by Abigail Agar
Vera realised she had been holding her breath the whole time. So Fielding had come through for her? What had he said to convince Lord Stanley to change his mind about her? She longed to speak with Lord Stanley alone.
But for now she had to simply watch the theatre of the court play out in front of her.
Lord Stanley gave out a commanding bellow that suggested that he was more than aware of how he was playing with the court: a dramatic last minute witness, a Lord riding in to save the woman; Martha was right, sometimes truth mattered, sometimes it didn’t.
‘Fielding,’ he called. ‘Bring in the real killer.’
No doubt he loves being the centre of all this attention, Vera thought. She knew how he enjoyed to play a part and draw eyes.
The doors opened at the back of the court, and Mr Fielding entered, with the men from her nightmares in tow. Vera’s heart leapt. Fielding had done it. She couldn’t begin to speculate as to how he and Lord Stanley had come to be in the same circle, but she was thrilled.
Mr Fielding looked a little uncomfortable in what was clearly his finest Sunday suit, his hair oiled back and combed and several gold watch chains linking various pockets of his waistcoat.
Behind him were two of the meanest looking dockland thugs Vera had ever seen. Their hands were bound up in grubby boxers’ bandages, and their arms showed numerous scars. Each one had a long club hung from their belt and between them – shackled up so tight hand and foot that he had to waddle like a penguin between the two men – was the man with the white sideburns.
‘May I present to you, your honour: Mr Fielding at the front there, Big John on your left, Gunner Stephen on the right and the gentleman in chains is one Ivan Ivanovich Kuznetsov.’
Mr Fielding entered the arena at the front of the court and bowed low first to the judge, then to the jury. Big John and Gunner Stephen looked a little awkward and dropped their head to the judge and jury in turn. Kuznetsov rolled his eyes before looking around the room.
Vera could not take her eyes off him and was frozen. The thoughts rushing through her mind too myriad and hectic for her to pin any one down.
The back of her brain was simply terrified, even tied up, this was the man who had wrought the most appalling destruction on her life, killed those she loved, and torn her ability even to grieve them properly from her.
The front of her brain felt such hope. Here was the man who could acquit her, the real murderer in the room with her, verifying her side of the story. Yet the case was not over; she could still hang, and so she fought against the hope that she knew might break her if it were taken away again.
Lord Stanley stepped down and Kuznetsov took the stand in almost complete silence, put his hand on the Bible, and repeated the oath in little more than a thickly accented mumble. His hair was ruffled, and his anger showed. Vera recognised the accent as being from somewhere near her own family’s original region in Poland.
Lord Stanley had joined the front bench where those concerned with presenting the case were sat. From there he was able to pass a reassuring look across to Vera.
Everything now hinged on whether or not Kuznetsov could sneak through the questions of Fitzwilliam and the judge. Fitzwilliam seemed convinced of her guilt so was hardly likely to be much use to her.
She wished she were allowed to speak on her own behalf by law, but unless the judge decided to waive the usual protocol, she would simply have to sit in silence before the judgement of the room while the evidence was presented.
Fitzwilliam rose dramatically to his feet and approached Mr Kuznetsov.
‘Hello again, Mr Kuznetsov.’
‘Hello, Constable.’
‘You are here to bear witness against Miss Ladislaw.’
‘If I must. I have told you about her crimes.’
‘Indeed. In fact, I have vouched for you and presented the testimony you gave me several months ago to this court. So it is highly unusual for you to be brought here at all.’
‘If you say so.’ Kuznetsov, Vera noted, had a highly artificial way of holding himself. This was someone used to saying only what was necessary and giving no additional information away. It reminded her of certain political dissidents her father would meet with. Usually those with ugly prison tattoos on their hands or temples.
‘I do say so,’ said Fitzwilliam. ‘I suspect from what Miss Ladislaw has said to me outside this court that she wishes to pin her crimes on you. We have already told the court what you saw on the day she killed her family, and how you escaped from her murderous rampage. But what will most influence the court at this point I think is an explanation of how you came to be here in the court.’
‘I was brought here by this press-gang. Mr Fielding and his two thugs assaulted me, chained me, and dragged me from my lodgings. They broke the hand of my manservant and stole many items of value.’
He looked rather nervous as he said this; she wondered what it was that Fielding had nicked from this killer’s lodgings.
‘At this point, I should point out that I have met Mr Fielding a few times,’ said Fitzwilliam, ‘always in my professional capacity. He is deeply embedded in the criminal community of this city and not a man to trust. Please continue, Mr Kuznetsov.’
‘They struck me with their sticks, accused me of many crimes, and dragged me here in most unsanitary conditions. It is an outrage.’
‘These men abducted you, assaulted you, and physically intimidated you. Do you know why?’
‘This woman has hired them to catch me, to try and have me hung in her place. I will not be her scapegoat.’
‘I see. So these men have made threats and backed up their threats with actual violence.’ He turned to the judge and jury. ‘I am sure none of that was meant in any way to influence Mr Kuznetsov’s account of the events in court, of course.’
Vera watched all this play out with her fists balled. How could he lie like that? And with Fitzwilliam helping him out the whole way along.
She began to wonder if Fitzwilliam were in the pocket of Kuznetsov, or if there was some other nefarious dealing going on behind the bare mechanics of this case.
‘How did you come to witness the crimes, Mr Kuznetsov?’
‘I was on my way from Bathcombe to some business interests up the river. Passing the Ladislaw’s farm I heard gunshots, and as my manservant is always armed, we went to investigate. What we found was the corpse of Mr Ladislaw in a barn with what appeared to be a printing press. In the house, Mrs Ladislaw had been shot in the head in the downstairs lounge.’ At this, he turned and looked right at Vera and gave a cold smile which expressed no happiness. Vera shivered. ‘We found Miss Ladislaw in the servants’ quarters, a bungalow behind the farmhouse. She had cornered the maid and shot her in the gut when we arrived. Miss Ladislaw ran, and we tried to save the injured maid who died shortly thereafter. Then I went straight to yourself, Mr Fitzwilliam, and reported what I had seen.’
The judge leaned forwards, ‘This is all much as Mr Fitzwilliam presented to the court. Is there anything additional you can add, Mr Kuztnetsov.’
Fitzwilliam smiled and turned to face the side-burned man who still had his hat on his head despite being indoors. ‘Did you have any reason to harm Mr Ladislaw yourself?’
‘No. I had never met Mr Ladislaw, though he is known to most political exiles from Poland like me. He was a notable man of influence in the pro-Napoleonic elements in the independence movement.’
‘Are you yourself politically active?’
‘No. I am in import and export. I have made life in England. I do not wish to return to Poland. The Prussians can have it.’
‘So there really seems no reason for you to want to murder a man you’ve never met and his wife and his servants, then allow his daughter to escape in order to frame her with a letter written in her own handwriting?’
‘There is no reason for any part of that. No reason at all.’
Fitzwilliam turned and faced the judge. ‘I really do not see what else there is to be a
sked.’
Lord Stanley stood up. ‘Since Mr Fitzwilliam is incapable of conducting the interview in such a way as to find out anything useful from this murderous crook, perhaps I might be allowed to ask a few questions of my own.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Fitzwilliam’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at this.
Rank has its privileges, thought Vera. She thought of Martha and Catherine and wondered if they might have been freed if their husbands or lovers or parents had carried the same social weight as Lord Stanley.
Lord Stanley stood and walked over to Kuznetsov. ‘Good day, Mr Kuznetsov. May I ask what Mr Fitzwilliam did after speaking to you?’
‘He wrote my account down and began the search for the murderer.’
‘So he simply took your statement, and then began the man, or indeed, woman hunt.’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t find any other witnesses, speak to your manservant for example, investigate the crime scene where, in fact, there were signs of a pursuit, multiple shots fired from a pistol, and only a musket found in the house. I know all this because I bothered to visit the house in question and look around. My professional witnesses, Fielding and his two employees will corroborate all this. Your honour, might I ask a question of Mr Fitzwilliam.’
‘By all means,’ Judge Kenway was almost anxious to let Lord Stanley do whatever he liked.
This was a new side to Lord Stanley that Vera had never seen before. Stern and in control, she couldn’t tell if this was another performance, but his command of the room was deeply attractive. Every eye was on him; gone was his often wry and silly humour – here was a serious man of the world demanding the attention of the room and levelling damning accusations at those who until now had ruled the courtroom with their testimony.
‘Mr Fitzwilliam, you saw no reason to hold Mr Kuznetsov or his man servant. Nothing suspicious at all about them. Not even a single clue as to his nefarious nature.’
Fitzwilliam smiled a polite smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘I have been a constable for many years. If something had been off about this gentleman, I would have spotted it in an instant. I’m sure you can appreciate that, amateur that you are in these investigative and legal arts.’
‘So to your trained eye, there was no reason to detain or question these men as anything more than witnesses to a horrible murder?’
‘That is correct. Nothing whatsoever to make a man think anything more of their testimony than to pity them for how they came by it.’
‘So there was nothing so obvious or sensational as bloodstained sleeves or coats? The sort of thing that titillates the public. Nothing like that?’
Fitzwilliam scoffed. ‘Of course not. I think if a murderer walked into my office covered in blood, I would raise a flag. Don’t you?’
‘I do indeed, Mr Fitzwilliam. Which is why I find it a little odd that you didn’t challenge him on his good-Samaritan story. After all don’t you think, with all your years of observational prowess, that a man who claimed to have attempted to nurse a woman shot in the stomach – which you will remember is something that Mr Kuznetsov claims both in his version of the story and in yours – if he had indeed attempted to help a woman shot in the stomach by a musket ball, don’t you think it odd that he had got not a single drop of blood on him anywhere. Not a smudge large enough that you, with all your experience would notice. Don’t you think? To me, in my – admittedly amateur – opinion – don’t you think it sounds like Mr Kuznetsov should be on trial at the very least for lying to you about that, and maybe even for letting Mishka – that servant had a name – for letting Mishka perish without intervening in the slightest. This is no more than what is expressed in his own account of his crime.’
Fitzwilliam scowled but said nothing. He too knew better than to speak when to speak would only make the situation worse.
The dangerous glimmer of hope in Vera’s breast began to catch light a little more.
‘Indeed,’ continued Stanley, clearly beginning to enjoy the sound of his own voice, Vera noticed. ‘Mr Fitzwilliam appears to have missed a number of other matters in his testimony. The toll booths all over Bathcombe know of Mr Kuznetsov’s distinctive stagecoach. It makes his movements very easy to track through the county. According to those who guard our turnpikes, the word of these fine workers of the road, Mr Kuznetsov took the road to the Ladislaws three times. He knew old Ladislaw well. In fact, Ladislaw’s papers contain many letters from and to Mr Kuznetsov.’
‘Lord Stanley, are you going to let the witness speak?’
‘No, your honour. I think I am quite done with this liar, killer, and enemy of the English Crown.’
‘I beg your pardon, Lord Stanley. Did you say this man is an enemy of the Crown?’
‘I did, but perhaps my next witness can shed more light on the broad nature of Mr Kuznetsov’s crimes.’
Chapter 21
Mr Fielding shifted uncomfortably on the stand. His oiled hair was looking damp, and he was dabbing his forehead with a thoroughly soaked handkerchief.
Vera bit the inside of her cheek as she watched him. She could see his discomfort in the presence of so much legal grandeur. With his criminal inclinations, he seemed as out of place as a demon in a church. Only this demon Vera felt a tenderness in her heart for.
She smiled to reflect that he was a career criminal without a single charge against his name, while she was a law abiding citizen sat in the dock.
Their familial connection may have started as a joke about a faux-shared name, but now she looked at him with a genuine feeling of warmth as though he were her family. She hated to see him in such a state of obvious worry.
The judge did not seem to share this warmth of feeling. ‘Mr Fielding, you may now enlighten us as to your role in this affair. Lord Stanley has done much to set up your tale.’
Mr Fielding cleared his throat. His shoulders straightened, and he held his head a little higher. ‘Of course, Your Honour.’ He bowed deferentially and paused for effect. ‘I first encountered Miss Ladislaw when I spotted her in a state of some distress in a park; she appeared to be sleeping rough, but with her ladylike clothes I imagined her ill-equipped for Bathcombe after dark. She looked as though she was ill or lost, and I offered her guidance through the streets as any gentleman might do. She introduced herself as Miss Fielding, but of course, we both knew this to be a case of going incognito. She made little disguise of the fact that she was lying in claiming the same surname as me. She told me she was looking for legal assistance –needed to report a crime – I have some experience in these matters.’
Fitzwilliam’s harsh and contemptuous guffaw echoed around the room and seemed to hang in the silence that followed. Vera looked at the jury. They had taken note of Fitzwilliam’s implied comment on Fielding’s legitimacy.
‘Well,’ started Fielding again, ‘I took her to The Worm in the Rose, a little pub which I have a few shares in.’ He turned to the crowd and added, ‘And a fine place for a gentleman or lady to get a drink after a long day in court.’
He turned back to the jury and continued: ‘I made sure Miss Ladislaw had a drink –sometimes that’s all a person needs after a terrible day, you know, to get their head sorted out. And I’ll have you know, I have a reputation for assisting a damsel in need, and that’s quite certainly what Miss Ladislaw was; you could tell by looking at her, a real princess with a dragon after her, haunted like–’
The judge interrupted. ‘This is all very amusing, Mr Fielding, but might we request that you be a little more precise in your testimony by, for instance, getting to the point when you encounter the man you allege to be the true murderer?’
Mr Fielding nodded. ‘Right, right. The good bit. This is where you’ll see I am a man of action. If a fellow crosses me once, you best understand he will not repeat the mistake. You know back in the day, they used to have a nickname for me–’