The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (30 page)

Elizabeth waited, but he was alone. She prayed he would listen to reason and give in to his greed. She didn't want to pull her gun.

Nobody followed Skully. Stepping out from behind the tomb, Elizabeth blurted, “Are you planning to tell the truth about Robert Whitney's murder?”

“What d'ya mean?”

She rephrased her question. “Who killed Robert Whitney?”

“That depends on who's askin'.”

“
I'm
asking. I'm the highwayman's chosen pell, his partner, and I want to know how you're going to testify at his trial.”

“Depends.”

“What does it depend on?”

Skully shrugged his bony shoulders.

Elizabeth tried again. “Lord Stafford has questioned you about that night, has he not?”

“Aye. Over an' over.”

“What did you say? What do you remember?”

“Enough.”

She heaved a deep sigh. Perhaps now was the time to mention money. If Skully refused her bribe, perhaps the mere
threat
of death would be enough. He had seen her shoot Whitney, so he realized full well that she was capable of murder. Except Skully had no idea who she was. For all he knew, she might be the Prince of Wales. “Rand Remington has been charged with Robert Whitney's murder,” she said, trying to keep her voice gruff. “Are you going to testify that Remington shot him?”

Skully grunted.

Tossing her coin purse from hand to hand, Elizabeth stepped toward him. “If you testify that someone else shot Whitney, I'll reward you generously.”

“'Ow generous?”

“Seventy-five guineas, more if you leave York. Should you swear under oath that Rand Remington shot Whitney, you'll be murdered in your sleep. Horribly, painfully murdered. Is that quite clear?”

“Aye. Give over yer seventy-five guineas. I know wot t' say.”

Elizabeth placed the coins in his hand. Her fingers brushed his knobby joints and his nearly fleshless palm, which was as cold as the tomb stones. Quickly, she withdrew. “Remember, Skully, I'll be watching.” Eager to flee from him, she retreated toward the church's side door.

“Miss Wyndham,” he said in a voice that creaked like the hinges on a coffin.

Slowly, Elizabeth turned around.

“Ye forgot t' hide all that pretty black hair 'neath a hat, so 'tis clear ye're the 'ighwayman's lady, the one what shot me partner.”

Her mouth dropped open, but she quickly regained her composure. “That does not matter. I have friends—”

“Lord Stafford promised me one hundred guineas t' say yer 'ighwayman did the killin'.”

Stunned, she blurted, “Rand will hang for highway robbery so why would Stafford need a murder charge?”

Skully shrugged, then thrust the coins inside his pocket.

“Wait! If you plan to testify for Stafford, give me back my money!”

Skully spit an obscenity, one Elizabeth had never heard before, one she could add to her growing list of underworld cant. Before she could pull her pistol, his long shanks found the door, and she could only watch him disappear.

***

Elizabeth shivered in the cold March air. Her brocade slippers crunched on the hard crust of snow, her toes were chips of ice, and she fervently wished she had borrowed her uncle's boots again. “Where are you, Billy?” she whispered, glancing up at the stars that pockmarked the sky. “I can't wait here all night. I'll probably die from hoarfrost.”

Her breath plumed in front of her face. Why was Billy so late? What if something bad had happened in court today? The Assize Judge only came twice a year and was hearing several cases besides Rand's, but Rand's was the most serious. Rand's crime was a crime against property and the natural order of things. To take a man's property was more serious than murder, or at least murder among the poor, which meant that Rand was doubly doomed. And yet so much depended upon the judge's interpretation of the law, his mood, his prejudices and sensibilities, not to mention the jury's opinion of events. Those opinions could oft be changed with bribes.

Which is why we need money,
Elizabeth thought, pacing the garden path.
We never have enough.

Aunt Lilith refused to throw a sop to a criminal. The contents of the stolen coin purse had been spent. Billy had pawned Walter's watch and ring, but that money had been spent as well. After all, Rand must eat, bathe, exercise, stay warm.

At long last, Elizabeth spied Billy's stocky figure, swathed in a black cloak. Almost stumbling, she hurried toward him. “How is the trial going? How is Rand?”

“Fine enough on both counts.” Billy affectionately mussed her hair and kissed her cheek. “Judge Herriott's a blustery fellow, full of himself, but he seems a fair man.”

“Is there any chance Rand might be freed? How strong is the case against him?”

“The murder's not yet been brought up. There's someone here who might help us, Bess. Please don't piss on a nettle.”

“Why would I be upset? If someone can help…” She paused when Tom Turnbull stepped from the shadows. “You! How dare you show your face anywhere near me?”

“I felt the same,” Billy said, his voice calm, “but Tom thinks he can help us free Rand.”

Elizabeth shook her head in disgust. “What will you do now, Judas? Tell Lord Stafford where I am? Collect another reward?”

“I'm sorry matters turned out as they did, Miss Wyndham.”

Tom wore his own hair, which strengthened his resemblance to Rand. Tom also wore an exquisitely tailored greatcoat. He had gained weight, and Elizabeth thought he sounded every bit as unctuous as Walter ever had. Chewing her bottom lip, she regarded him both angrily and warily.

“With my reward, I bought into Shepherd's and have already tripled my original sum,” Tom continued. “I'll not apologize for that. I found a way out of poverty, and I'll not apologize for that either.”

“But you betrayed your own flesh and blood!”

“I love my cousin, despite what you might believe, and I plan to spend a portion of my money to free him.”

“Your generosity overwhelms me, Thomas Turnbull! Without you, Rand wouldn't be in need of funds. He'd be a free man.”

“Sooner or later, Rand would have been caught. Better now when we might exercise some control.”

“How can I trust you?”

“I must come first, Miss Wyndham. Since I no longer have to worry about money, I can help my cousin.”

Turning toward Billy, she said, “This is absurd. Get him out of here.”

“Tom's been talkin' with some barristers, Bess, and it looks promisin'. We could get Rand off on a… what's it called, Tom?”

“Meaningful detail. Two, in fact. There were two minor errors. My cousin's name was listed as Randolph Remington, rather than
John
Randolph Remington, and his date of capture as Saturday, December first, when it was actually Sunday, December second.”

“That's ridiculous,” Elizabeth fumed. “No court would free Rand over some minor mistake.”

“It happens all the time, Miss Wyndham. I stood up today and informed Judge Herriott of the errors, as is my right. He took my objections seriously, and is presently considering whether he should throw the whole case out.”

“Can that be possible?” Elizabeth tried to decipher Tom's expression. What treachery lay behind his glib facade? “Are you planning to tell Lord Stafford my whereabouts? Is that your real reason for coming here?”

“Tom knows what will happen if we're betrayed again, don't you, Tom?” Billy's tone remained matter of fact, but the implied threat was obvious.

“Of course. I didn't have to offer any help at all, did I?”

“Yes, you did,” Elizabeth said. “If Rand dies, you won't enjoy your profits, for I shall haunt you. Or kill you.”

Tom drew himself up to his full height. Despite his youth, he looked like a father about to scold a recalcitrant child. “Should my meaningful detail scheme fail and Rand be convicted, he could still cheat the hangman. We can always ask for a royal pardon.”

“What are the odds of that being granted?” she asked.

“Much depends on Rand. If he acts properly contrite at the sentencing, he has a good chance of being transported. I have several friends of influence who have agreed to plead for him.”

“I'm sure you do. And what are the odds that Rand will act properly contrite?”

“Has he ever expressed regret over his misdeeds?”

She considered the question. “Not since I've known him. It was obvious to me that he didn't care for his actions, but he blamed them on events that occurred five hundred years ago. Oh, 'tis all so complicated.” She glared at Tom. “Had we left England, Rand would have changed. He might still crave excitement, but I truly believe he would have used his wits and strength to carve out a better life for us, a
profitable
existence, one that wasn't achieved at the expense of others, especially his own family.”

“Then if all else fails,” Tom said, ignoring Elizabeth's outburst, “Rand could ultimately decide whether he lives or dies.”

On the final day of the trial, after Rand had been found guilty of both murder and robbery, Elizabeth decided to attend the sentencing. Not surprisingly, Tom's ploy had resulted in nothing more than a short postponement, so the next step was to plead for a royal pardon. Elizabeth had written Rand an eloquent speech in which he begged that his life be spared, and Billy swore up and down that Rand had memorized it. Tom was right about one thing. Royal pardons were frequently granted.

Head bent, Elizabeth approached York's Assize Courts. Law officials were everywhere, but she hadn't seen Rand since her escape from Newgate ten weeks ago, and she hungered to glimpse him again, if only from a distance.

This time she had invaded Lilith's wardrobe. Over three panniers, Elizabeth wore an elaborate polonaise, its fitted waist and draped cutaway overskirt partially hidden by a fur-lined cardinal. Beneath the hood of the cardinal, her hair was arranged in side curls, powdered white.

Not a comprehensive disguise,
she thought.
But if Skully attends, my man's garb might spark a dim memory. Hoping to collect the reward, he could point me out to Walter.

The Assize Courts was a two-story structure of smoke-colored stone, topped by a statue of Justice bearing scales and a spear. While taking her place at the end of a line snaking down the broad stone steps, Elizabeth noticed the two guards who stood on either side of the entrance, watching the crowd. She hoped they weren't looking for her, but feared they were. Had Walter surmised she'd attend?

Of course he had. Never again would she underestimate the bloody lawman's talents, nor his obsession for her.

Gaze fastened upon her heeled slippers, chin sinking to her neck, Elizabeth grabbed the arm of a nearby gentleman and scooted past the guards. The wigged whip kept his silence, intrigued by her air of mystery. Once safely inside the Crown Court, she murmured an apology, then hurried upstairs to the gallery, which flanked three sides of the room. Weaving her way among the spectators, she finally positioned herself at an angle where she could see both the bench and Rand.

Crown Court was not as large as Elizabeth had imagined, but it was more bedazzling. She had expected a place of death to be somber, its architecture as weighted as its sentences. Instead, she observed a beautifully painted ornamental dome, topped by a circular window. A feeble wheel of sunshine, emanating from the window, illuminated the oak paneling and yellow marble columns that supported the first story.

She spied several familiar faces in the benches below, including Walter's and Dorothea's. Although he conferred with a steady stream of people, Walter continually craned his neck. When he scanned the gallery, Elizabeth pretended to adjust her panniers.

A collective sigh, like waves against the sand, brought her attention back to the scene below. Judge Herriott had entered. He wore a scarlet robe, lined with ermine, and a full-bottomed wig, not unlike those in fashion a century past. Trials were designed to compel righteousness in the multitudes, so the judge made a purposefully impressive figure.

Several men and one woman were led into the prisoner's box. Judge Herriott would sentence them in order of the severity of their crimes, with the least serious first.

Rand was the last to enter. Irons were customarily knocked off before passing into the courtroom, but Rand's remained in place. He wore an iron band around his waist to which shackles were attached, and Elizabeth was reminded of the Newgate door with its hasps and fillet. Not that Rand's girdle resembled a door. However, it looked strong and unyielding. No wonder Billy had sworn that escape was impossible.

Shears were attached to Rand's legs. He walked as if used to them, but the length of iron affixed to his ankles must particularly pain his bad leg.

After Judge Herriott dispensed with the lesser crimes, he put on his black cap of judgment to signify that he was about to pronounce a sentence of death, which meant that John Randolph Remington's turn had come. The courtroom stilled.

While the prosecution was allowed to question witnesses during a trial, a defendant had no one to look out for his interests save the judge. Listening to Herriott give a lecture on proper morality, Elizabeth forgot the people packed around her, the unpleasant smells exuding from too many bodies in too tight a space, and the ache in her feet from her hours of standing. She could only think that in a few moments the man she loved would officially be sentenced to death.

Rand was brought forward. He stood before the judge, who transformed his expression into one of profound sorrow. “You have strayed from the path of righteousness,” Herriott stated solemnly. “From a respectable family and an honorable record in the American War to a life of lawlessness.”

Elizabeth saw Rand raise his head. His gaze swept the gallery. Could he sense her presence?

“England is a country of laws, and the most sacred laws concern the right of a man to own property without threat from anyone.” Herriott paused to adjust his black cap. The room was so quiet Elizabeth could hear the ragged sound of her own breath. “It is King George's earnest desire and intent that all his subjects be easy and happy. But without order, without the preservation of the laws of the kingdom, how miserable must be all the king's children!” As if to embrace the entire courtroom, Herriott spread his arms. “Look, all of you, where crime leads you. Only to death!”

The dreadful sentence was imminent. The gallows was the terrible threat around which England's entire social system revolved. Without it, the British empire would crumble, or so most wise men believed. Elizabeth swallowed hard, knowing what the judge's next words would bring.

“One week hence, on March 20, 1788, you will be transported to Tyburn and hanged by the neck until dead.” Was she mistaken, or did Herriott's eyes glisten with tears? Leaning forward, he eyed Rand. “You still have an immortal soul, and in these few remaining days you must seek salvation. Have you anything to say before you're taken to the Condemned Cell?”

Elizabeth held her breath. This was the moment she had been waiting for, the moment that might yet spare Rand the gallows, the moment when he would deliver
the speech.
Before pleading for clemency, Rand would lament his past misdeeds as well as his debauched life. According to Tom, judges loved such speeches, which provided powerful moral lessons and allowed the law to temper justice with mercy. Often, if the prisoner sounded eloquent and remorseful enough, the judge would recommend a royal pardon on the spot.

As Rand made ready to speak, Elizabeth's lips formed the familiar words. She had labored for hours over the opening line: “What a low creature I am, lower than the worms wiggling at my feet.”

“I don't mind going to my death,” Rand said.

Obviously, he was improvising. Perhaps she shouldn't have used the words “low creature.”

“I've known thirty-five good years,” Rand continued. “I've known some fun, much excitement, and a measure of sadness. I've also known the love of a beautiful woman. What more could any man want?”

Did Elizabeth fancy it, or did he raise his eyes to her? She was so shaken she couldn't be certain, for with his defiant gesture Rand had effectively placed the noose around his own neck. Yet even while she abhorred his act, she admired his refusal to conform, his insistence on remaining true to himself no matter what the price.

Several ladies fainted. An angry murmur, like a hot wind, swept through the room. Prisoners were supposed to beg for mercy, to tremble, and be carried weeping from the court. This devilish man was not behaving like a proper criminal!

“If it were possible,” Rand said, “I'd return England to a time when the wealthy felt a moral
obligation to care for and protect the poor, not blame them for their poverty and work them into an early grave.”

The crowd murmured again, but this time Elizabeth heard a vague undertone of assent.

“I won't miss England, sir. On the contrary, I'll be glad to be shed of her.”

Judge Herriott bellowed for Rand to be removed from the premises.

Elizabeth stared at her slippers. It was over. Rand would die as splendidly as he had lived, but he'd die nonetheless.

Lifting her head, she spotted Billy's stricken face among the spectators. Even Tom had lost his usual aplomb. Dorothea coiled a curl of hair around her finger, while Walter looked as satisfied as if he'd just completed a ten-course dinner.

How different the result might have been without the murder charge, thought Elizabeth, digging her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. Juries sometimes reduced the value of stolen goods in order to lessen a crime and spare a defendant the gallows, but they wouldn't mitigate murder.

Melancholia gripped her. If only she hadn't shot and killed Robert Whitney.

'Tis I, not the judge, who sentenced Rand to die!

***

Five days later, Elizabeth and Billy entered the exercise yard leading to the Debtors Prison. Mud sucked at the wooden-soled pattens which elevated her feet and increased her height. As she struggled across the yard, she gripped Billy's arm with one hand, her basket of food with the other. Angry clouds swarmed around the cupola topping the clock turret and nearly obliterated its weather vane. To Elizabeth, the enormous prison appeared as forbidding as the gathering clouds, and all her instincts screamed that she turn back. But Rand was locked inside the Condemned Cell—or “Pompeii's Parlour,” as the locals called it.

“These damnable shoes,” she muttered. “Maybe we should have devised a more practical disguise.”

She, Tom, and Billy had long pondered the best way to sneak her inside. Should she dress as a cleric? A law clerk? Doctor? Barrister? Rand's sister? Mother? Grandmother? Ultimately, they had decided that the safest strategy was simply to blend with all the others who daily viewed the condemned man. To that end, Elizabeth was clothed as a servant. She wore a plain wool dress, white apron, and a frilly mob cap above one of Lilith's old wigs, powdered gray.

Now she ran her hands across the padding she'd added to increase her girth. She had also powdered her lashes and brows, so that they faded into her face. She no longer cared if she looked pretty. On the day of Rand's execution, she would look her most stunning, and Walter Stafford could bite his codpiece!

When they finally reached the front steps, Billy said, “I'll enter after ye do, Bess. That way, ye won't be suspect.”

The Debtors Prison contained two stories, as well as a basement level located above ground. Rand's cell was in the southeast corner of the basement.

“Once inside, you'll see the line,” Tom had told her last night during their solemn meeting in Middlethorpe's garden. “The place is swarming with Stafford's men, but they shouldn't pay you any heed. Rand's expecting you, and the guards usually allow you more time when you bring food. Even so, you'll only have a few minutes.”

Elizabeth waved good-bye to Billy, just before entering the cold, cheerless prison day room. She felt vulnerable, terrified, but if she wanted to visit Rand, she must brazen it out.

Odd's bones! There are as many guards as spectators!

She spotted Lord Stafford's London servant, Grosley, who had positioned himself so that he could see anybody enter or leave. Grosley inspected her, but judging from his bored expression he didn't recognize her.

The line inched forward. Two warders guarded Rand. One stood in front of the metal-studded cell door, a second against the opposite wall. The door was open only wide enough to allow one person at a time access, and the guards often questioned or searched individuals.

I hope to God they don't search me.
I'm wearing more stuffing than a mattress.

Repeatedly, Elizabeth had imagined her meeting with the warders, how she would speak and act, how easily she would slip past them into the cell. Guards were supposed to be notoriously stupid. She shook her head. If guards were stupid, all highwaymen were chivalrous and all women ached to marry wealthy men. These guards didn't look stupid. They looked vigilant.

She could see Rand, seated on a bed frame supported by stone blocks. He was reading the last volume of
Castles of Doom.
Generally, after a perfunctory glance at those entering, he returned to the novel, though Elizabeth noticed with annoyance that he smiled at the most beautiful women.

When she finally reached the warder, she paid the customary four-shilling fee. “I've brought the prisoner food, sir.”

Elizabeth held up her basket, which the guard promptly yanked from her hand. The second warder eyed her suspiciously. “Where do ye know the prisoner from?” he asked.

“I used to work at the Silent Woman, sir.” Elizabeth had concocted an entire fictional background, should the need arise. “Master Turpin came in sometimes. He always tipped me well for services performed, and I found him right handsome.”

The guard snorted. “You and half the wimmen o' York!”

“'Tis Master
Remington,
” the first warder corrected, returning her basket.

Reaching in, Elizabeth removed a mince pie. “Would you like this, sir? I'm a fine cook. All the gents say so.”

The warder took the pie and waved her inside.

Rand looked up from his book, then down again.
No smile for me,
Elizabeth thought. Aloud she said, “I've brought you food, Master Remington.” Then, lower, “I have long imagined someone like you in my novels.”

Rand's head jerked up. Rising, he walked toward her.

“You're very thin, sir,” she said fretfully, even though her pulse quickened and her head spun. “I want t' fatten you up.”

“And you look like the lass who could do it.” Whispering, he added, “You look dreadful, Bess. I'd never have recognized you.”

“That's reassuring,” she whispered back. “I think.”