Murder by Misrule

CHAPTER 34

  Tom spent the better part of an hour alternately pleading, bribing, and threatening the officials at Newgate to let him at least visit Clara to see how she was housed. No one would listen to him. He went outside and prowled the perimeter, hopping up to peer through barred windows, craning his neck. Hands were thrust out at him, waving and grasping. Inmates pressed their grimy faces against the bars to jeer at him or whisper coarse promises. He had to leap aside to avoid a stream of piss that one brainsick prisoner launched at him.

  "Tom!" He whirled around. Ben and Trumpet jogged across the street.

  "We're going to St. Paul's to hear the sermon." Trumpet looked him up and down. "Your shoes are a disgrace."

  Tom gaped at him like a man bereft of human speech.

  "What's wrong?" Ben asked.

  He told them everything from the moment he'd left Gray's the night before, leaving out the private bits. He handed Ben the letter, which he had carefully stowed in his purse.

  Ben clasped his arm. "Tom, hear me. Newgate is filthy and verminous and the other inmates may be fairly nasty, but they'll not harm her. Neither the prisoners nor the guards. Not seriously. There's time to negotiate."

  "Are you sure?" Tom eagerly grasped at the straw.

  "Nearly sure." Ben rubbed his dark beard. "Let's go talk to Mr. Bacon."

  "No. Mrs. Sprye," Trumpet said. "She'll want to know what her dear Sir Avery has been up to."

  "Mrs. Sprye." Tom allowed himself to breathe again. "She'll know what to do, and she'll make Fogg do it."

  "This is all wrong," Ben said.

  "No, it's exactly right." Tom felt strength returning to his sinews. "We need to talk to Mrs. Sprye at once. And then Mr. Bacon. Between the two of them —"

  "No, this letter is all wrong," Ben said. "It's not Fogg's hand, for one thing. You've seen it yourself on those endless notices the benchers post about not wearing velvet shoes and getting a shave every three weeks."

  "I knew there was something wrong with it!" Tom crowed.

  "And the language is too simple." Ben handed the letter to Trumpet, who had been tugging on his sleeve. "Fogg uses more Latin. I tell you, Tom, Treasurer Fogg did not write this letter."

  "Then who did?"