“What is it? Wait, you had better come in,” he instructed as he held the door wide. He was still in his nightshirt, dressing gown, and slippers, and a stocking cap covered his bald pate.
“Do forgive me, sir. I would not have called if it were not terribly important.”
“Has the house been infested with bees? Or perhaps it has burned down. Might I remind you that you are in possession of your own dwelling?”
I was accustomed to Canning’s acid tongue and refused to take offense. “I have come about William Gilbert. I have very strong evidence as to Johnny’s killer and I am at aux anges to see Willy released.”
“This is splendid news!” Canning tightened the sash around his middle and indicated that I should be seated. “Tell me what you have discovered.”
“I shall tell you all save the identity of the true killer.” I settled into my seat and waited for Canning’s reaction.
He looked more taken aback than I had anticipated. “Trevelin, whoever has done this must be brought to justice! Without proof of someone else’s guilt, how am I to exonerate Willy?”
“All that is needed is your good word,” I insisted. “If you trust me, which I believe you do, you shall act on what I have discovered. Am I wrong to assume you would?”
He stroked his chin. “I can make no promise until you have told me all you feel free to say.”
“Very well. It is a sordid tale about a beautiful woman who has suffered much at the hands of her wicked husband.”
“What does this have to do with young Gilbert?” Canning demanded.
I told him what I knew, minus the names of the persons involved. I refrained from describing the necklace or even commenting on how extraordinary it was so he would not think of Lady Vawdrey, nor his suspicions fall on Lady Clara. I also left out the information about the gaming hell—I only said that the wife in question had gambling debts; it was common enough.
“I see,” Canning mused. “But you have no proof of what she has done?”
“She all but admitted it. I am as sure as I can be that it was she who wielded the knife. More than that, I am certain that William Gilbert did not. All I am asking is that you get Willy out of that place.” I leaned forward in my chair. “If you saw him there, my sense of urgency would be yours!”
He grunted such that I knew he felt my sorrow and desperation.
A quarter of an hour later I had read the letter Canning had written to the Grand Jury, requesting William Gilbert’s release. I was uncertain as to how long it would take before anything was done, but for now I could go to Willy and give him the happy news.
Unlike the first time I visited him at Newgate, I cared not in the least that I had only the open carriage in which to travel. The whole of it seemed rather ridiculous; if Willy could live with being falsely incarcerated in such a place, I could certainly live with being seen on the premises. My heart was lighter than air as I expertly tooled my curricle through the dense array of carts and carriages. I had not even thought to douse my handkerchief with scent; all I could think of was Willy’s joy when he learned that he should go free.
In a shorter amount of time than I thought possible, I was standing in front of a guard.
“I have come to see William Gilbert,” I said as loftily, as if I named the Prime Minister of England.
The guard gave a curt nod, opened his ledger, and ran his filthy finger down a column of names. “William Gilbert, did ye say?”
“Yes, I wish to see him.”
“I see ‘im ‘ere,” he said doubtfully, looking up at me with a question in his eyes. “It says he’s deceased.”
The words he spoke did not hold their usual meaning. “Deceased? No, he has not yet appeared before the Grand Jury. How could he have been executed?” I scoffed. “There must be some mistake.”
“True enough; t’ats ‘appened afore. But, ‘ere, ‘e’s jus’ died early this mornin’.”
I looked at him blankly, incapable of comprehending his words.
“How’s about I take ye to the body?” he asked. I could not say if he were being helpful or cruel.
“Yes, that would be a very good idea.” I looked forward to the moment when I would prove him wrong.
He waved a hand, indicating that I should follow. As we traveled the route to Willy’s cell, I had my first misgivings. I fully expected to be led to the chamber of a different man, one who had been hung, or out to the yard where the gallows stood, or the dung heap, even. When the guard opened the door to Willy’s cell without aid of a key, I felt truly alarmed. He left the door ajar and, with a touch of his fingers to his forehead, went away.
I lingered in the passage, listening to the pounding of my heart for an inordinate amount of time. Finally, I could bear it no longer; I had to know. I swallowed, lifted my chin, and willed myself to step into the shadows of the chamber. There, on the cot, wearing the same clothes in which I had dressed him, was Willy.
Chapter Fourteen
His face was pale, but the stubble on his cheeks shone like gold in the light that filtered through the bars of the solitary window. His eyes were closed, and the corners of his mouth turned down so far that he nearly looked a stranger. A bandana tied around his face and knotted at the top of his head prevented his jaw from falling open. He had not been hung, of that I was certain. There was no rope burn on his neck and his eyes did not protrude from their lids.
I pulled down the blanket that had been tucked under his chin and saw that his shirt was covered with blood. It was so startling a sight that it took me a moment to realize the truth: Willy had died of pneumonia. There was one thing I could not deny: that he looked utterly peaceful. I pulled up a chair and sat beside him just as I had the last time I called upon him. “Willy,” I said, the tears beginning to fall, “I had thought to free you. I have spent every moment in search of Johnny’s killer.” The thought flashed through my mind that I had not. There was my pursuit of Miss Woodmansey for which to account.
It no longer mattered. Nothing did. Except for this: How was I to tell his mother and father of my failure? I remembered then the shirt that I had been so eager to procure. It was still where I had flung it the last time I visited my friend. Much good it would do anyone now, I thought.
I took Willy’s lame hand in both of mine and put my forehead to the poor pile of flesh and bones. “My friend, I have failed you,” I cried, with no thought as to any who might hear my words. “I most humbly beg your pardon.” And then I wept in earnest.
I do not know how long I anointed Willy’s hand with my tears. When I finally stumbled from the prison, I knew I must call upon his parents at once. Instead I went directly to White’s, where I drank until I forgot my name, or even that I had one. I lost consciousness in my chair and was wakened an unknown number of hours later by a footman who held out a silver tray bearing a letter. There was a name scrawled on it—mine, presumably—but I did not recognize the hand.
I rolled back my head until I looked up into the footman’s face, whereupon I presented him with a ferocious frown. When he did not flee in terror, I reluctantly slid the piece of parchment from the tray and dropped it into my lap. “Water!” I called to whoever was near. When I had drunk a full glass, I decided it best to fill the chamber pot behind the screen in the corner before I did aught else. Once I felt something resembling a man, I opened the piece of parchment.
It consisted of nine short lines that somehow did not form a proper paragraph. Each sentence seemed to refer to a meaning all its own rather than contribute to the whole. The fact that there was no signature only added to my bewilderment. It seemed merely the ramblings of a madman, but I was able to perceive that I was to meet him, whoever he was and whatever his state of sanity, inside Canning House before the sun set that night. Otherwise, I would never know the truth; of what I could not say.
Furthermore, someone was to die.
I crumpled the parchment into a wad and barked for my curricle to be brought round. I stomped up and down the pavem
ent outside White’s until it appeared, whereupon I quickly alighted and raced to Canning House. When I arrived, the front door was slightly ajar. To my chagrin, there was no sign of the boot boy. As unaccountable as it seemed, the author of the missive had done as he said: he was in the house.
There was little point in being cautious; my arrival had been announced by the approach of the curricle. Nevertheless, I pushed open the door as stealthily as I was able. Instantly, I heard the pounding of feet against the marble floor, its tread too heavy to be the boot boy’s. From the deep shadows that obscured the lowest steps of the staircase emerged the silhouette of a man as he ran upwards.
I went after him, but somehow he was always too far ahead of me to be identified. By the time I had dashed up the flights to the second floor, I was winded; certain I would never catch him. These words rang in my mind: someone was to die. I feared for the boot boy. I feared for myself. I had to catch this madman before anything dreadful happened.
I could hear said madman crashing along the passage above me, but he had run out of stairs. As I arrived at the top of the house, I could see that a door was open to a chamber at the front of the dwelling. Quietly, I crossed the threshold and stepped into what appeared to be a room for storage. Signs of the Cannings’ hasty departure were everywhere: bits of silver tissue were strewn amongst the few hat boxes that remained, the trunks had all gone, and there were streaks in the dust from where they had been dragged along the floor. Dusk was falling, and very little light made its way through the small window. Squinting, I studied the shadows. In the corner under the window, heaped upon the floor against a chair, was a man. He held a small pistol to his head.
Once he realized that I saw him, he straightened his spine so that the last rays of light shone in his eyes. They were lavender, and stricken with terror.
“Throckmorton, do not do it. She would not wish your death.”
“You speak of Sally to me?” His voice shook with emotion: grief, anger, and so much fear.
“Not if you do not wish it. Only, do not hurt yourself.”
He dropped his head back against the chair and moaned. “You understand nothing.”
I paused to consider. “I know that you loved her. I know that she meant something more for you; something more than being the housekeeper at Hampton House.”
He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Yes, something far more: Sally’s husband to begin with, the father of her children, and she, the mother of mine. And the baby! The baby is gone with her…” The sobs wracked his body, and he eased his grip on the gun.
I dived for it, but even in his sorrow he was faster than I.
He threw the gun again to his temple. “She was mine. Mine! And now there is nothing to hope for; nothing to live for but pain and misery.”
I could not disagree but did not wish him to do away with himself, and not only for his own sake: I required answers to my questions. “I know something of pain and misery. Put the pistol aside and we shall discuss it, you and I, like men.”
“No! I dare not. I did not hear the door to the house shut behind you.” He sounded quite deranged. “I won’t be taken like the others!”
“The others? Do you refer to those who have disappeared from the workhouse?”
Ignoring me, he sat up and peered out the window without lowering the gun even a fraction. The window framed a view of the houses directly across the square, including Lady Vawdrey’s. Seemingly satisfied, he reclined again on the floor, against the chair, and made a shocking disclosure. “It was I who killed Johnny Gilbert.” He began again to weep, the tears streaming down his face. He wiped at them with a dust-covered hand. It left streaks of dirt from his chiseled cheekbone down to his perfectly-cleft chin. “She gave me no choice.”
“Lady Clara?” I was surprised at how calm my voice sounded.
He nodded. “How did you know?”
“I have suspected, only.” I eyed the pistol. It was a very small ladies’ muff gun of the sort a woman such as Lady Clara might carry. Despite its diminutive size, I could see that his arm was growing weak. “Please put it down and tell me more.”
He behaved as if he did not hear me. “Before that, she made me steal the necklace.”
“I see.” Better than he realized.
“It was on account of Sally; can you not understand that?” He begged me as if he argued with anyone but his own conscience. “People were disappearing from the workhouse. No one knew why. The police were of no help. I was terrified for her.” He drew a deep breath and seemed to calm a little. “The first time I saw her, I knew that I loved her. Her eyes, they were so beautiful. When she looked at me, it was if she was seeing straight through to my soul!” His expression of adoration suddenly shifted to anger. “I was tired of being no one. Tired of being unloved. She changed all of that. And then she told me about the baby…what else could I do?”
“Indeed. I know well what it is to be lonely.” I suppressed the urge to tell him just how well. “Have you taken Lady Vawdrey into account? Does she not love you? Have you considered how lonely you should make her if you were to shoot?”
He stared at me as if I were the one unhinged. “I stole her diamond necklace! I killed,” he moaned, “the son of her friend. How can she forgive me?” The tears coursed down his nose and cheeks, unrestrained. “She shall wish to never see me again, nor shall she. I shall hang if I don’t first put a period to my existence.” He wiped a dirty hand across his face. It shook. “How can I face her? How can I bear to see her sorrow as she comes to comprehend the mistake she made in taking me into her home and making me a gentleman?” He said the last word with a sneer. “I am common, nothing more than that! Nor should I have ever become more, despite her assurances that I should one day be accepted into Society. If it were not for her,” he said in tones of condemnation, “I would not have wished for a better life. I would not have been tempted by the money Lady Clara promised.”
“She promised you money?” I knew the answer well enough, but I hoped my question might prolong his eloquence.
“’Twas for me and Sally, so that we might live like swells in our own home, not at the beck and call of anyone, but it never came.” In his fatigue he began to slur some of his words, and his original speech patterns bled through his well-learned, proper English.
“You have done wrong, Edmund, but you can atone for it, here and now. You must tell me exactly how it all happened, so that I may advise you how best to make amends.” I cast about for a way to separate him from the pistol. “Are you hungry? Let us go down to the kitchen and find you something to eat.”
“Never! It was in a kitchen that I stole a key so as to take the life of a young boy, a lad who did no wrong. He did not deserve it. But, sad as that is, it was not the first time I had taken what was not mine. That was when I took the necklace so that my love could live. Once I had done that, I was in Lady Clara’s power. If I had refused to do her bidding she would have sent me to the gallows, and Sally back to the workhouse to await what fate I cannot know.”
I thought perhaps he could; that he did. It was the very thing I wished to discover. “I understand. So, after you took the key, what did you do?”
He sighed, shifting his leg so that his foot fell to the side and the hand with the pistol somewhat relaxed. “I knew Johnny,” he said dully. “He used to follow me around, for lack of anything better to do, I suppose. His tutor left the house at all hours to gamble at Manwaring House. At first Johnny simply followed him around, but he soon tired of that. That was when he began to follow me. When I went to the workhouse to make deliveries for Lady Vawdrey, Johnny followed along behind.” An ugly sound started deep in his throat and rose into a sob. “The poor child!” he cried. “He saw too much!”
I did not weep with him. I had already shed my allotment of tears at Willy’s bedside. Instead, I eyed the pistol as it bobbed against his heaving brow. I could not be sure how much time I had left to pose my questions. “How could he have seen you steal the neckla
ce?”
Throckmorton froze and his eyes snapped open. He stared at me, but did not seem to see me. “Naturally, he did not! No, it was my journey to the house to deliver it that he witnessed. It was Huther, who owed Lady Clara much money, who took it from me. I slipped it to him right there on the walkway as I passed by the area steps. He waited at the bottom and I simply slid it from my pocket and dropped it over the railing as I went by. It was too easy.” His face crumpled into a silent sob and his body shook.
“How long after this did she ask you to kill Johnny?” The words stuck in my throat. Until this moment, Johnny’s murder was but a notion. I had not seen the lifeless body, had not seen him alive for some time before his death. My main concern had been to liberate Willy. Now, as I listened to Throckmorton speak of the events that led to Johnny’s death, it became an intolerable reality.
“It’s been months since I took the necklace. I have lived in fear that she would ask to wear it, and then where would I be?”
The timing tallied with what Lady Vawdrey had said about how long it had been since she had worn the necklace, as well as Lady Clara’s confession of how she threatened Throckmorton into stealing it.
He moaned. “How could I betray her so? She was the closest thing to a mother that I have ever known. She loved me as a son!”
“Loves you still,” I urged. “Do put down the gun and we can go across the square. You can explain it all to her there before…”
He frowned and stared at me in disbelief. “You would do that? You would allow me to go to her before handing me over to the authorities?”
I nodded. “I do not think you an evil man, Edmund; merely a desperate one.”
Just then there was a sound from across the square; perhaps a horse threw a shoe or a door had slammed. Throckmorton moved again to peer out the window. This time he did not seem as satisfied, and was suddenly more afraid than he had been before.
The Devil in Beauty: A Lord Trevelin Mystery (The Lord Trevelin Mysteries Book 1) Page 20