A Flaw in the Blood (25 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY

T
HE ROOKERY IN ST. GILES
was colder than it had been three weeks before, but the same smell of cats and unwashed bodies permeated the entryway, and the same cluster of children was draped along the stairs.

A stranger answered the door of Button Nance's rooms: a faded woman with a jaw like a bear trap. She had no interest in Fitzgerald and no time to spare for the dead.

“Fell off Waterloo Bridge,” she told them briefly, “couple o' nights back, when she'd took a bit too much; and the little'uns gone to the work'us. No loss, I reckon. She were a vicious ol' bitch and 'ad the pox in 'er.”

The workhouse belonged to St. Paul's, the actors' church in Covent Garden, and it was a small matter for Fitzgerald and Gibbon to inquire after the children. Three little girls were pointed out among the welter of grey-clad orphans working the parish mangle; of the boy, Davey, there was no sign.

“Lemme talk up the lads what sweep the crossings,” Gibbon suggested. “They'll know summat, I reckon.”

It was nearly eleven o'clock, and Georgie would be brought before the magistrate at two. Fitzgerald gave the little girls a shilling each, and left the steaming laundry for the throngs of idle and savage boys who haunted the nearby market.

Davey had never gone back to Button Nance's after Lizzie died.

He took to working the Oxford Street omnibus line from Edgware Road to Bishopsgate: swinging up onto the platform with the crowd of working-class men each morning, and pinching a pocket or two before leaping off into the darker byways. When another 'bus came by, he repeated his performance, the wallets and purses tossed each time to the guv'nor what kept him fed, in an attic room full of similar boys, deep in the heart of his old rookery. Davey had quick, delicate fingers and agile legs; the work came easily and paid better than sweeping crossings. He lived now only four streets away from St. Giles, in a warren of windowless and airless rooms lined with pallets, where he slept most nights; days he spent on the street. Twice, he had glimpsed his little sisters in the St. Paul's workhouse yard; but it did not do to stare at them too long. They might notice Davey, and call out—and Davey had vowed never to be taken alive into the parish workhouse.

He was standing on the corner of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, eyeing an approaching 'bus that looked sadly empty so close to the noon hour, the wet straw of the inner compartment sifting dirtily down the platform steps, when a hand clapped him on the shoulder. Instinctively, he twisted free and darted to one side—straight into Fitzgerald's arms.

“Wotcher,” he snarled. “I ain't done anyfink. Lemme go!”

It took both of them to carry the struggling boy into a nearby public house, and it was only when Fitzgerald threatened to turn him over immediately to the police that he stopped calling loudly for help and grudgingly agreed to accept their offer of small beer and a pasty.

They sat with Davey firmly between them, Gibbon holding the boy's left wrist. Fitzgerald waited until he had devoured most of his meal before he even attempted to get the boy's attention; he had known that look of starvation intimately before.

“Would you like another?” he asked, and when Davey nodded, his mouth too full to speak, Fitzgerald jerked his head at Gibbon. “You order. I'll be all right. The lad won't run while we feed him.”

When the valet stepped cautiously away from the table, a look of misgiving on his face, Fitzgerald told the boy, “I'll give ye a pound for an afternoon's work. That's money you won't have to share with anyone else—provided you keep it hidden.”

Davey raised his eyes from his empty plate and studied Fitzgerald narrowly. “You're the toff what came with the lady,” he said. “When Lizzie was sick. Afore she died. But you're not a swell no more. I reckon you ain't got a pound between you, you and the other cove what calls you
mister.
”

Fitzgerald drew the note from his pocket and held it in front of Davey's face. “I don't keep my wallet in my coat, so don't get any ideas. This is yours—provided you earn it.”

“Wot's yer lay?” Davey demanded.

“Justice,” Fitzgerald said softly. “For your sister Lizzie. And the lady who tried to save her.”

A shadow passed over the boy's face and his eyes slid away. For perhaps thirty seconds, he weighed Fitzgerald's words. Then, without warning, he darted out of his seat and shot like lightning for the public-house door.

St. Giles Street, where Lizzie had died, fell under the Bow Street magistrate's jurisdiction. Georgiana had spent a restless night in one of the old magistracy's cells, attempting to learn what she could of the charges against her. She gathered that Button Nance had informed Bow Street of her daughter's death at the hands of an abortionist, and had named Georgiana as the party responsible. But Button Nance had disappeared. The man who had caused Georgie's arrest was a complete stranger to her.

A half-hour before she was to appear in front of the magistrate, an ancient with a face like a sun-dried orange materialised at the door of her cell. His fingers were stained yellow with tobacco and a trail of snuff dusted his waistcoat; he wore a grey peruke on his bald scalp. He peered at her distastefully through the bars.

“You are Georgiana Armistead?”

“I am. But I have not the pleasure—”

“I am your solicitor, madam.” The old man's voice was dry as paper. “Unless there is another you would prefer to act for you?”

Georgie stared at him.

“You are accused of committing abortion. That is a crime under section fifty-eight of the Offences Against the Person Act, 1861, passed into law by act of Parliament, 24 & 25 Victoria. It is punishable by death. Or possibly transportation, should you wring the hearts of the jury. Our purpose today is merely to hear the charges read against you. Your trial, should you be committed to trial, will occur at the next Assizes, by which time you will, of course, have retained a barrister. Have you any money?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“
Money?
To meet your legal obligations?”

“Of course,” Georgiana stammered. “I can give you a draft on my bank.”

“My fee is five pounds. Have you anything you wish to say?”

“I should like to know your name, sir.”

He closed his eyes in a gesture of long suffering. “I hardly think that is necessary. Until, of course, we come to the matter of payment. You will protest your innocence, Miss Armistead. It is the only possible defence available to you.”

She had hoped, in her heart of hearts, to see Fitzgerald in the room that served as Bow Street's court. But there was no one present except a small knot of the Accused, awaiting their fate before the magistrate, and the solicitors who had agreed to act for them. Such men were the scavengers of the legal world—they hung about the magistracy in search of clients, hoping to collect a fee for their casual representation.

At the rear of the room stood a barrel-chested man with overlong arms and a simian aspect; Georgie felt his gaze follow her as she was led forward by a constable. She was trembling, the exhaustion of recent days overwhelming her, the words
punishable by death or transportation
screaming insistently through her brain.
Punishable by death or transportation.

“You are one Georgiana Armistead, spinster, of Number 113, Russell Square . . . that you did willfully and knowingly commit the dreadful act of abortion on the night of fifteenth December last, on the person of Elizabeth Tyler, age fourteen, of this parish, who subsequently died of injuries of your infliction . . . Who brings these charges?”

“I do, Yer Honour.”

Georgiana glanced over her shoulder; the simian man at the back of the room, leering at her.
Punishable by death or transportation
. She had never seen him before in her life, yet there was something familiar . . . a knot of figures on the roof of a tenement building, her booted feet sliding on the ice . . .

“Miss Armistead,” the magistrate repeated, “I asked whether you have anything to say in answer to these claims.”

She looked at him: a lined face, bleak eyes, no expectation of innocence. “Your Honour, I am a doctor certified by the Medical College of Edinburgh. The child's mother called me to Lizzie's bedside on the fifteenth of December, when fever and generalised infection had already weakened the girl's frame. I examined her and found that an abortion had been done some days previous, by a hand unknown to me. I administered chloroform and removed the child's uterus, which was gangrenous. I learned later that evening that the child had died. I deeply regret the fact of her death—but regard myself as in no way responsible for it. I am innocent of these charges.”

The magistrate regarded her steadily. “I am astonished, Miss Armistead, that you would add insult to the injuries already committed, by claiming to be a
doctor.
Mr. Troy, you are acting as solicitor for this woman?”

“I am, Your Honour,” replied the ancient wearily. “Perhaps we shall discover that she is mad.”

From the rear of the room came a stifled guffaw.

It was over, and Patrick had not come.

Dazed, Georgiana allowed herself to be led from the front of the room once more, the hand of the same constable beneath her elbow, the simian face leering from the shadows.
Punishable by death or transportation. If she managed to wring the hearts of the jury.
If she suggested that she was mad. If she denied the truth of her own science and threw herself on the mercy of the ignorant—

“Gibbon,” she said aloud, as her eyes met those of the valet standing in the doorway.

His gaze flicked over her; he gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. With both hands he held the upper arms of a young boy, his head hanging, who appeared to have been dragged through the doorway. With a quickening of her heart she recognised Davey.

“Mr. Troy? Where is Mr. Troy?” Gibbon called clearly. “I've evidence as he'll wish to hear.”

“I am Mr. Troy.” Georgie's ancient sighed. “If you must needs speak, perhaps we might adjourn to the Bear—?”

“No,” Davey burst out. “I've come to see justice done. Mr. Magistrate, sir—” he raised his hand and pointed at the barrel-chested man with the leer—“the lady didn't hurt my sister Lizzie.
That
cove did. He put a pillow over her head and stifled the life out of her. His name is Jasper Horan.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

W
HEN HE RECEIVED ODALINE DUFIEF'S
card that Wednesday, the eighth of January, von Stühlen held it in his palm for several seconds, debating whether to deny his presence.

He had returned to London only hours before, well aware of the risk he ran. But his signature at the base of a damning confession meant he had only two choices: to live out his days in poverty in Hesse—where the family's mortgaged estates held nothing for him—or to hunt Patrick Fitzgerald down, and kill him. So much was within his grasp: a comfortable income. An English title. His hand in Victoria's purse as a condition of his lifelong silence. He would not give up any of these; he did not accept the inevitability of death.

He was hampered in travel by the wound in his leg and the disappearance of his valet, Heinrich—who had vanished into the night somewhere around Rodau. Solitude and pain honed his taste for violence; honed his calculations as well. Georgiana Armistead was the lynchpin of all his plans. She alone could bring Fitzgerald to bay: If von Stühlen found her, threatened her life and security, the Irishman would walk freely into his trap.

Luck favoured him. Jasper Horan did his work well. The girl was stupid enough to send for her clothes in Russell Square.

He was waiting, now, for Horan's report from Bow Street—he would not go near the magistrate himself, out of fear of that signed confession. When he took Fitzgerald, it would be in isolation and darkness, far from the aid of the Law.

He weighed the stiff card in his hand.
Odaline duFief.
He had no time to spare for a social call, but the woman might prove useful—she might know where Fitzgerald would hide. She obviously wanted his blood as badly as von Stühlen did.

“Show her up,” he ordered the porter. “She's alone, I expect?”

“Quite alone, sir.”

“How daring of her.” Von Stühlen smiled.

There was one benefit of maintaining the fiction that Papa had died of typhoid, Alice thought; it allowed her to plead a vague and potentially dangerous set of symptoms throughout those first few weeks of January, and no one—not even Mama, for obvious reasons—would attempt to argue with her. Uneasy headaches. Loss of appetite. Restless sleeping. All the members of the Household, even the servants, were worried she was sickening for the dread disease—she who had nursed Papa to the last.

She cultivated the habit of retiring to her room at midday, reclining on a sofa with her books or her writing paper. Her old nurse ordered everyone at Osborne to leave her in peace. From time to time she felt Mama's eyes follow her in speculation—from the Queen at least she had no secrets; but Mama's hand was stayed. She could not proclaim to the world that her daughter was promulgating nonsense.

So when Alice left her rooms that Wednesday morning, no one was available to watch her hurried flight down the broad back-terrace steps. She avoided the stables. It was more than a mile's walk into Cowes, but she had allowed herself plenty of time. She knew the Portsmouth steamer's schedule by heart. It was only as she attempted to board, heart pounding and mind singing at her escape, that someone had the courage to speak to her.

“Bonjour, madame.”

Von Stühlen bowed with his usual grace, but Odaline duFief seemed unimpressed. She was heavily veiled against the January streets and carried an enormous fur muff; her clothing was black and severe.
Mourning,
he thought.
How she embraces the old bitch's cause! Or is this for Albert? More of the national hypocrisy?

“You are very good to receive me,” she murmured; he caught the trace of an accent, the glint of unblinking eyes behind the veil.

“Not at all. I imagine we both work toward the same end—justice for that unfortunate boy. Pray sit down, and tell me how I may serve you.”

She did not accept the invitation, but crossed the carpet deliberately, as though drawn by the sound of his voice.

He hesitated, aware of something unanticipated in her manner. She was too much in command of herself—she had no desire for complicity, though she halted barely a yard from his face.

“My husband, you see, has told me all about you.” She withdrew one black-gloved hand from her muff and reached dreamily for her veil. As he watched her unwind its smoky length, the face emerging like an apparition, the muff dropped carelessly to the floor. In her free hand was a gun.

“Lady Maude,” he stammered, stepping backwards. “I thought—”

“You thought I was a fool,” she said.

And fired at his heart from point-blank range.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Georgiana said quietly in the girl's ear.

Princess Alice turned, an expression of fright flitting across her features.

“I am Dr. Armistead. You wished to speak with me, I believe? I thought it best to come to
you,
rather than demanding the exertion of a Solent crossing.”

“Dr. Armistead?” The Princess's gaze flicked past Georgie to the pair of men standing several paces behind her. “But . . . you are a
lady
—”

“I am also qualified in medicine. Your late father the Prince Consort was a valued acquaintance. It was to speak of him, I believe, that you placed that notice in the
Times
? Although, to be frank, he was never my patient, Your Highness. He consulted me on behalf of your brother.”

Alice said nothing for an instant, glancing about with a hunted look.

“We have engaged a fly,” Georgiana attempted. “If you will consent to enter it, we may speak in complete privacy. For my part, I promise no harm shall come to your person or reputation.”

“Of course. It is only that— If only I could be certain—”

“That I am who I claim?” Georgiana smiled. “Would it help you to know that I am recently returned from Cannes? That I met your brother Leopold there? And that he was so kind as to lend me his donkey, Catherine?”

“Leo!”

“The Prince and I are old friends. It was he your Papa required me to examine.”

Alice's expression clouded. “Then I was wrong. I thought perhaps you knew something of my father that I did not—that you might be capable of dispelling some grave fears that have attended me since his tragic death—but if you were
Leo's
physician—”

“There is much that we might discuss,” Georgiana said carefully. “But not in such an exposed place. May I beg to introduce another who is closely concerned in these affairs? Your Highness, may I present Mr. Patrick Fitzgerald to your acquaintance?”

*    *    *

She stared down at his body where it lay on the carpet, blood spreading across the elegant white shirtfront, a darker stain on the black cloth of his waistcoat. His sensual lips were parted, exposing the teeth; his one good eye stared coldly at the brass fender.

She had an idle fancy to remove the eye patch and probe the empty socket with her finger; or to kneel down and kiss those parted lips—either would have been a sensation she might have enjoyed, in the past. But she was so very tired now. To kill him had required all the attention and energy she could summon from her dying frame, all the mental force she could muster. She wanted, now, to sleep.

Maude did not intend to hang for von Stühlen's murder. She would not appear at the Bar to offer her confused testimony. She simply placed the copy of the Count's confession in his dead right hand, and composed herself in a convenient chair. When the porter's running feet had reached the door of the third-floor flat, she fired the gun a second time.