Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  Miri glanced at her plain jaconet skirt. This was fine?

  “If you don’t mind,” he said.

  Of course she minded. The man was as crack-brained as those he attended. Still … with no immediate possibility of escape, the wisdom of blending in might be the better part of valor. She rose, taking her time to cross the room as she studied its one window. The bars were too narrow to crawl through, too strong for her to bend, unless she might find a metal rod somewhere for leverage.

  “Sorry to rush you, Miss Brayden, but you are not my only patient today. Move along, if you please.”

  “Of course.” She stepped behind the screen, hidden from view but not from hearing. “About my cellmates—”

  “Tut, tut, they’re family now, not cellmates. You may call them sisters.”

  She cringed as she undid the buttons on her bodice. Sisters? “Right … well … they are obviously not the most beautiful of women, yet I find no fault in their mental capacities.”

  “Bravo, Miss Brayden. An astute observation and very, very correct.”

  “Correct?” She forced the coarse gown over her head and, fingers shaking, fumbled with the drawstring at the neck. “You admit to it, then?”

  “I detect an element of surprise in your voice, if not disdain.”

  “Should I not scorn the fact that you have locked up perfectly normal women—aside from their looks, that is?” The fabric chafed against her skin as she emerged from behind the screen. Rage threaded along each finger, pulling her hands into fists. “That’s insanity! Why would you—why would anyone—commit such a heinous act?”

  “Now, now, don’t fret so. It’s not good for your constitution.” He approached her, cautious in step and touch, and gently laid a hand on her arm. “Please, sit back down. I shall explain, I promise.”

  She gnawed the inside of her cheek, casting a last glance at the window. What other choice did she have?

  “Much better.” He lowered to a chair adjacent hers and smiled. “You see, there is a fine line between normalcy and lunacy. It is not up to you or me to define where that line is drawn. It is simply my duty to treat those who find themselves on the wrong side of it, and your duty to oblige.”

  “Who decides—” She lowered her voice, for her shrill tone screamed hysteria even to her own ears. “Who decides, Doctor, where that line is drawn?”

  “Why … whoever holds the biggest stick at the time, my dear.” His smile widened, sharp and toothy. The kind she’d seen in nightmares. “It’s always about power, you see. Who has it, who does not. Surely you know that, especially being a woman.”

  “But that’s not right!” The anger his sentiments stirred would not be tamped, and heat rushed to her face. “We all enter the world in the same way, and leave it likewise too. That some live in freedom while others are locked away, through no fault of their own, is injustice at its worst.”

  “There, there, this discussion is agitating you.” He clasped her hands in his own, rubbing little circles on the tops with his thumbs.

  She yanked them away. “How can you sit idle in the midst of such wrongdoing?”

  He reached for her hands again but this time did not try to hold them. He set them on the chair’s wide arms. “Take some deep breaths. In and out. That’s the ticket. In. Out.”

  Against her will, her lungs rebelled, taking on the rhythm he set.

  “That’s it. Very good, Miss Brayden. I have complete confidence that once you settle in, you’ll find Sheltering Arms to be quite the haven. The insane are not without their charms, you know.”

  She clenched the armrests to keep herself from punching him in the nose. “I do not plan on settling in. I don’t belong here any more than you do. In your honest medical opinion, can you find one reason to say that I am mad?”

  “Not a bit of it. I find you refreshingly clear-headed and intelligent. There is nothing feeble minded about you, Miss Brayden.”

  Her knuckles regained color as she relaxed her grip. Finally. Someone other than Ethan on her side.

  “Furthermore,” he continued, “I look forward to many more conversations with you.”

  He flipped her arms over and snapped on two clamps, locking her wrists to the chair. From a shelf behind him, he pulled out a box of sharp instruments.

  Miri’s heart seized. Though the gown she wore hung loose, her chest constricted. “What are you doing?”

  “First, I’m going to bleed you,” he said.

  The room started spinning.

  “First?” she asked.

  He ran a steel blade across her flesh, near the crook of her elbow. Her skin gaped, and she saw the different layers inside her arm before blood poured out.

  Dr. Pembernip held a porcelain bowl beneath the flow. “Then there’s the purging, of course.”

  Miri detached from her body, floating to the corner of the room, somewhere near the ceiling.

  “Pur … purging?” She didn’t feel her lips move, though the shaky voice she heard could be none other than her own.

  Pembernip’s skeletal grin exposed every tooth in his mouth—on both jaws. “Yes, yes. All body cavities must be expunged. Clearing the body helps clear the mind. Miss Bray—”

  Miri soared through the ceiling, up to a black, black sky.

  Prodded along a brick-walled passage, Ethan shuffled forward with twenty to thirty other prisoners. Now and then a guard whacked a club against some straggler. A grunt and a curse followed. Ethan kept up but couldn’t blame those who didn’t. Newgate would sap the strength of a stallion, a fact testified by the gaunt faces and withered muscles on the men around him.

  But Newgate was behind him now. Herded into a semicircular area—much too small for the pack of them—here he would wait for the call to trial. The Old Bailey butted up against the jail, turning the gears of justice in a swift if not grinding fashion. There appeared to be thirty, maybe forty men awaiting judgment, but the Lord Mayor would be through with them all in plenty of time to have tea with his mistress. Ethan had heard that the average trial lasted at most seven or eight minutes, and at the rate they called out men’s names, he didn’t doubt it. Today he’d be set free—or hung from the gallows.

  And there wasn’t one thing he could do about it.

  “When we’re at our weakest, God’s at His strongest.”

  Ethan snapped his gaze around the pathetic group. Who’d said that? The man nearest him scowled so darkly, bootblack couldn’t have painted his face any fiercer. No one else paid him any mind. Either they were too caught up in their private miseries or too busy mustering bravado to notice him.

  He shoved his way to the outer edge of the stinking cluster of bodies. Leaning against the masonry, he mulled over the words he’d sworn he’d heard. Then remembered Newton had told him that. Newton, the man of God. The man of eternal optimism.

  That was Newton, but who was Ethan Goodwin?

  A wretch, that’s who. A shackled, dirty, wasted excuse of a man.

  He closed his eyes, shutting out the hopelessness around him. Too bad it did nothing to remove the hopelessness within. “I am nothing, God. Weaker than weak. Please show Yourself strong, just as the reverend said.”

  “Goodwin!”

  His eyes flew open.

  “Ethan Goodwin, over here!”

  The men parted more easily this time, probably glad it was his name that’d been called instead of theirs. In a way, he was glad too. Better to end the not knowing.

  A squabby-looking court clerk stood at the door opposite the one Ethan had entered. “You Ethan Goodwin?”

  “I am.”

  “This way.”

  Flanked by a guard, he trailed the short official down a shorter corridor and entered a large courtroom teeming with people.

  Coming in from the side, he caught only the profiles of the twelve men seated on the jury. Below them in a gallery and above them in balconies, spectators leaned forward, gawking. The farther into the room he went, the harder it was to see. Four brass chande
liers burned bright, assaulting his eyes. He squinted at the judge on the raised platform ahead of him, trying to determine what manner of character held his fate. Hard to tell, especially when the clerk halted him midaisle and positioned him in a dock front and center. A large glass mirror, attached and angled from the ceiling, caught the sunlight and focused it onto his face. Highlighted by the reflected light, everyone clearly saw his own character. And after so many days locked in a cell, what a sight that must be.

  “The honorable Lord Mayor Kenyon presiding for the City of London in the case of Ethan Goodwin,” the clerk called out. Courtroom chatter lowered to a dull drone. “Ethan Goodwin, you are indicted for the willful murder of one William Brayden on March the fifth. How plead you?”

  “Not guilty!”

  “Mind your tone in court, sir. Who brings these charges?”

  “I do.”

  Ethan turned his head. To his left, an enormous hedgehog stood on its hind legs. He rubbed his eyes, chains clanking. Sweet heavens, he was losing it.

  “Name?” asked the clerk.

  “Duffy. Harry Duffy, constable, east end.”

  “State your case.”

  The clerk sat while Ethan tried to remember who in the world Duffy was. Surely out of his many run-ins with the law, he’d recall such a peculiar fellow.

  “I bring this case, Lord Mayor,” Duffy said, “on behalf o’ me partner and friend, Bailiff Nigel Thorne, now deceased.”

  “You have firsthand knowledge of the crime?”

  The judge’s question wafted a fresh breeze of hope toward Ethan. Only Thorne and Will had been in the alley that night.

  “I was not present on the night of the act, but Thorne was,” said Duffy. “He contacted me shortly thereafter. He’d been stabbed in the side by Mr. Goodwin.”

  “Proceed,” said the judge.

  “Right.” Duffy rolled back on his heels and lifted his chin, a stance he’d surely practiced to look important. It didn’t work. “As told to me by Nigel Thorne, bailiff and partner—”

  “You’ve already established that, Mr. Duffy.”

  “Right. On the night of March the fifth—”

  “The date has been duly noted. Proceed with what we don’t know, Mr. Duffy.”

  “Right.” He paused to scratch behind his ear.

  Ethan relaxed for the first time in … how long had it been? No matter. The longer Duffy talked, the better his chances of freedom.

  “So as I heard it,” Duffy finally said, “Goodwin owed Thorne a fair amount o’ money. Thorne went to collect. Goodwin’s friend, Brayden, apparently owed Goodwin some money as well. Goodwin wanted to get his money from Brayden to pay off Thorne, see? When Brayden refused, Goodwin got angry. He pulled a knife on ’im, that’s what. Thorne saw it all. Goodwin stabbed him so as not to have any witnesses. He run off then, he did, run all the way to Bedfordshire. I was the one who ferreted out that little nugget.”

  “That’s a lie!” Ethan shouted.

  The judge’s gavel cracked. “Silence, Mr. Goodwin.”

  Ethan scowled at Duffy. The man didn’t even notice. He was too busy smiling at the judge, his yellowed teeth peeking through his dark beard.

  “Allow me to restate, Mr. Duffy,” said the judge.

  Ethan turned his attention back to the man who held his life. Powder from the judge’s shoulder-length wig speckled his black robe. Pale blue eyes surrounded by even paler skin suggested that the man considered sunshine a novelty to be avoided. His ferocious tone left no doubt that he took his position seriously.

  “As I understand it, Mr. Goodwin owed Mr. Thorne money. Mr. Brayden owed Mr. Goodwin money. When Mr. Brayden refused payment, Mr. Goodwin murdered him in front of Mr. Thorne. Mr. Goodwin then thought to kill Mr. Thorne and leave the area. Is this correct?” asked the judge.

  Duffy clapped his hands. “Oh, yes! Oh, that’s very good, Lord Mayor. That’s exactly what I—”

  “Enough, Mr. Duffy.”

  Duffy deflated into his seat.

  “A few more questions, if you don’t mind, Mr. Duffy.”

  He shot up as if he’d sat on a beehive. Buzzing comments flew from the spectators and jurors while Duffy straightened his surcoat.

  The judge banged his gavel again. “I should like to know the content of the character of Nigel Thorne.”

  “A fine law man, my lord. Dedicated, he was. And none finer when it came to thief catchers. He could sniff ’em out quicker than a beagle—”

  “We get the point, Mr. Duffy. And the defendant, Ethan Goodwin. What do you know of him?”

  Ethan held his breath. This could make or break him.

  “Why …” Duffy scratched again. “He’s gutter trash, sir. A known opium user, gambler, and thief.” Duffy leaned forward, waggling his eyebrows. “Lived in Old Nichol, if you know what I mean.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Duffy. You may be seated.”

  The judge aimed his gaze at Ethan. He’d been wrong. The color of the man’s eyes wasn’t pale blue. It was ice.

  “You’ve already stated your position on the murder of William Brayden. What of stabbing Mr. Thorne?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Gambling?”

  “I, uh—”

  “Opium use?”

  Each accusation cannonballed into him, tearing down the weak wall of hope he’d constructed.

  “Thievery?”

  He hung his head. Hair fell forward, hiding him in darkness. He’d done them all.

  God, forgive me.

  “Did you have a hand in Mr. Thorne’s recent demise?”

  He might have, if given the chance. He opened his mouth, but the clerk spoke. “Records show, my lord, that Ethan Goodwin was imprisoned at the time.”

  “Very well. Jurors, do your duty.”

  The world stopped, leaving a gaping, jagged hole where Ethan’s life hung, suspended somewhere high above the consulting jury. Air was thin. Belief, thinner. And what of the trust he’d prattled about to Miri?

  A vapor.

  This would be a good time to pray, but what to say? Lord, I’m scared to hang? God, I don’t want to die? Give me a second chance?

  His shoulders sagged, drawing him closer to the pit. He’d made a mess of his life, and now it was too late. He blew out a long breath, exhaling the last of himself, every wicked bit.

  “Your will be done, Lord,” he whispered.

  From the jurors’ gallery, a single, deep voice called out. “We have reached a decision, Lord Mayor.”

  33

  Ethan stood alone. Exposed. Naked in a way that the rags he wore would not cover. Is this what it would feel like on judgment day?

  “Guilty as charged, your honor.”

  The foreman’s words sank deep, settling low in his belly. He’d hang for this—for a crime he did not commit. The injustice of it ignited a holy anger, and he started to shake, loosing his lips. “I did not kill Will Brayden!”

  “He’s right,” a booming voice called from behind.

  Pandemonium erupted. Spectators stood, leaning over each other to catch a glimpse of the new arrival. Duffy and the clerk argued something about witnesses. Even the jurors broke rank, craning their necks like worms popping from the ground.

  Though Ethan thought he recognized the voice, he turned to look. The guard beside him cuffed him on the head before he could make sense of it.

  “Face the judge, or I’ll whop you again.”

  His ears rang from the blow. The judge’s pounding gavel didn’t help.

  “Order! I will have order in this courtroom!”

  Like petulant children, the spectators continued to thrum, albeit at a more respectable level.

  But apparently not quiet enough. The judge’s eyes went from ice to glaciers. “What is this about? And mark my words, sir, this had better be of import.”

  “I have a witness concerning the case of Ethan Goodwin.” Newton’s volume, no doubt about it.

  “Witness!” Duffy cried. “That boy’s a—”
<
br />   “Enough.” The judge banged his gavel again. If he ever lost his job, he’d make a fine carpenter.

  Ethan shook his head, clearing out the random thought. Why could he not focus on the pertinent?

  “This is highly irregular.” The judge’s brow furrowed, and he crooked a finger toward the rear of the room. “Nonetheless, step forward, boy.”

  If he slanted his eyes, Ethan could see just far enough without turning his head to notice a ragamuffin walking a death march.

  Giving an exasperated sigh that ruffled the curls on his wig, the judge leaned over the bench. “Come, come! We’ve not got all day. What have you to say, boy?”

  “Awuzairsuh.”

  “Louder, lad.”

  “I was there, sir.”

  Ethan cocked his head, careful to keep the movement a notch below smack worthy. Recognition, though slow in coming, was a surprising guest. What could Jack the crossing sweep possibly have to say?

  “I see’d it happen, I did.”

  Rummaging through a stack of disordered memories, Ethan tried to reconstruct that horrid eve. Sick. Opium. Money. Fight. Death. Jack hadn’t played into it at all. Why would the boy lie on his behalf?

  “Tell us what happened,” said the judge.

  “Hethenanwil thaycumin—”

  “Speak up, boy!”

  Jack took a big breath, but he did not look up. “Ethan an’ Will, they come in late. To the alley, I mean. Tha’s where we stay. It were drizzly an’ cold. I’d curled up a’ready. Ethan, he were sick, hacking up a fit, and tripped o’er me.”

  It all came back. Stunning. Clear. Every last detail. Ethan’s mouth opened, more from a need for air than to speak.

  “Then that bast—”

  “Watch it, boy. You’re in court,” warned the judge.

  Jack pushed his toe around in little circles. Ethan felt as chagrined as he. If Jack couldn’t use his street language, how would he speak?

  “The ba … uh … bad man, Thorne, he crawled out o’ the shadows, grousing about some coin. Ethan tol’ him he din’t have it. He tol’ him plain as I’m a-tellin’ you. Din’t stop Thorne from pullin’ a knife, though. Ethan din’t see that. Will did. He took it, took what were meant for Ethan.”