By now it was late afternoon, so the session was adjourned until the next morning. As Gavin was taken away by his jailers, Sir Geoffrey paused to say, “If this is all the evidence they have, tomorrow I’ll move to dismiss on the grounds they haven’t proved their case.”
That sounded good, but as Gavin again watched angry crowds outside his carriage, he didn’t let his hopes get too high. Surely the prosecution was saving the worst for last—and believed that the worst would be enough to hang him.
Gavin’s misgivings were fulfilled. The first prosecution witness called the next morning was a shifty-eyed man called Throup. He looked like a thief who was attempting to appear respectable.
After the preliminaries, Attorney General Oliver asked, “Have you ever met the prisoner, Lord Seabourne?”
“Yessir, the day Elliott House burned down.”
Seeing his counsel’s questioning glance, Gavin shrugged to express his ignorance. The man could easily have been part of the crowd watching the fire.
Majestic as a great lion, Oliver asked the witness, “Will you tell us in your own words what happened that day?”
Throup stared at Gavin, his eyes burning with malevolence. “That fellow there asked me to help ’im at ’is warehouse. I waited outside the door on the dock till ’e unlocked it and let me in. ’e gave me ten quid to throw lamp oil around the warehouse, and half-a-dozen lucifers to set fires when I was done. He said to leave by the river door.”
Gavin gasped at the blatant falsehood. “He’s lying!”
“The prisoner must remain silent,” the Lord High Steward warned. “Proceed, Mr. Throup.”
“Did you find this request unusual?” the Attorney General inquired.
Throup shrugged. “Who knows why rich coves do what they do? Maybe he wanted the oil to polish the floors. Anyhow, ’e went off. I thought I heard a noise upstairs, but didn’t think much of it. When I was done spreadin’ the oil, I set it afire, a good long distance from the door so I’d ’ave time to get out. Then I thought I heard a cry, like a baby or a woman, from upstairs, so I went up to take a quick look.”
When the witness paused, Oliver asked, “And what did you find, Mr. Throup?”
“A pretty woman with dark hair lyin’ on the floor and bleedin’ from a bullet in the belly.”
The chamber filled with exclamations of shock. Gavin jerked upright, wondering if this could be true when the rest was lies. Had Alex really been shot?
“Was the woman dead or alive?”
“Alive, but only just. I bent over and asked ’er who shot ’er.” Throup’s gaze swung to Gavin again. “She told me it were ’er ’usband.”
Chapter 37
HEARING TWO pairs of footsteps, Alex quickly covered up the signs of her chipping and sat on the cot, flexing her cramped hands. Though wrapping rags around the spoon made it easier to handle, she still suffered shooting pains in her hand, wrist, and arm. If—when—she got out of here, she’d have an excuse not to do needlework ever again.
She’d been knotted with anxiety ever since Frederica had announced the start of the trial. That had been two days ago. It had seemed a good sign that Frederica hadn’t returned, but as soon as she saw that the other woman was accompanied by her husband, her heart sank. Both of them were glowing with vicious satisfaction.
Determined not to show weakness, she said coolly, “Good day, Sir Barton. I trust you’re well? I haven’t seen you since that memorable day when I killed your henchman.”
His expression hardly faltered. “It’s a wonderful day—your contemptible husband has been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.”
Numb with shock, Alex struggled to breathe. She had never dreamed it would go this far. Who could believe Gavin a murderer?
“Only you can appreciate the delightful irony of this,” Frederica said brightly. “To know that he will die for your murder—I can’t even imagine how you must feel. Please tell me what it’s like.”
Alex ignored her to concentrate on Pierce, guessing that, like his wife, he wouldn’t be able to resist boasting of his cleverness. “Who did you hire to perjure himself?”
“How clever you are—that’s exactly what I did. I had to choose carefully, because testifying before the House of Lords must be frightening even if one is telling the truth. But I have the perfect man—Sly, whom you met at the warehouse. He was angered by the fact that you grazed his arm with a bullet, but he particularly resented your killing of his mate, Webb. Since Sly is a talented liar with considerable practice, he was able to tell a convincing tale to the noble lords.”
Wishing her aim had been better, Alex asked, “What story did you invent?”
“That Seabourne paid Sly to spread lamp oil through the warehouse. After the fire was set, Sly heard you calling out piteously and went upstairs to find you bleeding from a mortal pistol wound.” Pierce smiled with pleasure. “And with your dying breath, you accused your husband of the crime.”
“Surely everyone couldn’t have believed that,” Alex said crisply. “Sly is such an obvious villain.”
“Not everyone believed,” Frederica agreed. “But enough did. Seabourne was declared guilty by a five-vote margin. It’s said that everyone who knew him personally voted for acquittal, but Sly was really quite convincing, and there was indisputable evidence that Seabourne is a violent man.”
“The fact that he isn’t a true English gentleman made it easier to think him capable of murdering his gently born wife,” Pierce added. “And few believed his testimony that he’d allowed you to stay in the warehouse alone to meet an escaped slave. No real man would do such a thing.” Pierce smiled. “My cooperative patron, Lord Wylver, did a good job of spreading that thought among his fellows.”
“Real men don’t have to treat their wives like imbecilic children,” Alex said, aching at the knowledge that the qualities that made Gavin special were being used against him. “Did the noble lords completely ignore the defense counsel case?”
“Sir Geoffrey Howard did his best,” Pierce allowed. “He emphasized the lack of direct evidence and brought in witnesses like the stevedore who kept Seabourne from entering the burning warehouse in a suicidal attempt to rescue you. Was this the act of a man who wished to kill his wife? But nothing could overcome the fact that he murdered my two men, and with your dying breath you named him your murderer.”
Frederica nodded solemnly. “Since he is a murderer, this is merely justice.”
“Self-defense has never been considered murder.” But Alex could see how the combination of circumstances—Gavin’s adventurous life in foreign lands, his fighting skill, a plausible perjurer—had persuaded narrow-minded members of the House who had never been farther from home than Paris.
“The defense counsel’s last hope was bringing your mother in to testify that she couldn’t believe Seabourne killed you.”
Alex’s breath caught. “My mother was there?”
“Yes, and very touching she was,” Pierce said. “Especially when she pleaded for Seabourne’s life, saying that even if the noble lords judged him guilty, execution wouldn’t bring you back.”
Frederica picked up the story again. “When Seabourne was asked to speak in mitigation of his crime, all he would say was that as God was his witness, he had committed no crime. He wasn’t the least bit conciliatory, and many of the more traditional peers took offense at his attitude. In a week he will pay for that outside Newgate Prison. Usually hangings are early in the morning, but his will be at high noon, to show that British justice applies to the highest as well as the lowest.”
Alex locked her hands together, chilled to the bone by the image of her mother pleading for Gavin’s life. But though she was glad her family and friends hadn’t believed Sly’s lies, that was scant comfort when Gavin was condemned to death.
A week. Only a week.
“Enjoy your last days in England, Alexandra.” Frederica gazed fondly at her husband. “Barton has promised that within two days of the execution you’ll be
on your way to the Barbary Coast, but not until I’ve described the hanging to you in detail. Barton has already booked rooms in the inn across the street from Newgate so we’ll have a splendid view of Seabourne’s death throes.”
Pierce gazed back at his wife with equal fondness, his arm around her waist. In their own evil way, they loved each other.
“I’ll see you again, Alexandra,” Frederica said as she turned to go. She paused. “By the way, what do you with yourself all day? It seems frightfully tedious.”
Despite her feelings of suffocation, Alex made herself smile. “It’s quite restful, really. Running an earl’s estate is tiring. These last weeks I’ve relaxed and remembered books I’ve read, poems I’ve memorized. Since I’ve always loved to read, I have a well-furnished mind. Do you know how to read, Frederica?”
The other woman’s mouth thinned. “I’ve more amusing things to do with my time. Come, Barton, I wish to go home.” She caressed his face with sultry promise.
Alex was motionless for a long time after they left. A week, and she still had a long way to go. The wall was thick, and the handle of her bent, battered spoon was such a feeble tool. With a decent piece of forged iron, she’d have been out of here long ago.
No excuses. Trying to calm the pounding of her heart, she resumed working with grim concentration.
“It’s a damnable crime!” Restlessly Kyle paced the bleak chamber in Newgate Prison where Gavin had been brought to spend his last night. This way the authorities wouldn’t have to clear a path through the crowds to bring him from the Tower to the scaffold outside the prison.
“Crimes happen all the time,” Gavin said. “The only thing unusual about this one is that I have money, and rich men are seldom victims of injustice.”
Expression anguished, Kyle asked, “How can you be so calm?”
“Because the alternative is wailing and gnashing of teeth, which would be distressing all around. Have some of this excellent brandy.”
Kyle accepted the brandy and sat down. There wasn’t much to discuss except Gavin’s impending execution, which was not an uplifting topic. Gavin had sorted out his business affairs and said most of his good-byes. Only Kyle and Suryo were here tonight, and if possible he would throw Kyle out, since his friend was in an agony of frustration. Suryo was more restful company.
There was a knock at the door. Suryo opened it, and Ashburton and Lord Michael Kenyon entered. Their identical bleak expressions emphasized their blood bonds.
Gavin rose. “Have some brandy? It seems rather cold out.”
“Please.” Wearily Ashburton removed his cloak. “I had an audience with the king. William is not unsympathetic—as a navy man he has a fondness for all sailors—but he says it’s the House of Lords’ right to judge their own, and he can’t intervene.”
“That wasn’t unexpected.” Gavin poured brandy into two more snifters. In the grim gray depths of Newgate Prison, he was drinking the finest French brandy from crystal goblets. Did that make the prospect of death in the morning better or worse?
Lord Michael took a glass with murmured thanks before settling into a chair. He’d taken Catherine and Katie back to Wales, wanting them to be as far from the execution as possible. He swirled the brandy in his glass. “I’ve seen death in many forms. Mostly it’s pointless, ugly, and a great waste. But I’ve never seen a death more wrong than this.”
In a mood for honesty, Gavin said, “Really? I thought you had a reservation or two about my innocence.”
“I did at first,” Lord Michael admitted. “But not after that perjurer said Alex had been shot. With your Eastern fighting skills, it’s at least conceivable that you might have accidentally hurt Alex in an argument, but it’s unthinkable that you would shoot her. Throup’s entire testimony collapsed then.”
“A pity so many of the peers lacked your astuteness.”
“Wrongful execution of the innocent is the best argument possible for ending executions,” Ashburton said morosely. “I think I’ll introduce a bill outlawing them.”
“It will never pass,” Kyle said. “The mob enjoys executions too much.”
“The fact that it won’t pass doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.” Ashburton the imperturbable looked downright angry.
“Alex was very much your niece,” Gavin said with a faint smile. “More interested in justice than the tedious virtue of practicality.”
There was another knock at the door. This time Gavin answered. A vicar stood there with a solemn expression and a Bible. “I am here to offer comfort to the condemned man.”
Gavin sighed. It was bad enough to be hanged, but to be prayed over? “Thank you, but my conscience is clear so you can go home to your family.” Politely he closed the door in the vicar’s face. Turning to his visitors, he said, “This might be a good night to get rather drunk. Care to join me?”
Except for Suryo, who drank no alcohol, they did. As the night progressed, Gavin thought how fortunate he was to have four friends such as these men.
A pity he wouldn’t have the chance to know them longer.
Bracing herself against her cot, Alex planted her feet against the section of wall she’d been trying to loosen, and pushed. Thinking that she felt some movement in the stone, she took a deep breath and pushed again. This had to work. She’d been scraping mortar frantically all week, and according to Frederica’s most recent visit, Gavin would be hanged within a few hours. Though she had no clock to track time, she refused to think it might be too late.
The stone remained obdurate. Almost weeping with frustration, she pulled both legs back, then kicked her feet into the stone as hard as she could.
With startling suddenness, the section crashed through into the next storage room. Giddy with relief, Alex scrambled to her feet, wincing a little. To the cat who watched with interest from the cot, she said, “I’ll come back for you later, Captain. You can move in with us and become the tomcat terror of Mayfair.”
After a quick scratch at his neck for luck, she inserted arms and head into the hole. By drawing her shoulders in, she managed to get the upper half of her body into the dark cell next door. Swearing as she heard fabric tear, she wiggled her hips through and folded down onto the stones and the sawdust-covered floor. If she’d been more pregnant it would have been impossible, but her body had not yet begun to change visibly.
Lighting the spare candle from the one inside her old cell, she swiftly followed the dusty footprints through the vault. Cross-passages stretched away at regular intervals, lined with arches into rooms that held six enormous casks each. Enough wine to make all London drunk, with the strange fluffy white growths everywhere.
The passage ended at a massive iron door. Holding the candle close, she investigated the lock, then looked to see if a spare key hung somewhere near. No luck.
She feared it would be several hours before Jones made his daily visit, but it was hard to judge. All she could do was wait, despite her agonizing awareness of the passage of time. She set the candle in a holder attached to the wall and began one of Troth’s tai chi exercises. Calmness now would give her strength later.
Completing one form, she was about to start another when she heard a key grate into the lock. Instantly she blew out the candle and retreated into the shadows, hoping she could dart out the door without having to confront the guard.
It wasn’t Mr. Jones. Frederica stepped through with a lantern, followed by her husband. “We really haven’t time to stop here,” Pierce grumbled. “We run the risk of missing the hanging.”
“This will only take a moment, darling. I want to extract every morsel of suffering from that dreadful woman. Think how delightful it will be to tell her the sentence has been commuted, then return later to tell her the sordid details.”
As Pierce laughed appreciatively, Alex bit her lip at the sheer cruelty of Frederica’s plan. The two of them together were wicked beyond her imagination.
Pierce swung the door shut and turned to lock it behind him. Alex’s heart accele
rated at the knowledge she would have to act immediately, because as soon as they reached the empty cell in the back they would know she had escaped.
Wishing she had Troth’s wing chun skill, she leaped forward with a shout and snatched the key from Pierce’s hand, then kicked him in the groin. Howling with agony, he staggered back into his wife, who shrieked and dropped the lantern. It smashed, plunging the scene into darkness.
Alex took advantage of the confusion to dart through the door, slamming it behind her. As she shoved the key into the lock, Pierce began trying to open it from the other side, gasping a stream of filthy curses. She pulled back on the knob with her full weight and hastily turned the key. The bolts slid into place with a well-oiled click.
Through the door, she said menacingly, “You’d better pray I stop the execution in time, or you will both die in unspeakable agony.”
Hoping her threat would panic Frederica, she climbed the dimly lit stone steps, wondering where she would come out. When she opened the door at the top, she gasped and almost fell backward down the stairs, blinded by sunlight. She clung to the door a minute, eyes closed, until the first shock wore off.
Slowly she opened her eyes, squinting to block out some of the light. Her first glance was for the sun. It hadn’t yet reached its zenith. At a guess, it was between eleven o’clock and eleven thirty. Not yet too late.
Then she studied her surroundings. She’d surfaced in a small building in the corner of a busy shipping yard. Wagons were being loaded and unloaded while horses stamped restively. On the back of the main building a sign read Pierce & Co. This must be Pierce’s headquarters on the Ratcliff Highway.
Trying to look as if she belonged, she closed the door and walked across the yard, keeping to the edge opposite the main building. A couple of men glanced at her but didn’t ask her business. Even so, she breathed easier when she reached the street.