Secret Night (16 page)

"Hit's him, I tell ye! 'Tis the bloody cove 'as done it!"

Cornered, he had no choice but to brazen it out. He swung around and pointed at his pursuer. "Ye ain't a-murderin' me also! Devil take ye fer killin' th' gel!"

The watchman was torn for a moment, then advanced on him. "Where's yer coat?" he demanded.

He licked his lips. "He was tryin' to rob me," he gasped breathlessly. "I saw 'im kill the gel, and I ran."

" 'E's lyin'—th' filthy bloke's lyin'! There's blood on his shirt!"

The expressions of the men around him were menacing, ominous as they took in his torn waistcoat and his scratched face. He backed away, begging the watchman, "You got t' keep 'em away from me! If any's lying, 'tis him!"

But the watchman was peering closely at his face. "That yer coat back there?" he demanded.

"Aye, but—" He cast a wary eye around him. "She was a tart—we was doing it—"

"And the bloody cove killed 'er!"

He licked his lips again and tried to quiet the fear within. "He came in—was goin' to rob me." Nearly sobbing, he choked out, "I'd give m'gold to the gel, and so I told him—he turned on her—"

" 'Tis true, Johnny?" someone demanded.

"Blood's on 'im—not me," Johnny retorted.

Rough hands grabbed him then, dragging him back to the dingy room, thrusting him inside. For an awful moment, he feared they were going to hang him from the exposed beams above. But the watchman turned over the gold ring with the toe of his boot, then bent to pick it up.

"Blood on it," he declared succinctly. Looking across the room, he asked, "Yers?"

"No."

"Hit don't fit me!" Johnny protested loudly. "Make 'im put hit on!"

"Your coat?"

"Aye."

"If it weren't 'im, 'ow'd he get the marks on 'is face?" one of the men wanted to know.

"Your cloak?"

"Aye."

"Damme if it ain't got a hood onter it!" someone discovered gleefully. "We got 'im! 'E likely killed Peg and th' other also!"

"You are lookin' at the wrong man!" he cried. "I can explain—"

"Aye, ye can—ter the constable," the watchman growled. "Ye'd best come along wi' me."

"Listen—I got money—'tis Bartholomew Rand as you've got, you fool!"

" 'E said 'e didn't 'ave any!" Johnny shouted triumphantly. " 'E's the cove as has murdered me Annie— and 'era gel as was only a-tryin' ter earn 'er bread!" Overcome, he had to stop to wipe at his eyes with his dirty fist. " 'E killed 'er!"

"Old Rand, eh?" the watchman said, looking him up and down. "Aye, ye'll need yer blunt, I'll wager."

"This is ridiculous!" Rand spluttered. "You ain't taking his word above mine surely?"

" 'Tis ye as has got the blood about ye," was all the fellow said. Closing his hand over Rand's arm, he gestured toward the others. "Billy, you watch o'er the body—the rest o' ye come with me t' take 'im in."

Patrick woke up to an urgent note from Bartholomew Rand, requesting that he attend him at Newgate. Making haste to the Bailey to enter a plea in for a client, he encountered Peale, who told him nearly everything about Rand's capture, declaring the constable and magistrate were on their way to providing the prosecution a damned good case. Stunned, Patrick canceled his morning appointments by messages to Byrnes and Banks, then he crossed Newgate Street to the prison.

"Well, it took you long enough," Rand said sourly when Patrick was ushered into the damp, cramped cell. Looking around himself with disgust, he grumbled, "They ain't givin' me a better place until I pay 'em for it. Pigs! This ain't fit fer pigs, sirrah, and they've put Bat Rand into it! Well, I want out—I want you to get me out now! Not tomorrow nor the day after, but
now
,
you understand me?"

"I think you'd best sit down," Patrick said quietly. "Sit down! The devil I will! I ain't staying in this filth, I tell you!"

"The charge against you is murder."

"Murder!" Rand snorted contemptuously. "She wasn't nothin' but a dirty little cock's inn!"

"The charge is still murder," Patrick pointed out evenly.

"She was unfit to take air with decent people!"

"If I speak with Peale, perhaps it can be arranged to plead you Thursday next. Even then, I doubt any of the justices will agree to set bail given the charge, not to mention that there is a continuing investigation."

"Thursday next! Damme if I shall wait for that, sir— damme if I will!"

"Sit down, Mr. Rand."

"I ain't—"

Patrick closed his leather folder and called for a guard. The old man paled, then sank onto the narrow bench, the chains at his ankles clanking against the floor. "I ain't used to being ordered about, Mr. Hamilton," he noted testily. "In my business, I'm doing the ordering."

"This is my business."

"I'm paying you to get me out of here!" Rand snapped.

"I am not here to work against you, but I require a modicum of cooperation, else I shall not be able to represent you," the younger man reminded him. "And I'm afraid I've not much time ere I have to appear in court again. Now—" He took a seat beside Bartholomew Rand. "Now I would that you told me the whole. Otherwise, I shall simply send Mr. Banks to take your statement tomorrow;"

"Tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow, sir."

"But there ain't nothing to tell, sirrah—nothing. I ain't done nothing, that's all I got to say."

Patrick looked pained. "You are charged with the murder of a Miss Annie Adams, sir—and according to Mr. Peale and one of the magistrates, there is the possibility that you will also be charged with that of Miss Fanny Shawe."

"Demned free with the 'misses,' ain't they? Miss Adams! Miss Shawe! Why, they wasn't nothing but filth upon the earth, Mr. Hamilton!"

"Did you kill Annie Adams?"

Rand stared hard at him for a minute, then his lip curled. "No, but 'tis a good enough riddance, ain't it?"

"I pray you will not say that in court, sir," Patrick said coldly. "It will not play well with the jury." "Truth's truth, ain't it?"

"Do you deny all knowledge of Miss Adams?"

"Course I don't deny it! M'coat and cloak was there, wasn't they?"

"I should prefer to ask the questions, Mr. Rand."

"Eh?"

"If I am to take the case, sir, I shall expect total honesty between us."

"I got enough gold to make you richer'n Golden Ball, Hamilton!" the old man retorted. "Don't go a-dangling 'ifs' between us."

"Honesty, Mr. Rand. If I accepted every client willing to meet my fee, I should be sadly overworked. Now—how did you know Miss Adams?"

"Wish you'd cease calling her a miss," Rand growled. "She was no more a miss than one of them rats as in the cellars."

"Mr. Rand—"

"All right," the old man muttered grudgingly. "I was doing what you'd think there. Gave her a guinea for everything, she said."

"Given the place, a pound seems rather a lot, doesn't it?"

"Dash it, sirrah, but you wasn't borned a fool, was you? I was gettin' over, under, and a tongue-licking, too—there, I have said it, ain't I?"

"Go on."

"Ain't much else to tell."

"There is the matter of Annie Adams's murder. Did you witness it?"

"Aye." Rand looked up at him from beneath heavy brows. "Don't know as what Mrs. Rand and Ellie are going to say to this," he muttered. "It ain't as what I'd like 'em to know."

"No doubt," Patrick murmured dryly. "Now, what precisely transpired last night when you were with Miss Adams?"

"I told you to cease calling her a miss! She was a whore, sir—a demned
whore!"
Seeing that Patrick's patience was thinning again, he raised his hand, then dropped it to his knee. "Well, we was doing the business when—"

"How were you dressed, sir?"

"Dressed? Devil take you for a fool, sirrah! What would you think I'd be a-wearing when I was a-going at her?"

"Where was your cloak? Your coat?"

"My cloak was on the floor where I took it off. I was bang-tailing her, wasn't I?"

"And the coat? Did you have it on?"

"You ain't got no right to ask all my business," Rand grumbled.

"Were you wearing your coat?" Patrick persisted.

"Don't see what difference it makes. I had my pantaloons unbuttoned, and that was all as was needed, if you get my meaning."

"One last time, sir—were you wearing your coat, or had you removed it?"

"Cannot remember," the old man said mulishly. "Cannot think why you was to ask it."

"Your coat was found on the floor by the bucket, sir. As was a ring that fits you."

"Then I must've taken 'em off before."

"You took off your ring first?" Patrick asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Not the ring. Her Johnny come for the money took it from me, I suppose."

"Then how did you get blood on the coat?"

"Damn it, sir! I don't have to stand for this—no, sir—not at all! You are supposed to get me out of here, not ask all the demned questions as don't concern you! How the devil am I to know what happened, I ask you? All I was doing was putting the cock to the pudding."

"I'm afraid Mr. Peale will ask the same questions of you when you are under oath in court," Patrick said tiredly. "Now did you take your coat off before or after you coupled with Miss Adams?" Referring to notes he'd made after he'd spoken with Peale, he added, "Or did you finish your business at all?"

"Of course I finished it! What do you take me for—a funny boy? I did her up real good, sir—real good."

"Before or after you took off your coat?"

"What's this coat business, anyway?" Rand demanded angrily. "What if I was to say I don't know?"

"Then I hope you are prepared to hang."

"Eh? No, sirrah, by God, I am not," the old man blustered. "I got you, and you are getting me out. Best demned barrister as there is to be had, ain't you?"

"One of the best, in any event." Patrick regarded Rand soberly for a long moment. "But I cannot keep Peale or Milton from making you look as guilty as sin itself if you are unwilling to assist in your defense. Now—did you murder Annie Adams?"

"I already told you I didn't!"

"Then will you explain how your bloody coat came to be on the floor beside the bucket? Or how the water in that bucket came to contain what appears to be blood? Or how a gold ring that fits you was lying there also?"

"I don't see—"

"Because if you took them off before, you will have to satisfactorily explain to a jury of your peers how blood happens to be on them. And if you took it off after, you will have to explain how you found the time to do so."

"She was just a tart, for God's sake! They ain't going to hang Bartholomew Rand over no tart!"

"How did she die, Mr. Rand?"

"They was rolling me, sir! There—I have said it."

"When?"

"When I was a-gettin' off the gel!" The old man sucked in his breath and let it out slowly. "I ain't used to being talked to like this, Mr. Hamilton."

"Are you used to hanging, sir?" Patrick countered. "Somehow I cannot think you truly wish to kick out your life on the Nubbing Cheat."

"No, of course not. But they ain't hanging a man as has got my sort of money," Rand maintained stubbornly.

"Your sort of money will insure that the mob will demand a hanging. Now—honesty, sir."

"It ain't easy to tell it." The old man looked at where his hand rested on his knee. "Thing is, I don't want it to get out and about what I was doing. I got to think of Emmaline."

"I rather think it out already. Peale has spoken with the newspapers, and I daresay every paper and handbill in London will publish an account."

"Aye, I suppose so," Rand conceded finally.

"All right. What was you wanting me to say?"

"I want you to tell the truth. While your guilt or innocence is of no moment to me, I still like to know what sort of cards Peale could have in his hand."

Rand viewed him with disgust, then returned his attention to his knee. "I said I didn't kill the whore — ain't that enough? Have I got to wash all m'linen in court?"

"There have been a number of prostitutes murdered and thrown in the river lately—I think Peale said there were at least five, possibly seven where there were similarities. In any event, there is a public outcry to end it."

"Public!" Rand snorted. "Rabble's more like it."

"Rabble, then. Whatever you choose to call them, they are clamoring for a hanging, and once the story is told in the newspapers, it will be your hanging they want."

"I mean to tell the judge as I ain't done it," the old man retorted.

"Unfortunately—or fortunate, as the case may be— you will not be allowed to testify for yourself." Patrick waited until Rand looked at him, then he added, "The only things between you and the noose are me and a jury, sir."

"I still say they don't hang a rich man."

"And I am telling you there will not be a ticket to be had to the gallery," Patrick declared flatly. "And if you are convicted, people will come with beds and picnic baskets to see you go to the gallows."

The old man was silent for a moment, then he nodded. "All right," he said again. "We was finishing the business when the fellow came in and demanded money of me. I said as I didn't have any—that I'd given it to the gel. He pulled me off’n her and started going at her with his sticker. There was blood every-wheres, and I was afeared he was going to do me in with her."

"And what did you do?" Patrick prompted. "Did you try to help? Did you run for help, sir?"

"Dash it, but I been robbed thrice already! No, course I didn't go out a-calling for aid! No telling as who might've shown, eh? No, sirrah, I was in a hurry to go, I can tell you."

"He stabbed her while you were positioned over her?"

"I was a-trying to get out of the way."

"But you saw him do it?"

"Aye."

"What sort of knife did he use?"

"How the devil am I to know that?" Rand asked querulously. "I told you—I was a-wantin' to get out of there."

"How did you lose your ring?"

Rand toyed with his hand. "Damme if I ain't already told you that."

"Before he stabbed her or after?"

The old man eyed him malevolently. "How the devil should I remember that? If you was wantin' to know, ask the cove as killed her. You ain't got no right to talk to me as if I
was the criminal."