“Yes, that’s the one.”
The teacup went down on the table. “What do you know of the man, Madeleine?”
She hadn’t intended to bargain for such information—Bristol was her target—but Madeleine found herself suddenly interested. “Not a great deal,” she teased for a response. “I know that he and his father are estranged.”
The dowager smiled. “You know, there are many rumors as to why that is the case. Murder. Espionage. I happen to know the truth of the matter.”
Madeleine had no need to feign interest now. “Yes?”
“Yes. The fact is that Lord Kyle Snopes fathered an illegitimate child with the daughter of one of his tenants. William learned of it and left that very day.”
A note in Dame Baltimore’s story harmonized with Madeleine’s image of the man, recalling him standing by her side at the fire in the rain.
“How do you know this?” she asked.
“I know it because my niece, Lady Sherrod of Winterfall Manor, just a few miles south of the Snopes Estate, learned of it through a tenant on her own father’s estate. I also know from other sources that William Snopes, after he became established as a barrister in London, lived in a dingy flat south of Belgravia for the first five years of his practice to enable himself to spend every penny he earned in a vain attempt to find the lost child—who was, after all, his half sibling.”
“A vain attempt?”
“Yes. In fact, the poor young girl whom Lord Snopes had so mistreated was shipped off to have her child far from the Snopes Estate and died in childbirth. It’s rumored that her surviving baby was a girl, and that she was sent to America or Canada—into the care of a distant relative. The young Mr. Snopes was devastated by the loss and his inability to locate his sister. When he finally gave up his search, he vowed in his fury to never represent a member of his father’s class again.”
The dowager leaned forward, and her cloud of vanilla and gardenia encircled Madeleine. “Yet it would appear that you are an exception to that vow, young lady.”
The story moved her, and for a moment Madeleine didn’t respond. But how could this aging fountain of gossip and rumor have gained such detailed knowledge? Did she dare believe it?
And if so, why had William consented to represent her?
Madeleine picked up her own teacup. “An exception? Perhaps. Although our cause is a just one.”
“Is that so?” the dowager said, slowing the flow of her response in reaction to Madeleine’s curt and clearly unsatisfactory reply in the game they played.
Madeleine had completely forgotten about the point of her visit, which came rushing back to her now. It would require more painful admissions but necessary ones. To build the fires again, she leaned back and placed a frown on her face.
“Dame Baltimore, I have a confession to make. My father isn’t so well. I said otherwise out of shame for his condition. He is, in fact, quite invalided. And he has given me mastery over the estate.”
It was weak fare—she’d admitted as much already at Dorothy’s party. But the dowager perked up.
“And I will also admit,” Madeleine grudgingly added, “that the claims in the newspapers—the ones that say that I and my father purchased a ship now accused of piracy—are equally true. Not the piracy, of course! But we do own the Padget, recently referenced in a penny dreadful. A ship that did take a French ship in the Indian Sea.”
This was better currency, Madeleine could see. The old woman nodded, looking to her lap with a near return of her smile.
“Did you say you were interested in Mandy Bristol?” Dame Baltimore asked.
Madeleine sat straighter expectantly. “Why, yes. Perhaps you know something of his acquaintances or friends through whom we might find him. People with whom he mixes at social events?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, young Madeleine,” the dowager answered to Madeleine’s powerful regret. “With my affliction and the entrapment of this chair, it’s uncommon for me to attend society events in person any longer, and I’ve not inquired as to who might accompany Solicitor Bristol. The fact that I know so little of him is strange to me.”
Dame Baltimore paused.
“But I can tell you that these past two years, he’s been heavily engaged in the social scene. And it’s said that his precipitous rise in society is because he has patrons. In very, very high places.”
28
It had grown dark long before the time that William neared home on weary legs.
Since his morning visit to Captain Tuttle and midday meeting with Edmund and Obadiah, it had turned into a frustrating day, yielding little information. He was desperate for a cup of tea and a few minutes’ respite before bed and an early morning to follow.
Voices ahead brought his eyes up.
Throwing shadows from a gaslight, a crowd of men milled about in groups of three or four near the entry to his upstairs flat. At first glance, William took them for customers of the tobacco shop on street level. Except, as congenial as the proprietor was, William had never seen more than a few customers an hour patronizing the place. Besides, the shop should have closed hours before.
He came nearer. There was a drunken tilt to the gathering. Gin-fueled anger flowed amid rising and falling voices. Like a smoldering fire poised for a breeze.
Not slowing his pace, William walked past, eyes lowered.
Only a few strides beyond a voice called. “Ain’t that him?”
William didn’t look back. He began to sprint up the slippery, snow-covered road—shouts following close behind. Sliding, struggling with his heavy coat and fatigue, at his first chance he turned onto a narrower street that he knew sprouted several more. The mob was still in sight when he chose yet another turn, then an alley branching out behind his horse’s stable, for the first time putting him beyond sight of his chasers. A dozen strides more took William past several outlets before steps descended near the rear entrance of a pub. Just beyond the pub door, the alley dead-ended at a low wooden wall.
William jumped, got purchase on the top, and pulled himself over.
His breath coming in gasps, he knelt to slow his heart and listen.
Several seconds passed. Then footsteps sounded in the alley beyond the wooden fence.
“Must’ve gone the other way,” a panting voice called.
“I’m goin’ in here,” said another amid puffs, most likely meaning the pub.
The fire had gone out of the weary voices. Holding his breath, William waited until the footsteps led away, back toward the pub and beyond his hearing.
William rose, shaking his head. Now he was exiled from his own home, which included all the work he had spread about there. Father Thomas had warned him this might be coming. Each day’s newspapers labeled him everything from a puppet of the pope to a gold-grubbing barrister out to topple the Crown. Even with so much fodder, he still bet that the mob had organizing help or at least pub money to support them.
William reached and pulled himself up to peer over the wall. The alley was empty. He climbed wearily up and dropped to the other side.
Walking carefully away, avoiding the direction of his flat, he thought of Mandy Bristol and what role he might have played in driving him from his home.
With each step, he grew angrier.
He’d find the means to pay Mr. Bristol back.
HOME OF OBADIAH CUMMINGS
“You’re very kind to let me stay the night,” William said again to Obadiah and Suzanne, seated at the small dining table in their home. “Tomorrow I’ll ask the good Father to retrieve some clothes for me, as well as my papers from my flat. I can set up quarters at Gray’s Inn for the duration.”
With Davidson retired to a small, tidy attic overhead, Lady Jameson sat across the room on a settee near the window. To William’s surprise, he’d caught her making curious glances toward him.
“It’s nothing, sir,” Obadiah said as Suzanne brought William a glass of mulled wine from near a lively fire.
&nbs
p; “We’re just glad you’re safe.” Suzanne smiled through worry-filled eyes.
William sipped the cinnamon-and-cloves brew, attempting a relaxed manner. “Obadiah, I’ve been thinking. I’d prefer you limit your role in this case going forward. Edmund and I can cover things quite well.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Obadiah answered. The fight in his voice reminded William of the young lad in the boys’ home. “You already tried this with Edmund, sir. Suzie and I talked this over, haven’t we, love? Mr. Snopes, you and Edmund are the ones on the front line, for sure. The gallery is always the solicitor’s lot in trial. But I’m seeing this through with you whatever you do. And if it comes to it, I’ll man the barricades at your side.”
William looked down, warmed yet embarrassed his sentiment would show. He glanced to the lady again.
“I hadn’t yet expressed it, Lady Jameson, but I’m also very pleased you’ve returned safely.”
“Thank you. And I’ve some news as well. I’ve come from a meeting with London’s most expert gossip, Dame Baltimore, and have a suggestion for locating Mandy Bristol’s mystery investors.”
“Which is?”
“As you know, I’ve never met Mandy Bristol. You’ve described him as ambitious and eager to curry favor. I was surprised that Dame Baltimore had little information about the man. But she did share that he’s had a meteoric rise in society the past two years, with sponsorship from ‘very high patronage.’ If that’s true, then it seems possible that these investors are the very patrons my source hinted at. Which means that Mr. Bristol may have been seen in the investors’ company at the social events he’s attended.”
“You’re right, Lady Jameson,” William said. “Very good. So how do we learn who Mandy has been hobnobbing with at social events?”
“This is London’s winter ball season, after all,” the lady replied. “I haven’t attended a ball in years. But at my request, Davidson called on friends among staffs of families now in London. Apparently, there’s a ball only two days from now, at the London home of the Rutledge family. Davidson even managed to see the guest list. Solicitor Bristol was invited and has signaled his attendance.”
“That’s brilliant!” William sat up. “We might learn a great deal if we could gain access.”
“I’d hoped you could manage that,” the lady said, her eyes growing more cautious. “Though you’re independent of your family, the Snopes name must still ride high in such circles, particularly here in London.”
William shook his head firmly. “I haven’t attended a ball in over twenty years. I was but eighteen when I last did. And I’m confident my reputation as a barrister would make me a poor risk as a guest.”
“As I just proved in my visit to Dame Baltimore, curiosity can be as important as station in garnering an invitation.”
“So you want me to volunteer to be the trained bear?” William smiled and thought a moment, taking another drink. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.” He paused a moment more, then took the lady in his gaze. “But only if you accompany me as my guest.”
Madeleine’s face flushed. “That’s not a good idea, Mr. Snopes. I’m a pariah.”
“As you’ve pointed out, Lady Jameson, what’s important is that, like me, you’re a curiosity. Everyone in those circles will know from the papers that I represent you. That should make us the perfect pair for the evening.”
A full smile slowly formed on her face and her eyes lingered upon him.
William realized, to his delight, that it was the first such open smile he recalled seeing on the lady.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll send Davidson tomorrow to retrieve a gown.”
They sat another hour before the fireplace, content with the quiet. Suzanne finally rose and took William’s cup.
Madeleine joined her, taking plates and cups to the washbasin in the corner while Obadiah showed William upstairs.
“How long have you known Mr. Snopes?” Madeleine asked when she was alone with Suzanne.
“Since before Obadiah asked me to marry him. I believe he wanted Mr. Snopes’s approval, though he never said so. Mr. Snopes isn’t so old himself, but he’s been the nearest thing to a father to Obadiah since my dear husband separated from his parents at age eight.”
“I can’t make out what drives the barrister,” Madeleine said, setting the cups down. “A force in the courtroom. Then nearly shy tonight in a living room. It seems very odd for one who chose a career as a barrister.”
Suzanne smiled. “He can be shy at times, it’s true. He’s known many crosscurrents in his life. The only thing certain to rile his judgment is being lied to. Edmund made that mistake early in his apprenticeship and was nearly turned out. No, Mr. Snopes runs deeper than most men I’ve known. But shallow waters can grow dull, don’t you think?” She looked Lady Jameson squarely in the eye.
Madeleine looked away. Suzanne surely thought it was embarrassment at personal feelings, and perhaps she was right. But just as powerful was the painful talk of lies as Madeleine recalled the half-truth she’d told the man about never committing an illegality regarding the Padget. It was true, she supposed: borrowing from a smuggler probably wasn’t illegal. But it wasn’t a direct answer to what he’d been driving at.
And yet even that wasn’t what bothered her most.
Are the stories Dame Baltimore told, attesting to Mr. Snopes’s character, true? she wanted to ask Suzanne. Tell me what kind of man is now responsible for protecting our lives and fortune.
“If it’s his performance in the courtroom that genuinely concerns you,” Suzanne began again, “you needn’t worry. Mr. Snopes may be restrained in matters of the heart, but he always manages a lion’s roar when it’s called for before a jury.”
Suzanne took another glass to wash while Madeleine picked up a drying cloth.
As Madeleine accepted the glass from her host’s hand, the twitch of a smile at the corners of Suzanne’s mouth signaled the questions she was refraining from asking as well.
29
THE LANYARD PUB
EAST END, LONDON
William jostled Edmund, who’d grown silent after his last question. Padget sailor Seymour Little, seated across the table, looked on quizzically.
Edmund stirred and turned to his notes for his next question.
William looked about, waiting for Edmund to begin again.
This pub was grimmer than most and a far cry from the cozy warmth of the Red Hound near the Middlesex Courthouse. More dedicated drinkers, William thought, and a more transient class of customers so near the dockyards.
Edmund continued his paper shuffling. His junior’s loss of concentration had grown the past two days as he alternated with Obadiah assisting William’s interviews of former Padget crew members. The young man’s heart just wasn’t in it. An uncharacteristic sign, William believed, of deep discouragement.
It was terribly frustrating, particularly when William most needed Edmund’s usually energetic assistance, but he understood its source. Edmund and Obadiah had finished checking crewmens’ criminal records, returning to Gray’s Inn to announce that not a single crewman had been charged with theft—except this one presently seated across the table. Petty theft at age eleven, Seymour Little’s record showed, and a brand on his thumb recorded the transgression. Still, he seemed too simple to have conspired to steal the Letter of Marque.
Mr. Little was dipping into his second beer, foam painting his mustache white, when Edmund finally spoke again.
“Then no one, other than perhaps the first mate, ever actually saw the captain’s Letter of Marque?”
“Aye, so far as I know. Though I don’ think anyone thought the cap’n was lyin’. He was a straight one, even when things looked sorely bad. And if we hadn’t believed him, no one would’ve manned the guns to take on that Frenchman off the coast of Ceylon.”
“Mr. Little, is there anyone else in the crew, if you were forced to point a finger, you think capable of stealing the Letter?”
“Garn, no. Good crew, that. I suppose if I had to pick someone, I’d point the finger at Luckless Joel Brine. Or his pal, Mike Finnister. Bit ’o larceny in that pair. Always holdin’ back when work was to be done, for sure.”
The same two crewmen, Brine and Finnister, had said the same about Mr. Little. Petty likes and dislikes were all that Edmund and William had gotten out of the crew so far.
“Mr. Little, you have a history of theft, do you not?” Edmund asked at last.
The man hardly blinked. “Aye. That’s when I was a lad. It weren’t nothin’. Took a pair of hobnailed shoes, for no good reason other’n I liked ’em. I paid my price for it, though,” he said, holding up his branded thumb.
If this man were a thief, he’d make a poor one. And if he were working for others to set up Captain Tuttle on a piracy charge, he’d be a terrible choice. Over thick shoulders and behind his wind-beaten face, the man had the mind and disposition of a child.
“Shame ’bout that boy bein’ shot,” Mr. Little went on. “He was a good ’un. Everyone said so. Worked hard, kept to himself. Scrambled to it.”
“Yes, it was a shame,” Edmund agreed. He glanced at William as if to ask, Are we done here?
Four days until trial. Only four days. Seaman Seymour Little was the twelfth Padget crewman they’d interviewed. They’d learned nothing helpful. Most disappointing was the consistent answer each gave as to the whereabouts of First Mate Ivars—who’d seemingly disappeared.
William decided to touch that subject now. “Mr. Little, do you have any idea where Mr. Ivars went after being released?”
“Quint took off like a racehorse the afternoon they let us go. Like he’d got a real purpose, I’d say. Not that we all weren’t want’n to climb out the gunports after all that time gaoled belowdeck. Most of the smart ’uns went straight up the wharves to find more work.”
“And that’s where First Mate Ivars went?”
“Nah. The big shippers are east of where the Padget was docked. Most of us scrambled that way. When he reached the shore wi’ the rest of us, I remember Quint turnin’ west. Back toward town. Don’t know why.”
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 20