Shady Lady (8 page)

Officer Stoppes led Waldo to the magistrate’s chambers. “He’s expecting you,” he said, took one look at Waldo’s face, and beat a hasty retreat.

The man who rose at Waldo’s entrance was stout, verging on corpulent, and with his snowy white hair and cheeks wreathed in a smile, might have been taken for someone’s favorite uncle. It wasn’t a false impression, but it wasn’t accurate either. Magistrate Vine could be as hard as granite when the occasion or culprit warranted it.

Without expression, without inflection, Waldo said, “Was it really necessary to lock her up in one of your cells?”

Vine sat down at his desk, laced his plump fingers together in front of him, and smiled up at Waldo. “Sit down, Waldo. If it weren’t for the fact that she has broken the law and continues to defy me, I’d be quite taken with your Mrs. Chesney. When did she become your sister, by the way?”

Waldo took the chair on the other side of the desk. “You must have frightened her badly, Archie, before she told you that.”

“Frighten Mrs. Chesney? Don’t make me laugh. When she gets on her high ropes, there is no restraining her.” He leaned forward to make his point. “All I ask, Waldo, is that you take her off my hands as soon as possible and make damn sure she stays out of trouble.”

This was too easy. After a considering silence, Waldo said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right: You’ll let her go if I do—what?”

Vine laughed and shook his head. “No tricks, Waldo. Just post a thousand-pound bond—”

“A thousand pounds!”

“—to ensure the lady’s good behavior.”

“A thousand pounds!”

“And get the boy and hand him over to his headmaster—”

“What boy?”

“—and I’ll drop all charges against Mrs. Chesney.”

Waldo let out a long-suffering sigh. “Five hundred pounds,” he said, “and not a penny more.”

“Done,” replied Vine, beaming, “but only because you’re an esteemed colleague.”

Waldo had his doubts about that but decided to leave it for the moment. “Now tell me exactly what happened.”

It took Vine only a few minutes to sketch the story. The boy was Eric Foley, and it seemed that Jo and an older lady had abducted him from his school, at gunpoint, all because the headmaster had whipped the boy for running away from school in the first place. Naturally, the authorities had been informed, and when they’d caught up with Mrs. Chesney, she’d held them off at gunpoint too, allowing the older lady and the boy to make their escape. Where they were now, no one knew, except Mrs. Chesney, and she refused to say.

Waldo was appalled. This was really serious. “There must be more to it than this,” he said.

The magistrate got up. “Those are the facts. It doesn’t matter what the provocation was; she resisted arrest. I’m hoping you can talk some sense into her. It’s imperative that the boy be returned to his school as soon as possible. Officer Stoppes will take you to her. You must impress upon her that if she comes before this bench again, you will lose your bond and she will go to prison.”

At the door, Waldo halted. “What’s the real reason you’re letting Mrs. Chesney go?” he asked.

Vine’s lips thinned momentarily, then he heaved a sigh. “She had the temerity,” he said, “to threaten to lampoon me in her newspaper, and not only me but also this office. We’d be called bullies for picking on a poor defenseless woman and child. Oh, yes, I can just see how well that would sit at the Home Office. I’d have your people on my neck before I could turn around.”

Waldo shook his head. “And all for the sake of one small boy.”

Vine’s voice hardened. “She’s as stubborn as a mule. I hope you can talk some sense into her.” He turned away, then turned back. “One more thing.” His eyes gleamed. “I hope you’ll invite me to the wedding.” And with a hearty laugh, he shut the door.

“Very funny,” Waldo told the door.

He paid the bond to one of the clerks, found Officer Stoppes, who then escorted him to Jo’s cell.

There was a small window in the door, and he took a moment to study her through the bars. She didn’t look much like the spitfire Magistrate Vine had described. She looked like a waif of the street. She was sitting on a stool, head and shoulders bowed, hugging herself to keep warm.

When the door creaked as he pushed into the cell, her head lifted. The only light came from a candle on the center of the table. It warmed her skin and dusted her hair with flecks of pure gold. She looked as though the slightest touch would break her.

There flashed into his mind a picture of Jo at their first encounter, proud, defiant, daring him to do his worst, and he was incensed that she had been brought to this.

Their eyes met. He could hear her indrawn breath, see the relief flooding through her, then the look was gone and she straightened her spine.

“You took your time getting here,” she said.

“I came as soon as I heard you were here.”

She got up. “It seems like an eon. That’s what happens when you’re in prison. You lose track of time. I’m sorry if I snapped at you. Thank you for coming. I didn’t know if you would.”

A closer look at the cell appalled him, as did the frigid temperature. The only furnishings were the stool, a broken-down table, a straw pallet on the floor, and a chamber pot.

His mind strayed to the party he’d attended that evening, to the elegant surroundings and the pampered, perfumed ladies. That’s where Jo Chesney belonged, not in a place like this. The thought was vaguely irritating.

She looked past him to the open door. “Am I free to go?”

“You’ve been released into my custody.” He wasn’t harsh, but he wasn’t gentle either. She must be made to understand how things stood between them.

A tiny frown furrowed her brow. “I—what?”

“You’ve been released into my custody.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’ve posted a five-hundred-pound bond as surety for your good behavior, and if you don’t obey the law, I’ll lose it. That’s not going to happen, because I’m going to keep a close eye on you until . . .”

“Until what?”

He had been about to say
until the boy is back where he belongs
, but he knew that would provoke a scene and she might find herself locked up for the night, so he said instead, “until I get to the bottom of this.” He cut off her protest by putting a finger to her lips. “We’ll talk later. Now let’s get out of here before they decide to lock us both up. Where is your coat?”

He carried his point but only, he suspected, because she was either dazed with fatigue or suffering from latent shock.

She took a quick breath, hesitated, then said, “They took it away from me.”

“Then let’s get it.”

C
hapter
8

W
aldo hailed a hackney.

“Where to, g’uv?” the driver asked.

Waldo looked at Jo. “Where is the boy?”

She hesitated, but only for a moment. “With my aunt, Mrs. Daventry.”

Another moment of silence. “Jo?”

She let out a puff of breath. “Greek Street. Just off Soho Square.”

“Greek Street,” he told the driver, and after handing Jo up, he climbed in after her. “Now,” he said, as the hackney moved off, “tell me exactly what happened in Barnet after I left you.”

Her eyes flashed briefly with anger, but whether that anger was directed at him or at the memory of what happened in Barnet, he could not tell.

She said, “A maid from the school came to the Red Lion when I was out walking. She found my aunt alone. She was there, you see—the maid, I mean—at the school, when we delivered a parcel of clothes for Eric.”

“The parcel the vicar’s wife gave you?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Your maid told me before I left Stratford. That was the reason for your detour to Barnet, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But we didn’t see Eric then. In fact, we saw no one but the porter, and he wouldn’t let us in.”

“But the maid saw you?”

“Yes. She took the parcel from us and afterward came to the inn. She told my aunt that Eric had been savagely beaten for running away from school. Phoebe—that was her name—was truly alarmed. She’d helped Eric get away the first time, you see. She says that Mr. Harding was always picking on Eric, making an example of him, but this time he’d gone too far.” She paused, gathering her thoughts, then went on, “My aunt left a note for me, telling me to come to the school at once, and that’s what I did.”

Her hands curled into fists. “There was a bit of a row, but we got Eric away. He was locked in a cupboard, in a pitiful state. I couldn’t leave him to those brutes. We knew they’d be after us, so we set off at once.”

She was looking at him in a challenging way.

“A bit of a row?” he said easily. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said crisply, “that I threatened to shoot the first person who tried to stop me.”

“You had a pistol?”

“No. My aunt did. I borrowed it.”

Again, that challenging look. He let it pass for the moment and said, “Magistrate Vine said something about resisting arrest. How did that happen?”

“Anyone can say they are officers of the law. It’s not as though Runners wear uniforms. They burst in on us this morning when we were sitting down to breakfast.”

“Where was this?”

“At the Clarendon Hotel on Bond Street. When we arrived in London last night, it was too late to rouse Mrs. Daventry’s servants from their beds and get the house ready for us, so we decided to put up at a hotel for the night.”

He took a moment or two to consider her words. Finally, he said, “Tell me about the Runner who tried to arrest you. You were at breakfast. Then what happened?”

“He tried to take Eric away, to send him back to that awful school. I did what any decent person would do. I held him off while Aunt Daventry and Eric made their escape.”

“The pistol again?”

She nodded.

“I thought you said that the boy was in a bad way.”

“He revived a little when we got him away from that . . .
prison
.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think you know much about boys’ schools. The discipline may seem harsh, but if it weren’t, the teachers would soon lose control. And a whipping does more damage to a boy’s dignity than to his backside.”

“Is that how you’re going to raise
your
children, with whippings?”

“No, I shall probably—”

“What?”

He grinned. “Who said I was going to have any children?”

“You are an only son, are you not, and your father’s estates are entailed?”

“Where did you hear that?”

She practically smirked. “I read it in the
Journal
. It’s your duty to produce the next crop of Bowmans to keep your estates and fortune intact.”

“There’s no law says I have to do my duty.”

She tilted her head to get a better look at him. “That’s the thing about you, Mr. Bowman. One never knows whether you are serious or amusing yourself.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “In the matter of Eric Foley, I am in deadly earnest. If this isn’t resolved to Magistrate Vine’s satisfaction, I could lose a considerable sum of money and you could be charged with a serious offense. Now, begin at the beginning and tell me exactly who did what and how a respectable lady came to be locked up in a cell in Bow Street.”

Mrs. Daventry’s house was a modest three-story building with a handsome bow window on the ground floor. The maid who opened the door fought back tears when she saw Jo.

“Oh, miss, I’m that glad to see you,” she choked out.

“No more glad than I am to see you, Rose. Where is Mrs. Daventry?”

Jo’s matter-of-fact tone seemed to steady the maid. Her tears dried. “Upstairs, with the boy.”

They were met by Mrs. Daventry at the top of the stairs. When she saw Waldo, her jaw went slack. “Mr. Bowman,” she said faintly.

“It’s all right, Aunt.” Jo put her arm around Mrs. Daventry’s shoulders. “Mr. Bowman is here to help us. I’ll explain later. Now, take us to Eric. How is he?”

“Sleeping.”

Waldo said, “It’s true, Mrs. Daventry. I’m here to help.”

Mrs. Daventry continued to stare at Waldo. By degrees, all trace of anxiety left her face and a slow smile curved her lips. “Who says God doesn’t answer prayer? Come this way. He’s restless. Now that you’re here, Jo, he may settle.”

Mrs. Daventry stayed in the background as Jo and Waldo crossed to the bed. Jo took the chair and stared down at the sleeping child. After a moment, she felt his brow.

“He’s fevered,” she said, “and his nightshirt is wet with perspiration.”

“Has the physician been sent for?” Waldo asked.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Daventry. “I don’t know what’s keeping him.” She bit down on her lip. “I didn’t know what to do for the best. I didn’t realize Eric was fevered.”

Waldo said soothingly, “It’s probably nothing at all. Children are prone to odd fevers. All the same, let’s send for another doctor. Try Mercer on Baker Street and use my name.”

“I’ll see to it at once,” said Mrs. Daventry.

As Mrs. Daventry went off to find a servant to fetch Dr. Mercer, Jo rummaged in a drawer and came back to the bed with a clean nightshirt. “It belongs to my aunt’s grandson,” she said.

When she said Eric’s name softly, he began to moan. “Mam?” he whispered. “Mam?”

Jo said, “It’s Jo, Eric. I’m going to change your nightshirt, then you’ll feel more comfortable. All right?”

He opened his eyes and blinked up at Jo. “You broke Mr. Harding’s nose,” he said.

“No. That’s what he said, but I only tweaked it a little.”

“There was blood everywhere,” replied Eric feebly but with obvious relish.

“Yes. There was, wasn’t there? And if he comes near you, I’ll do it again.”

Waldo pressed a hand to his eyes and shook his head. “Jo,” he said in a warning tone.

At the sound of Waldo’s voice, Eric gave a little cry and tried to haul himself up. Jo put a steadying arm around his shoulders. “Look who is here,” she said. “Mr. Bowman. He is our friend. He’s here to help us. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d still be locked up in Bow Street. He won’t let anything bad happen to you, will you, Mr. Bowman?”

Waldo spoke to the boy. “We’ll talk when you’re feeling better,” he said gently. There was nothing gentle about the look he flung at Jo. It promised a swift retribution for making promises on his behalf, promises he might not be able to keep.

Mrs. Daventry returned with a glass of warm chocolate. “For his sore throat,” she said.

“Let’s change him first,” said Waldo. “Ready, Jo?”

Eric mewed like a hurt kitten as the nightshirt came off.

“I know,” said Waldo, copying Jo’s matter-of-fact tone, “you’re hot and tired and want to be left alone, but you see, Eric—” The shirt was off, and Waldo’s voice suddenly died.

“Get the candle,” he said tersely to Mrs. Daventry, “and hold it up.”

Eric cringed from that light and tried to slip beneath the covers, but Waldo was firm. “What have we here?” he said.

There were ugly fresh welts across the boy’s shoulders and back, but that was not what held Waldo’s interest. A huge dark bruise ran from under his breastbone to his groin.

Waldo’s hands hovered but he did not touch the bruise. “How did you get this, Eric?” His voice was as pleasant as before and gave no indication of the murderous rage that seethed beneath the surface.

“Mr. Harding threw me down the stairs.”

Jo was shocked. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Eric, you should have told us!”

Her outburst seemed to alarm the boy, for he cried out, “I won’t do it again.”

“Do what, Eric?” asked Waldo gently.

“Run away from school.”

Waldo turned fierce. “No, you won’t, because you’re never going back there. And if Mr. Harding shows his face here, I shall make him sorry that he ever heard the name Eric Foley.”

Eric looked at Jo. She sniffed and said, “He means that he’ll hurt Mr. Harding much worse than I did. Now, let’s get you changed, then you can drink your chocolate.”

While they were waiting for the doctor to arrive, Waldo put a number of questions to Jo and her aunt to get a clearer idea of what might be involved in solving the problem of what to do about Eric Foley. It soon became evident that they knew very little about the boy’s circumstances except that he was an orphan and that he’d become a ward of the church.

“Are you sure of that?”

Jo and her aunt exchanged a quick look. “Well, no, we don’t know for sure,” said Jo. “That’s why we refused to hand him over to the authorities. They were going to return him to that dreadful school until everything was sorted out. And there was no question of Eric going back to that school, not for a day, not for an hour.”

Waldo agreed. He’d had his share of whippings as a schoolboy, and they in no way resembled what Eric had suffered.

They spoke in hushed whispers at one end of the room so that they would not waken Eric. When he turned in his sleep, however, he visibly flinched and whimpered.

In a voice trembling with suppressed anger, Jo said to Waldo, “Now do you see what I mean? I’m going to make Harding pay for what he did to Eric.”

Her aunt said, “But what can you do, dear, a mere female?”

Though Jo was careful to keep her voice down, she made no attempt to conceal her wrath. “I’ll use the power of my newspaper to shame him, yes, and bring him to justice if the magistrate won’t act.”

Waldo said sharply, “You’ll do nothing without my consent. I have a considerable stake in ensuring your good behavior, Jo. Don’t forget it!”

“Money!” she declared. “Is that all you can think about?”

“No. But I don’t want to stir up trouble needlessly, not at this point. Think, Jo. If the authorities discover where Eric is hiding, they’ll take him away and return him to the school. We’ll deal with Harding later, after Eric is well out of his reach.”

He was right, of course, but it was against her nature to do nothing. She didn’t want any boy to suffer as Eric had.

Mrs. Daventry tactfully steered the conversation in another direction. “You haven’t told me what happened at Bow Street. How did you come to be involved, Mr. Bowman?”

“Jo sent for me,” he said, and had the pleasure of watching the color bloom in Jo’s cheeks.

She said, faltering a little, “I thought . . . it seemed . . . well, I knew Mr. Bowman had influence, and when the magistrate turned nasty—”

“After you threatened him,” Waldo cut in.

“—I remembered Mr. Bowman—”

“Please,” Waldo interrupted yet again. “After all we’ve been through together, surely it wouldn’t choke you to call me by my Christian name?”

It almost did, but she went on anyway. “I remembered
Waldo
told me that if ever I needed a friend, I should call on him.”

“So here I am,” added Waldo cheerfully.

Jo said, “I was amazed at the change in the magistrate after I mentioned Mr. Bowman’s name.” She slanted Waldo a sideways look. “All doors opened for me and I was free to go.”

“Not exactly free. As I keep reminding you, there are conditions attached.”

Mrs. Daventry was looking from one to the other, her expression oddly innocent. At that point, Eric’s plaintive voice brought the focus of attention back to him. “May I have more chocolate?”

Not long after, the doctor arrived and confirmed Waldo’s suspicions. The boy’s ribs were bruised, though none appeared to be broken. Dr. Mercer showed Jo how to bind Eric’s painfully thin rib cage, prescribed quiet and rest, then left.

When Eric was settled again, Waldo asked Jo to see him out. He wanted a word with her in private, out of earshot of Eric and Mrs. Daventry. He wanted to warn her not to get her hopes up, that if Eric had a guardian there was only so much he could do. Above all, he wanted to impress upon her the importance of keeping out of trouble. Magistrates and Runners were not to be trifled with, let alone held off at gunpoint.

In the hallway, he picked up a candle and led the way into what appeared to be a small breakfast room. He set the candle on the mantelpiece. She gazed up at him expectantly, waiting for him to begin. Her cheeks were without color; her eyes were dark.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “This can wait. Get a good night’s rest, then we’ll talk.”

She squinted up at him. “You won’t betray us to the magistrate, will you? I mean, you won’t tell the authorities that we’re here?”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when she wished them back. His expression had not changed, but she could feel his anger, sense it in his controlled response.

“I’m going to excuse that remark because I know how tired you must be. But I should like to know what reason you have to mistrust me.”

“I don’t mistrust you. I wasn’t thinking. Can’t we just leave it at that?”