on the paper and began to glisten with something that looked a great deal like hope. "We need to find her and bring her back!"
Barrow pitied Robert completely now. He hadn't realized just how much the man had grown to love the girl. But did he love her enough to understand where she had gone and why? John knew Robert to be quite rigid when it came to a lady's virtue. He well remembered how unsure he had been when John had proposed that the Smith family take the reformed prostitute on as a helper in their shop. Robert had been quite set against it at first. Then he had met Bette and all of his protestations had begun to weaken. "Are you sure that you will want to do that?" John asked carefully. "You don't know what she's returned to."
"Surely she hasn't returned to..." Robert shook his head, as if trying to clear it.
"Can you tell me what she took with her?" He attempted a different way of convincing the man.
Robert had difficulty thinking back. "All of her money, we think," he began. "Two or three of her dresses..."
John would not ask him which dresses she had chosen to take. "But she didn't bother with her entire trunk?"
Robert shook his head. "It was too heavy. She would have needed my assistance with it," he explained, "But she did take that old pink shawl that she kept in the bottom of it," he considered. "Maybe she wrapped up her dresses in that?" He looked over at John. "Yes, that must be it!"
Barrow thought that he knew the real reason behind her taking her shawl with her.
"The fact is that she didn't take everything with her!" Robert continued to convince himself. "She must plan to come back, regardless of what that letter says!"
Barrow shook his head. "I'm sorry Robert, but it sounds like she took just what she needed."
Robert's face went ashen. "You really think that she's gone back?"
Barrow nodded.
"But why?" Robert asked, uncomprehending.
Reluctantly, Barrow began to explain about the murder of George Stanhope, Tim Scoggins' arrest, and his own belief that Bette had made up her mind to find the real killer. Robert sat quietly, listening, but giving no indication of his opinion on the veracity of such a supposition. Eventually, John had to explain about his own culpability in the matter. Perhaps he should have told Robert and the Smiths about Tim's arrest and Bette's reaction to it. Perhaps he shouldn't have concealed such a thing from them and fabricated the story about an ill maid in order to have Bette released from her work at Smith's two days ago.
But fortunately, Robert's senses were too dulled by John's revelations for him to do more than nod his comprehension. Perhaps later he would be angry at John's deceit. "So, she's gone to help him?" he pronounced the last word with a mixture of disbelief and disdain. His meaning was clear. Why would Bette choose a unrepentantly-lawless thief and possible murderer over himself. Why would Bette choose to save the life of a man who would never be able to keep her? "She's sunk herself, sacrificed everything that she's worked for, ruined her reputation for him?" he went on.
John forbore from defending either Tim or Bette. Any protestations that he would make on their behalf would fall on deaf ears. Robert appeared to be lost in his own grief.
"Perhaps you should leave him to me, John," Arabella whispered as she touched Barrow's hand. He turned to look at his wife. The concerned look in her eyes told him that she had heard all that she needed to know of their conversation. "It won't do any good to continue talking to him at this time. And you and Willie have work to do."
Barrow nodded his agreement and made to walk out of the room, planning to leave Robert in Arabella's charge. Arabella was right. He and Willie did have work to do. Willie would have to start his rounds immediately, searching not only for information about Madame 'Feather', but also attempting to learn the whereabouts of Bette. And he still wouldn't be able to look for her himself without exciting Madame's interest. Damn the girl for adding more work to their load!
"Wait John!" Robert called after him, standing up. "I want to help find her!"
John stopped and looked back at Robert, surprised. He had fully expected that Robert would be so disgusted with Bette's decision to return to her former life, and her reason for doing so, that he would want nothing further to do with her. But he appeared to have underestimated the force of Robert's love for the girl. "I don't care where she's gone," Robert said strongly, voice cracking, "I just want her back."