A Broken Vessel (40 page)

Suddenly a look of fear came into his eyes. “Kestrel, you could do me one great favour.”

“What is it?”

“Keep this for me, just for tonight. I mean to do right by Megan and Rosemary, but—I know myself. Till I’ve had a chance to talk to Ada, I don’t trust myself with it. It would be too easy to throw it on the fire, and be damned to Megan and her rights. As soon as I’ve seen Ada—crossed the Rubicon—I’ll ask for it back.”

“Very well.” Julian took the letter.

“Thank you.” He departed, exhausted, but strangely peaceful in his resolve. Dipper went out after him, to summon a hackney to take them back to Clarges Street.

Sally took out Avondale’s elegant little pistol and held it up to the light. “Ain’t it fine? And he never felt a thing when I nicked it from him. I may not be the rum diver Dip is, but I’m handy with me forks. And lucky I am, or I’d never’ve got out of that kickup with Blinkers.”

“You’d never have got into it, either,” Julian reminded her. “Your stealing that letter was what started this whole business.”

“And a good thing, too,
”
 she retorted. “If I hadn’t, Blinkers and Bristles’d never have been nabbed for murder, and Blinkers’d still be making game pullets out of kids like Emily. A lot of things might not have happened,” she added softly, coming up close to him. “Was you a little bit worried about me?”

“I might have felt a twinge or two of unease.”

“I’d like to make you feel a twinge or two of some’ut else.” She came up on her toes, her lips seeking his. But then she backed away, remembering Megan’s body lying uncovered so close by. She went to her and drew her cloak over her face. A feeling of weakness swept over her. Her legs felt wobbly, as if she had just stepped off a boat.

“Sally.” He was by her side at once, drawing her against him, stroking her hair. “Don’t think of it anymore, sweet. It’s over now.”

CHAPTER
29

I
t was not completely over, of course. The next morning, Julian, Dipper, and Sally had to appear in the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court to give evidence against Rawdon and Fiske. Julian had some knowledge of the court’s proceedings, having come here as a spectator several times since the Bellegarde murder piqued his interest in crime. The daily round of hearings and committals took place in a dirty, soot-blackened room, close and musty despite its large size, with a bench for the magistrates at one end, a dock at the other, and a railed-off space in between for witnesses. Beside the dock, a group of prisoners in irons awaited interrogation, Rawdon and Fiske among them. The usual crowd was milling about: Bow Street patrols in the scarlet waistcoats that earned them the nickname “robin redbreasts,” distraught or outraged victims of crime, relatives and friends of accused and accusers, young gentlemen in search of amusement, and tramps in search of shelter. But there were a few signs that something out of the ordinary was brewing. Journalists were here in force, their
pens already scratching, their gazes darting about. And the Chief Magistrate himself, Sir Richard Birnie, was presiding.

The magistrates turned their attention at once to Rawdon and Fiske, who were put in the dock. Julian, Sally, and Dipper recounted the case against them. The spectators hung on every word; the reporters scribbled furiously. Peter Vance and Toby contributed what they knew of the final act in the drama. The complicated web of crime and deception took a long time to untangle, and at first Sir Richard seemed half inclined to suspect that Julian was a bored young man about town perpetrating an elaborate hoax. But Samuel Digby, to whom Julian had written, arrived and confirmed that the whole investigation had been carried out under his aegis. Sir Richard could no longer doubt that he was confronting a case of murder, kidnapping, and rape, involving two of England’s highest-ranking families.

The magistrates examined Rawdon and Fiske. Rawdon would only snarl defiance, cursing his father, Julian, Sally, the magistrates, and anyone else who came near him. Sir Richard bound him over for trial at the next Old Bailey sessions and ordered him removed. Vance hustled him out of the dock and off to Newgate Prison to await trial.

Fiske looked relieved to see him go. He had said little up to now, but as soon as the door closed behind his son, he lifted a pasty, exhausted face, and announced that he was ready to confess.

He confirmed much of the story that Rawdon had told last night: how Rawdon had made him believe that Lady Lucinda was dangerous to him, and had concocted the plan to poison her and make her death look like suicide. “I took my wife’s key to the area door of the inmates’ house and had it copied. And I made up a strong poison—opium and hemlock. It would have sent her straight to sleep, so she’d never know—” His voice trailed away.

He was supposed to add the poison to the cordial bottle on a Monday, he explained, while he was at the refuge treating fever cases. But that day, Lady Lucinda confided her identity to him and entreated him to post her letter. “I hoped we needn’t go through with it, after all. I met Caleb that evening at an eating
house in the Haymarket, and I told him about the letter. I said, ‘If we don’t post it, her father won’t know where she is, and she’ll think he doesn’t want her back, and then perhaps she’ll go away, and not tell anyone who you really are.’ Because that was what he kept harping on—that she knew he was wanted for murder in our old village. It seemed so plausible, the whole story, the way he told it.”

Sally shook her head. Rawdon’s tale seemed utterly ridiculous to her. The idea of making himself out to be that poor girl’s victim, instead of the other way around! But then she remembered something Wideawake Peg had said:
If you want to lie to people, tell them something they want to believe.
Fiske could not have rejected Rawdon’s story without facing the fact that his son was a cold-blooded, manipulative liar. And that he could not do.

“I suppose I was a fool,” Fiske sighed. “But he was my son, my only child. And, you see, we’d always had a sort of alliance— or I thought we did. It was against Ellen, of course, in the beginning. She treated him so badly. I should have stopped her. I tried—but not hard enough. I was afraid of her, you see. I’ve been so weak, with both of them. And weakness is a terrible thing, worse even than evil, I think.”

He had agreed reluctantly to go through with the murder. He and Rawdon had parted, Rawdon pocketing the letter but destroying the outer sheet that bore the address. Soon after, Fiske had run into Sally. He had not realized Rawdon was following him, to make sure he did not do anything rash in a fit of fear or remorse. “It wasn’t until after—after Lady Lucinda was dead— that he told me he’d seen me go with Sally to the Cockerel. He had to, to explain how she came to steal the letter. He didn’t let on he’d—he’d watched us, or—been with her himself. He said he’d only talked to her, to find out if I’d blurted out anything about what we were planning.

“I mixed the poison into the bottle of cordial the next morning. I did consider putting off the plan till a night when Ellen wouldn’t be at the refuge. I knew how strict a watch she kept on everything that went on there. But I also knew she and
Mr. Harcourt were going to be working all night, so perhaps she would be distracted. And I didn’t want to delay what I had to do any longer. I wanted it to be over.

“Late that night I went and waited near the inmates’ house till there was no one in the street. Then I climbed over the railings and let myself in through the area door. I left my boots outside, because there aren’t any carpets in the inmates’ house, and footsteps make so much noise. Besides, I didn’t want to track in any dirt or leaves.

“I waited in the laundry till I was sure there was no one stirring in the basement or on the stairs. Then I went upstairs. There wasn’t much light, but I knew my way about—I’d often been to the refuge to treat the inmates for one ailment or another. I went into Mary’s—Lady Lucinda’s—room.”

“Was she dead?” rapped out Sir Richard.

“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t want to look at her. But it’s such a small room, I couldn’t help seeing she was lying on the bed, not moving at all. If she was breathing, it must have been just barely.

“I did what I had to do, as quickly as I could. I’d brought a bottle of laudanum, almost empty—the sort anyone could have bought at a chandler’s shop or public house. I poured a few drops of laudanum into the glass she’d drunk the cordial from, added a little water to it, and left the glass and the bottle together on the night-table. I went to the door and listened to be sure there was no one about. Then I tiptoed down to the basement and went out by the area door.

“And then something strange happened. I started to put on my boots, and I realized they weren’t mine. They were much older than mine, more cracked and worn away at the heels. I was terrified. It seemed as if some devil was playing tricks on me.”

“So that’s why you said, ‘Oh my God, me boots!’ when you was took with fever!” exclaimed Sally.

“Don’t interrupt!” Sir Richard snapped.

“I don’t remember saying it,” said Fiske, “but that must have been what I was thinking of. Anyway, I couldn’t stay to puzzle it out. I put on the boots and hurried away. When I got home, I hid
them, and next day I threw them in the river. But I couldn’t stop thinking about them. Someone must have switched boots with me, and that meant someone knew I’d been in the refuge that night. Even if it was just some tramp who didn’t know or care who I was, he might tell someone about my boots, and the whole thing might come out. But, you know, in a way I wasn’t surprised by any of it. Because I knew I’d done something terrible, and terrible deeds always get found out. At least, the Bible teaches us that, and I believe it.

“I felt very poorly next morning. My head ached, and I was dizzy. I knew I’d caught the fever I was treating at the refuge. But when Mr. Harcourt sent for me, I had to go. I had to know what they were thinking, now they’d found—her body. And I had to substitute another bottle of cordial for the poisoned one, or someone else might take it. I—examined her. I don’t know how I got through it, but I did. I thought I looked as guilty as Cain, but no one seemed to see it. I suppose they were all too upset. Mr. Harcourt was already racking his brains for what to say to people. I managed to slip away and switch the cordial bottles, but then I felt so faint I had to go in the parlour and lie down. Mr. Harcourt sent me home. I could see he wanted me out of things. I was so shaken, he was probably afraid I’d lose my head and say something I oughtn’t in public. He must have been relieved that I was too ill to come to the inquest.

“Caleb told me afterward that he was very worried when I didn’t send him any word about how things had gone. He finally went to Stark Street and hung about the refuge, till he’d satisfied himself from the neighbours’ gossip that everything had gone off as planned. He didn’t know it, but Ellen caught sight of him there. She saw him again a few days later, near my shop. He was still worried he hadn’t heard from me. I thought he was anxious about my health, but of course, now I understand he was just afraid something had gone wrong, and I was going to betray him. Ellen told me she’d seen him, and I braved it out as well as I could, pretending I knew nothing about him—hadn’t seen or heard from him in years.

“As soon as I felt well enough, I wrote to Caleb and arranged a meeting with him. That was about ten days after— after Lady Lucinda died—and a day or two before I saw you at the refuge.” He turned to Sally. “He told me you’d stolen the letter. I was badly frightened, though it wasn’t possible to feel much worse than I did already. He tried to reassure me. He said most likely you didn’t read the letter. You probably threw it on the nearest dust heap. But if by any chance you turned up at the refuge asking questions, I wasn’t to let on I knew anything about the letter. I was to find out as much as I could about you: where you lived, why you took an interest in the letter, whether you’d showed it to anyone else. And then I was to tell him all about it afterward.

“A few days later, I saw you at the refuge. I was shocked, but I’d had so many shocks by then, I was getting used to that. What really struck me all of a heap was your thinking you’d stolen the letter from me. It never crossed my mind you wouldn’t know who you got it from. At least I could tell you the truth about that much.

“It was all so strange. You’d found out a great deal, but you’d got some of it all wrong. You’d mistaken somebody else for Caleb—that man you talked to in the area. I knew he couldn’t have been Caleb, because I’d just seen him myself, and he was quite vexed that we had no idea who you were or how to find you. But I couldn’t put you right without revealing what I knew about Caleb. Then you gave me a bad scare—you mentioned how I’d raved about my boots. And I suddenly realized, that man you saw in the area—he might be the one who took them. You said he’d hung about there before. And suppose you talked to him again, and he told you he’d found my boots, and switched them for his? It seems like such a little thing, but sometimes just pulling one thread can tear a whole fabric apart. You were dangerous: I had to get rid of you. But most of all, I had to put you out of danger for your own sake.” He lowered his eyes. “I didn’t want
him
to find out you were at the refuge. There was no telling what he might make me do to you. I—I didn’t want to hurt anyone else.

“I didn’t hear from you for a day or two, I hoped you’d lost interest. I should have known better. When I got your note yesterday—it wasn’t signed, but I felt sure it was from you—I was very uneasy. But I had an idea: perhaps I could go to the meeting you’d arranged, and pay you to give up the letter. Only I couldn’t do that without talking to Caleb first. So I rushed off to his office in Southwark.