by Jo Macauley
Beth reeled under the impact of all this. “How long do I have to think about it?”
“I want your answer within the week,” the spymaster told her. “We haven’t lost Vale. You could be hot on his trail in a matter of days, following him across the Atlantic. But you’ll have to move fast.”
“I see.”
Strange stood up. As far as he was concerned, the meeting was finished. “Think it over,” he said. “When you’ve made your decision, contact me. You know the protocol. Good day.”
Then he was gone, and Beth was left alone with her thoughts.
Chapter Twelve - As One Door Closes...
Beth could see that Maisie had been waiting for her back at the Peacock and Pie. The young girl leaped to her feet as soon as she heard Beth come in. “Is there any news on your friend?”
Oh, there’s news all right, and I only wish I could tell you, thought Beth.
“They’re hearing his case this afternoon at Bow Street Court,” Beth said. “They’ll find him innocent. They have to.”
“I’ll go along with you,” Maisie volunteered.
Beth wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. There was always the risk of her work as a spy being exposed when her fellow agents were in the picture, and she tried to protect Maisie from being involved. “But surely you have to rehearse?” she hedged.
“Honestly, Mistress Beth. You’re always running around looking after people, never a thought for yourself. This time, you’re the one who needs some support.”
Her friend’s loyalty nearly brought tears to Beth’s eyes. Looking at her serious face, she knew she couldn’t keep quiet a moment longer. “Maisie ... thank you, but I’ll be fine. In fact, there’s other news. Big, big news.”
Maisie’s eyes widened. “Yes?”
“I’ve been offered a new position. There’d be plenty of money, along with lots of responsibility.” She took a breath. “And it’d be in America.”
“Oh my goodness!” Maisie burst out. “What are the chances? What is it? Acting? Teaching? You’re going to be a governess?” Then she stopped and a look of fresh amazement covered her face. “Mistress Beth. I know what this is. You’re getting married to a rich merchant, aren’t you?”
“No!” Beth said in horror, then burst out laughing, with Maisie joining in. “Can you imagine me married to some terrible old moneybags?” Beth spluttered.
“Well, it’s none of my business what your position would be, I’m sure,” Maisie said, a hint of sadness in her voice now. “I just wish I had some way to come with you.”
“And I wish I could tell you all about it,” Beth said. “But the details are still being worked out. Once everything is signed and sealed, I’ll tell you more, I promise.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m just so happy for you!” Maisie said. “It’s beautiful out there. You can’t do it justice unless you’ve seen it with your own eyes. You can really make something of yourself out there.” Her voice grew smaller. “I only hope that’s what my father’s doing...”
“Oh, Maisie,” Beth said, squeezing her friend’s hand. “Anyway, perhaps I might stay. I already have made something of myself, right here in London.” She sighed. “You make it sound so inviting. But my acting has gone from strength to strength here. What about my admirers, all the people who come to see me every week? How can I let them down? I’d be throwing away so much!”
“Oh, Mistress Beth, how can I put this?” Maisie frowned. “I think you might be more loyal to them than they are to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but women on the London stage don’t last nearly as long as men. It’s all very well when you’re sixteen and the companies are willing to take a chance on you, but by the time you’re past twenty, everyone’s whispering that you ought to get married and settle down. It ain’t exactly a respectable career for an older woman, if you take my meaning.”
“I’ll get married in my own time,” Beth said fiercely, “if I ever do.”
“But it ain’t all about what you want, miss,” Maisie said gently. “You’re not in charge. Mister Huntingdon is.”
“I don’t need reminding,” Beth muttered.
“Although...” Maisie’s voice trailed off.
“Yes?”
“Nothing. It’s foolish of me.”
“Maisie,” Beth said, “What’s on your mind?”
“If you did go to America, you could always be an actress there as well,” Maisie said. “And with a whole new country to set up in – why, you could do what you’ve always wanted and found your own company!”
“My own company,” Beth echoed. She could do it. Even when she grew too old for the stage, she had always imagined she could manage other actors. No more compromises, no more taking direction ... no more Lovett! That, alongside Strange’s offer? Head of both her own spy network and her own theatre company? It could be perfect. Suddenly Beth saw herself living two brilliant lives, completely in control of both: directing shadowy agents and assigning them missions, directing young actors and assigning them their parts. She would be a spymistress like the world had never seen.
“You’re right, Maisie. Why shouldn’t I do it?” she said, jumping from her chair and walking around the room as her excitement grew. “The world’s bigger than London, after all! All the companies here are always trying to outdo us. They steal our scripts, they poach our stars and our audiences ... but in America, we could start from scratch!”
“If it was me, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Maisie said.
“I’ve no family here,” Beth said. For once in her life, that struck her as a good thing. She’d been a foundling baby. “None but you, of course, Maisie. You’re like a sister to me.”
Maisie hugged her. “I love you too. But you mustn’t let that hold you back, Mistress Beth—”
“I wonder...” Beth said quietly, and then looked Maisie in the eye suddenly. “What if there were a way to bring you with me?”
Maisie’s mouth was a perfect O of amazement. If I’m to be travelling as a grand lady, Beth thought, I’ll need a maid. Who better than Maisie to play the part? Surely Strange could be persuaded to see the sense in that?
“I can’t promise, but I think I may know a way,” Beth said. “Let me speak to the people in charge. I’ll do what I can—”
“Oh! Oh, Mistress Beth!” Maisie cried, not seeming to register the caution in Beth’s words. She span on the spot and burst out singing: “I’ll be sailin’ away from old England’s fair shore, to the land where tobacco grows high...”
But as Maisie went on to the verse about the laddie she left behind back in old London town, Beth realized her mind wasn’t completely made up after all. There was one thing about Strange’s offer she had overlooked. Even if John’s neck somehow escaped the hangman’s noose, he’d still be here in England while Beth was far across the cold Atlantic in America. If she accepted Strange’s offer, she might never see him again.
Unless, of course, Strange knew more than he had told...
Chapter Thirteen - Crime and Punishment
The cell where John sat was barely larger than a cupboard and stank like a latrine. Straw had been scattered on the floor, as if this was a place to keep beasts rather than people. A filthy bucket stood to one side. John didn’t look at it.
His cell was only one in a row of eight. They were beneath the Old Bailey, him and the seven other prisoners, waiting to be called up to their trials. Guards had frog-marched him out of Bridewell at dawn, chained to the others, and they had been carted up here in a jolting wagon and thrown into their cells. Then there was nothing to do but wait.
A few of the other prisoners talked to him. The first question was always the same: “What are you up for?” In this way, he learned his fellow prisoners had been arrested for drunkenness, arson, public brawling, disturbance of the peace and similar crimes. They didn’t seem surprised to hear he’d been arrested for stealing. John didn’t bother to protes
t his innocence. He’d quickly learned at Bridewell that everyone in prison insisted they were innocent. Not long after they arrived, the guards began to drag them upstairs one by one. The first to be taken was the public drunkard, Jimmy. John had rather liked the white-whiskered man, who had tried to make a joke of it, holding out his hands for the guards to cuff while saying, “Take me away, boys. Rather face you than me wife.” But when he was brought back down ten minutes later he had tears in his eyes.
“Guilty,” said the man in the cell to John’s left; Leonard, the supposed arsonist. “That’s a fine he can’t afford. He’ll be in the poorhouse after this, poor old devil.”
Next, the guards took Morton, a sailor whose only language seemed to be swear words. He was brought back even more swiftly than Jimmy, shouting and struggling all the way.
“He started it!” he bellowed. “I was defendin’ myself! You’ve no right!”
“Shut up,” the guard said wearily. “Any more noise out of you and you’ll lose your tongue.”
“That’s another guilty one,” Leonard said wearily.
One by one, the other prisoners were taken up then brought back down, with the same story every time. And each time John heard the guards come back down the stairs, his stomach lurched. He went over what he would say to the judge in his mind, repeating it to himself. Eventually only he and Leonard were left.
The other man went quietly, giving John a wink.
“Cheer up,” he said. “Got to put on a brave face, don’t yer?”
“Good luck!” John said softly. But when the guards brought Leonard back down again soon afterward, the man was shaking. He said nothing as the guards closed the cell door. John wondered if he should say anything as Leonard sat there, staring at his shoes. The pressure of silence grew and grew until John couldn’t bear it.
“So ... what did you get?” he asked.
“Guilty,” said Leonard. “I’m to be hanged by the neck. Until I’m dead.”
John tried to say something, but the words didn’t make it past his throat. It was as if a rope was choking him. “I’m sorry,” he stammered eventually. Leonard turned away and stared at the wall.
When John heard the guards coming, he was on his feet in a second. Being in the presence of a condemned man was giving him the horrors.
“Turner,” the guard said. “You’re next.”
John didn’t struggle, doing his best to keep up with their pace, but it wasn’t easy with his legs chained together. He stumbled once, and got a whack in the ribs for it. Finally they emerged into the courtroom, and John’s innards were in a tight knot as he saw the stern faces of the jurors lined up on both sides of the room, the prosecutor in his box and the judge looking down with a bored expression. The guards dragged him to the dock and shoved him inside. John blinked. Light was shining right into his eyes. A big mirror had been set up above the court to shine light from the windows down onto his face. He realized it must be so the jury could get a good look at the witness’s expression. It made him feel as if Heaven itself was accusing him.
I’ve done nothing wrong, he reminded himself.
Unfriendly eyes were glaring at him from all sides. But no – someone was waving from the public gallery, off to the side. It was Beth. He managed a smile and she rewarded him with a huge, supportive smile of her own. He knew his mother wouldn’t have been able to handle seeing him before the judge, but he was glad to have Beth there.
The judge wasn’t impressed at his smiling, and gave John a raven-black stare, then rapped his gavel to call the court to order.
“Court is now in session,” he droned. “John Turner, you will take the oath.”
His hand on the Bible, John swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
“You stand accused of the crime of pickpocketing, the goods in question being a silk handkerchief, value eighteen pence. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” John said clearly.
The judge rolled his eyes. “Very well. Mister Shadwell will now lead the prosecution.”
Shadwell was a brisk young man who couldn’t have been much older than John. “I wish to call Mister Blavistock, beadle of Cheapside Market, to the witness stand.”
The beadle came huffing up, took his place at the stand and pointed at John. “It was ’im, Your Honour. I saw him. He done it.”
“I have not yet asked you any questions, Mister Blavistock,” Shadwell reminded him, crooking a smile. Some of the jurors tittered at that.
“Beg your pardon,” the beadle said.
John was powerless to do anything. He knew he couldn’t interrupt or make a scene. That would only work against him. So he sat tight-lipped as Shadwell prompted Blavistock to tell his damning tale.
“Tell the court what you saw.”
“Well, the accused was hanging about behind the market stalls, acting all suspicious-like. Looking about, sir. Like he was waiting for an opportunity.”
That set the jury to muttering. The judge gave his gavel a warning rap to hush them.
“When you saw the accused holding the handkerchief, how would you say he looked?”
“Happy, sir,” said Blavistock. “Like he’d got away with it.”
“I see,” said Shadwell. “Now, I understand that you did not observe the actual theft?”
“With respect, sir, there were lots of people coming and going.”
“But as an experienced beadle of ten years’ standing, you are confident that a theft took place?”
Blavistock shrugged. “One minute he didn’t have it, the next he did. It don’t take a genius to work it out, sir, to my way of thinking. I mean, he didn’t take it out of his own pocket, did he?”
“Master Turner doesn’t seem like the type to afford silk kerchiefs, I agree!” smirked Shadwell. Laughs came from the public gallery, and the jury nodded vigorously, to John’s dismay.
“Tell me, Mister Blavistock; is pickpocketing a common crime around the market?”
Blavistock nodded, looking disgusted. “These kids, they have it down to a fine art. People like me, we work as hard as we can to stop ’em, but there’s just too many! Like rats!”
Shadwell smirked at this. After some more banter between him and Blavistock, it was finally time for John to give his own account.
“Do you deny that you were loitering behind the stalls?” Shadwell opened.
“I was looking for food,” John said. His cheeks burned with the shame of it. “Not to steal. I’m not a thief.”
“The jury will note that the accused denies being a thief,” Shadwell said, with a note of mock surprise. “If you were not planning to steal, where was this food meant to come from?”
“From the gutter,” John said, unable to contain his anger. “I thought I might find some goods that had fallen off the stalls, stuff nobody else wanted. I picked up a bruised apple and some cabbage leaves.”
“And the silk handkerchief? I suppose that came from the gutter too?”
“Yes,” John said stubbornly. Shadwell was making the truth sound like a lie.
The prosecutor strode over and leaned his elbow on the edge of the dock.
“Hunger and poverty lead men to do desperate things, don’t they, Turner?”
“I suppose,” John said. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was being led into a trap.
“You suppose? Let’s look at your own situation. Your father lost his job recently following a terrible injury. Your family – a large family, at that – is in desperate need of food—”
“That doesn’t make me a thief!” John protested.
Beth watched all this with a sinking heart. Beside her, a woman was knitting – she seemed to be here for the entertainment, and turned to her companion. “Guilty as hell, that one,” she murmured. “It’s obvious. God knows we’ve all had hungry children at home before, and we’ve never resorted to stealing.
Her companion nodded. “I blame the parents.”
“How dare you?” Beth hissed.
“Eh?” the woman said.
“John Turner is my friend!” Beth snarled. “He’d never, ever do anything dishonest! You say one more word against him, and I’ll take those knitting needles and ram them so hard—”
The woman stared at Beth, shocked and clutching her knitting as if to hide behind it.
“Order in court!” the judge called, hammering with his gavel, noticing their escalating confrontation. Smouldering, Beth sat back down. The two older women got up and went to sit on the other side of the public gallery.
“No further questions, Your Honour,” said Shadwell, looking smug.
The jury took less than five minutes to come to their verdict.
John sat waiting for the announcement, feeling tense and sick to his stomach. He felt like he was already on the gallows with a rope around his neck, just waiting for the trapdoor to drop away from beneath him.
“There’s still a chance,” he whispered to himself. “Hold fast.”
“And what verdict have you reached?” the judge was asking the foreman.
“We find the defendant ... guilty.”
John felt the floor give way beneath him.
“John Turner,” said the judge, “you have been found guilty of pickpocketing. I shall now pronounce sentence.”
Please, John prayed silently. My family needs me ... please.
“I shall not, on this occasion, impose the death penalty,” the judge said. “Given that the goods in question are valued at a mere eighteen pence.”
The knitting woman tutted loudly.
“Instead,” the judge went on, “I sentence you to transportation. You will be shipped to America to serve a term of seven years, during which time you will not return to England on pain of death.” The gavel banged. “Take him away.”
Chapter Fourteen - Laying Plans
Beth returned to the Peacock and Pie, feeling as if she had been turned to stone. “How could they think he was guilty?” she murmured, almost to herself.