“Oh, dear. I almost forgot.” Constantia reached into her bodice and brought out two carefully folded notes. “These started coming to the house,” she explained, holding them out to Sophie.
“‘How did Constantia Grosgrain’s first husband die? Was it really just an accident?’” Sophie read aloud from the first one.
“The other says approximately the same thing, only referring to Milton’s death. And I was not the only one to receive these. It would seem that Crispin was being blackmailed.”
“But instead of paying his blackmailers, he killed them,” Sophie said slowly.
“Yes. And then, like a—a coward, he tried to have you arrested for his crimes.”
Sophie saw a crack and seized on it. “But, Constantia, he saved me. He saved me from being arrested. And he asked me to marry him.”
Constantia shook her head sadly. “Dear Sophie, you must not let yourself be blinded by your love. Don’t you see, saving you and keeping you with him was part of his game? Part of the way he won your trust. He just wanted to keep you free long enough to finish his killing spree and ensure you got all the blame. Just like making love. For him it is simply a routine, simply a tool. He lied to you and seduced you so you would trust him. So he could manipulate you.”
“No,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “That is not true.”
“Sophie, dearest, you have to believe me. He did it to me as well. He would smile at me, that smile with the long dimple, and say the loveliest things. He told me that with me he felt pleasure unlike any he had ever felt. That in my smile he saw beauty that he could not have imagined. That I made him laugh like he had never laughed before. That his lips—”
“Stop!” Sophie cried now, cried from the deepest part of her. She realized that she had been clinging to a belief that none of this was true, but she could cling no longer. To hear the words she had cherished, the words that had changed her life, the most special, unique words, words she thought were spoken just for her, repeated like that, broke her. There was no mistaking that anything he had said was a lie, everything he had done an act. “Stop!” she yelled, covering her ears. “Stop, please, please stop. I don’t want to hear any more. Please.”
“I am so sorry, Sophie. I do not want to hurt you. But you must know or you won’t understand what he is. And that you should not blame yourself. Crispin is a master at this. He fooled me for ten years. Ten years.” Constantia’s voice grew quieter. “You should feel grateful that you are finding out when you are.”
Sophie nodded, trying to imagine what “grateful” or what anything, for that matter, would feel like.
“I do not know how I will face him after this,” Sophie said quietly.
“But you cannot. You must not. Sophie, don’t you see? It is only a matter of time before he gives you up to the constables. You must not go back to Sandal Hall under any circumstances.”
Of course. Constantia was right. Everything she said made so much sense. Looking back on it, Sophie wondered how she had not seen it earlier, how she had failed to remark on the coincidence of his appearing wherever there was a dead body, a dead body with some identifying mark to tie it to Sophie. How had she failed to note that he urged her to stay most forcefully the night that Sweetson was murdered? Or that he hadn’t bothered to contradict her when she suggested that he was just making love to her in order to get her to talk? Or the ring of authenticity in his voice when he said, “I don’t give a damn what becomes of you”? How could she have thought that his kisses were real, that his caresses were true, that she gave him the same pleasure he gave her? Or even that he enjoyed her company?
Constantia’s soothing voice broke into Sophie’s disquiet. “Listen to me, Sophie, dearest. I have a friend with a house nearby where you can stay. It is a lovely house, and I am sure it will not be a problem. And I will visit you there later. Together we will figure out what to do.”
Not having the strength to protest that she would rather be left alone to die on the pink silk bed, Sophie acquiesced stoically.
As did Crispin, later that night, when five large constables presented themselves in his library to arrest him for the murders of Lord Milton Grosgrain, Richard Tottle, and Sweetson, the baker of Milk Street.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Quiet in the court!” The chief justice banged the gavel three times and glared at the gallery from under his extraordinarily bushy eyebrows. “Quiet, I say. I will have quiet!”
When the spectators had reduced their loud exclamations to whispers, the chief justice returned his eyebrows to the prisoner. “I must warn you, Lord Sandal, the evidence against you is weighty. Are you sure you would not like to change your plea?”
“No, Your Lordship. I am not guilty of these crimes.”
The courtroom threatened to erupt again, but this time a single glance from the chief justice sufficed to restore order.
“Very well,” the justice sighed. “You must remain silent as the witnesses testify. You will have your turn to speak later. Bailiff, call the first witness.”
“Miss Lucinda Flipps,” the bailiff announced.
Crispin frowned. He knew the charges against him were false and concocted to detain him, but he little expected that the court would have to resort to dragging in people he had never met to defame him. He was still frowning when a rather gaudily dressed and gaudily endowed blond woman sashayed into the courtroom, waggled her fingers at him, and allowed herself to be seated on the witness chair.
The Queen’s advocate, a wiry man with bright red whiskers named Fox, approached the witness. “Miss Lucinda Flipps, please state your occupation for the court.”
Lucinda smiled coyly. “I’m a goddess of pleasure, my lord.”
This time it took two fierce waggles from the eyebrows of the chief justice and several bouts with the gavel to quiet the gallery.
“This is no place for lewd jokes, madam,” the chief justice told her ferociously. “Now answer the question.”
“But I meant no joke, Your Excellencyness. It is what all us girls are called at Mount Olympus, where I work. You see, Mount Olympus is where the gods went to—”
“I am well aware of Mount Olympus and its history,” the justice cut her off. “Very well. Advocate Fox, continue with your questions.”
“Please tell the court what happened to you on the night of May the tenth of this year.”
Lucinda looked very serious now. “I was standing on Fleet Street, talking to some of the other goddesses, when a man comes up and asks me if I like silver.”
“Do you see that man here today?” Advocate Fox asked.
She waved her fingers at Crispin. “It was him. And since he is so handsome, I said, yes, I like silver as much as the next girl, but I prefer gold, and he says I shall have some if I do what he says, and I laughed and said with that smile, I’d do it for free, and he laughed and said what would I do? and I—”
A voice from the bench silenced her. “I tell you again, madam, this is a court, not a stage for your—your antics. Please confine yourself to the relevant portion of your interaction with Lord Sandal.”
Lucinda looked confused until Advocate Fox, whose face had turned a rich vermilion that matched his whiskers, explained, “The part about the note.”
“Oh. Yes. Well, then he wrote a note and told me to wait half an hour and then send someone to deliver it to Lawrence Pickering.”
“Thank you.” Advocate Fox breathed a sigh of relief. “Did you read the note?”
“He said I could. He said it was in code.”
“Did he?” The advocate tugged at his whiskers and turned to look at Crispin with what the latter supposed was a withering stare. “And what did the note say?”
“Well, I could not read the code, of course, but what I could read said that there was a body in the smoking room at that fancy club u
p the Fleet. It didn’t make much sense to me.”
“And did you have any more conversation with Lord Sandal after that?”
“Conversation.” Lucinda smiled. “That is funny. I am going to remember that. No, we had no conversation. None at all. I offered, seeing as how he gave me two gold pieces, offered to have as many conversations with him as he wanted, but he said he did not have time.” She looked directly at Crispin now. “Your credit will still be good with me when you get out of Newgate, my lord. I’ll never forget that smile of yours.”
Advocate Fox was a rosy shade of scarlet as he dismissed his witness and turned to address the jury box. Crispin barely listened as the advocate pulled on his whiskers and drew the obvious conclusion for the jurors that Crispin had put himself in contact with Lawrence Pickering, the most notorious criminal in London, for the express purpose of having the body disposed of and his crime concealed. Why would an innocent man send such a letter, Advocate Fox asked rhetorically, and Crispin now found himself wondering the same thing.
At the time, however, it had seemed like a very good, indeed the best of ideas. He had chosen that method of informing his friend as the most anonymous. It would be nearly impossible to trace the original source of the note, or even the girl who had acted as an intermediary. Unless, of course, you happened to have been standing outside when Crispin chose her. Unless, of course, you had been following him, with his full knowledge. Unless, of course, you were Sophie Champion.
The sinking feeling that had gripped Crispin’s stomach since his meeting with Basil was now redoubled. Everything he had believed to make sense, everything he believed he understood, everything he believed in as truth, had suddenly dissolved before his eyes. He was furious at himself for being such a fool. He remembered that his first thought on seeing Sophie Champion at the Unicorn was that—despite the ridiculous mustache—she was a dangerous professional, and he wondered why he had been so quick to discard it. He saw now, could not help seeing, that not only was she a pro but with regard to danger she was in a class of her own.
The bailiff’s voice, announcing, “The Court calls Bert Noggin next,” broke into Crispin’s thoughts. The name meant as little to Crispin as Lucinda’s had, but the fat constable from Richard Tottle’s was easy to recognize when he waddled into the courtroom. He and several of his colleagues were called upon to give testimony that Crispin had been caught on Richard Tottle’s premises searching Richard Tottle’s papers the day after the murder, and had only escaped by taking an innocent young woman hostage and threatening to kill her if she objected. This was interesting news to Crispin, and he was just mentally commending those who had stage-managed his trial for their creativity when their coup de grâce swooped into the room in the person of Lady Dolores Artly.
As she passed near the balustrade behind which Crispin was seated, she whispered, “Don Alfonso, I think what you are doing, standing trial like this for your master, is such a wonderful gesture. Do not worry, your secret is safe with me,” and winked.
Crispin could not think what answer to make to this wonderfully generous assurance, but fortunately none seemed required.
“Lady Artly,” Advocate Fox said when that enchantress had been seated in the witness chair, “please tell the court what you observed during your meeting with Lord Sandal three days ago.”
“To begin with, I noticed that His Lordship has such lovely manners. And—”
“Please constrain your comments to the interesting point about which we spoke last night,” the advocate whined.
Lady Artly looked disgusted at having been cut off in such a brusque manner. “Very well. I just wanted to give the jury a picture of the type of man Lord Sandal really is. So they would not judge him by how he seems here.” She winked at Crispin again.
“What you saw?” Advocate Fox reminded her with an impatient tug on his whiskers.
“Yes. At several points during the meeting, Lord Sandal began to cough rather violently. Becoming concerned, I asked him for the cause of his malady, and he explained that he had a head cold. Which he had gotten from being out in the rain.”
“And do you know when the most recent rainstorm had been?”
“I most certainly do. It was the night of Lady Quinsy’s concert, and my gown, such a lovely gown, was drenched. Ruined.”
“Yes, but how many days was that before your meeting with Lord Sandal?” the advocate asked impatiently.
“Three. Three days before.”
“Exactly. The exact night on which Richard Tottle was killed. This proves”—Advocate Fox turned to explain to the jury—“that Lord Sandal was out in the rain the night of the murder. I let you draw your own conclusions.”
Crispin was interested in Fox’s use of the word “proves.” As far as Crispin could make out, the point was either that no innocent man would stand outside in the rain long enough to get a cold or that all men with colds were guilty. He found that he was growing somewhat interested in how any of this was going to be used to convict him of murder, and this interest was piqued when he saw the next witness being led in.
“Miss Sally Tunks,” the bailiff announced as he seated Sweetson the baker’s ten-year-old maid in the witness chair.
This, Crispin thought to himself, should be good.
Advocate Fox addressed the girl. “Please tell the court how you came to have five gold pieces, Miss Tunks.”
“He gave ’em to me,” Sally said without hesitating, pointing in Crispin’s direction.
“For what, exactly,” Fox probed.
But Sally did not answer immediately. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll not let your gold turn to ashes,” she assured Crispin before turning to the advocate. “He gave ’em to me,” she told the advocate. “And I am to say the truth, that it was the lady in blue who killed my master. The lady in blue taffeta.” Sally smiled broadly at Crispin, conscious of having done him an enormous favor.
“Did you see the actual murderer of your employer?” Advocate Fox asked.
“Oh, yes, sir. I saw it all.”
“Can you tell the court who it was?”
“The lady in blue taffeta, sir,” Sally said positively. “That is what the gentleman told me to say.”
“Yes, but leaving the gentleman aside, who did you really see?”
Sally crossed her arms across her chest defiantly. “The lady in blue. And I’ll not say different, no matter what. I would not do that to the gentleman.”
At that moment, Crispin decided he would never have anything to do with another woman, ever, no matter what age, as long as he lived. Which, if the triumphant expression on Advocate Fox’s face was anything to go by, would not be very long at all.
Sophie awoke as the bells of Saint Paul’s tolled eleven. Her head was heavy, her eyelids felt swollen from crying, and her throat was sore from the litany of self-rebukes she had run through the previous night. She did not want to open her eyes, did not want to have to wake up and realize that it had been true, that Constantia had really appeared to her, that Crispin had really tried to frame her, that the short, ebullient interlude at Sandal Hall had itself been no more than a dream.
More than anything, Sophie wished she did not know. If it had merely been a question of learning that Crispin loved someone else, she could have lived, albeit with a hole where her heart and lungs should have been. But listening to Constantia talk, hearing her describe the things that Crispin had said in the heat of passion, exactly the same things he had said to her, that was too painful. How could she believe otherwise than that they had all been lies?
Sophie wished she could peel off her skin, reach inside herself, and take out the part of her that was hurting so desperately. It was his fault she ached so much. His fault she felt anything at all. Not because he had made her love him. But because he had made her trust him, and in trusting him, she had learned to feel again, had lea
rned to experience all the emotions she had so carefully bolted away eleven years earlier after the fire, after the nightmare. What was worse, in falling for Crispin, she had traduced not only herself, but also the one person to whom she owed everything, Lord Grosgrain.
The easy and comfortable life she had led before the death of her parents was no preparation for the battle of survival that faced Sophie after the house fire, once she had finally managed to escape from the attic where she was held prisoner. Ragged and hungry and scared and half mad, she took to hiding in the countryside, traveling at night in order to be seen by as few people as possible, to leave as few traces as possible to follow when the man came after her. She was so lonely for company that she had adopted a caterpillar, who lived in her pocket and with whom she held long discourses. It was during her fourteenth night on the run—three days since her last meal and almost a week since she had said more than two words to anyone but her caterpillar—her fourteenth night of fear and desolation, when the loneliness and despair had begun to wend themselves into her very core, it was then, just when she was about to lose hope, that she heard the shouts from the river she was walking along.
She was his salvation, his champion, Lord Grosgrain had always said, but really he was hers. That night Sophie may have saved him from drowning—he had lost his footing trying to collect “moon pebbles” which he was convinced would bring his alchemical experiments to perfection—but he saved her from herself. He had been about to be battered to death by the churning blades of a water mill when she jammed the gears with a carefully aimed branch and dragged him to safety on the river’s bank.
After he had coughed half the river from his lungs, he turned to examine the tall, skinny girl who had saved him. “That was quick thinking,” he told her appreciatively. “And fine use of leverage.”
The girl waved the compliment away. “Anyone could have done it.”
“Possibly, but only someone who had studied Archimedes would have known the exact angle,” he said with admiration. “What is your name?”