Demon of Mine

by Ranae Rose

  It was completely ridiculous, of course. Why would Damon Remington, one of the richest heirs in London, kill a man over a gambling debt that amounted to a few mere pence when compared to his own wealth? While contemplating the persecutor’s ludicrous case, Elsie blinked at a figure announced as the constable who’d been summoned to the site of the murder.

  “Near three in the morning on the second of August, I was summoned to an alley just outside Green’s gentlemen’s club, which is well known by Londoners. Some patrons from the club said that there had been murder done, and I found Lord Griffith dead sure enough, run through the gut with a blade and still warm. The accused, Damon Remington, was not there, but half a dozen men swore to me that they’d seen him go outside with Griffith not fifteen minutes before, and that he’d looked angry.”

  The younger Lord Griffith spoke next. Though Elsie couldn’t make out his face, she could remember it fairly well from a time she’d seen him at a Remington party years ago. She pictured his square jaw, slight double chin and watery blue eyes as his bitter voice filled the courtroom. As butterflies burst into anxious flight inside her stomach at the thought of giving her own testimony, she wondered whether his passion was genuine or a clever bit of acting. The haute ton were adept at insincerity and even treachery. No one knew that better than the servants of the wealthy, who labored quietly in the background, witnessing happenings that would never be tolerated within their own ranks.

  “Mr. Remington murdered my brother,” Griffith declared boldly. “It is well known among the gentlemen of Green’s that my brother owed Mr. Remington” – he sneered as he emphasized Damon’s lack of a noble title – “a certain sum of money. Fifty pounds, to be exact – a gaming debt accrued while playing cards.”

  A hushed buzz swept through the assembled crowd. Not paying one’s gambling debts was considered the height of ungentlemanly behavior. Most lords would rather have the coats taken off their backs than to heap such indignity upon themselves.

  “Mr. Remington is a foul-tempered man,” Griffith continued, “and he became incensed when my brother failed to pay immediately. They had some words and left the club abruptly. Mr. Remington murdered my brother in a rage.”

  “Did you witness the murder?” Mr. Hastings demanded.

  “No,” Griffith admitted begrudgingly, “but I know it was Damon Remington who killed my brother, just the same.”

  Three men followed Griffith, each members of Green’s. They testified, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, to having witnessed Damon and Lord Griffith leaving the club together.

  Where were the other three men the constable had claimed had told him they’d seen the two leave together? Had they been too afraid of the Remingtons to agree to testify at the trial, or simply unwilling to lie? Perhaps a combination of both. Anger boiled in the pit of Elsie’s stomach as she listened to each of Griffith’s three witnesses lie under oath. It was impossible that Damon had left with Lord Griffith, because by a quarter ‘till three in the morning, he’d been in his own bed in Hertfordshire.

  Elsie was almost surprised when it came time for Damon to begin his defense. Griffith’s persecution had been shoddy at best. Was that really all he had? It couldn’t possibly be enough to convict Damon. Her heart wanted to soar, but gnawing suspicion tethered it down. Only a complete idiot would have brought this case before the court with such weak, circumstantial accusations. No one had even pretended to have seen the murder. There had to be something more, and yet, Damon was already explaining his innocence.

  “It is true that Lord Griffith owed me about fifty pounds in gaming debts. Frankly, the sum is paltry in comparison to my wealth. To have murdered him over it would have been absolutely meaningless. The only thing he incurred by failing to pay his debt was a certain amount of ill repute. I was not overly concerned with his tardiness, and I certainly didn’t kill him.”

  Elsie waited raptly, her heart in her throat, as Damon paused to let the truth sink in. When he continued, his voice was as admirably calm as ever – as soft as velvet and as strong as steel. He sounded like a man who was confident in his innocence and in the jury’s decision to render an accurate verdict. It was no wonder, really, after Griffith’s lame accusations. But did Damon fret inwardly, just as she did, over his accuser’s weak case? If he did, he didn’t let it show.

  “By three in the morning, I had already arrived at my country estate in Hertfordshire,” Damon concluded.

  Elsie’s chest tightened as she contemplated the testimony she’d surely be giving any minute now. She hardly heard Griffith’s lawyer fire off a question, something about a carriage.

  Damon’s irresistible voice pulled her from her nervous thoughts and infused her with a little braveness. “I rode alone,” he said, “as I often do when I visit the city. I spent a little time at Green’s much earlier that night, but by eleven I had already gone. I have a witness with me now who can testify that I was indeed home by three – a member of my household staff.”

  Chapter 7

  Though the faces in the courtroom were little more than flesh-colored blurs to Elsie, she felt their stares settle on her as the judge bid her to speak. Working her tongue against her palate in an effort to muster some moisture into her dry mouth, she was sworn to honesty. Jenny, who was still gripping her arm, gave her a light squeeze as she willed herself not to ruin the testimony she’d practiced so carefully. “I am a housemaid at Mr. Remington’s Hertfordshire estate,” she began, and was pleasantly surprised at the steadiness of her voice. “I was awake about half an hour before three on the night of Lord Griffith’s murder, and I encountered my employer as I exited the library, which is adjacent to his bedchamber.”

  The courtroom buzzed with quiet chatter. She could just barely hear the occasional ribald suggestion as to why she’d been lingering near Damon’s quarters at such an hour. Her cheeks flamed, and for the first time, she was glad she couldn’t see the faces that were all surely turned in her direction. Her stomach clenched as the question she’d expected came.

  “And why would a housemaid be awake and lurking near her employer’s bedchamber at half past two in the morning? Oughtn’t you to have been asleep in the servants’ quarters?”

  “I never meant to be.” She held her chin steady, refusing to let it drop. “I am prone to an illness which strikes me in fits, often rendering me unconscious. While dusting that evening I had fallen so in the library, and there I remained until I awoke at half past two. When I came to, I saw Mr. Remington passing through the corridor outside, on his way to his bedchamber.”

  “That is a remarkably convenient explanation.” Elsie didn’t need to see Griffith’s lawyer’s face clearly to detect his contempt – it was more than evident in his tone.

  Mr. Hastings responded at once, mercifully saving Elsie from the necessity of mustering a reply. “I have with me a Dr. Phineas Stallings, one of the finest physicians in London. My client’s servant is his patient, and he is fully prepared to confirm the unfortunate symptoms of her illness.”

  The doctor was sworn in and afterward promptly described Elsie’s episodes, assuring the court that her story was perfectly within the realm of possibility. Though she couldn’t see it, Elsie could imagine a dour look on the face of Griffith’s temporarily quelled lawyer.

  After a few more questions clearly intended to determine that it had, in fact, been Damon that Elsie had seen, the lawyers and the judge finally moved on to the next witness; a business associate of the Remingtons’ who vouched for Damon’s good character. The Remington family’s rather intimidating reputation was already branded into the minds of most Londoners, but as it was Damon’s word against Griffith’s, the wealthy man’s smoothly and eloquently delivered character assessment surely couldn’t do any harm. Damon had chosen – and surely paid – well. No doubt the man’s favor would be returned during subsequent business dealings, if not in an outright sum.

  There were no more witnesses to confirm Damon’s lack of presence at the club shortly befor
e three, and no one to confirm his whereabouts elsewhere, either. The deficiency was perplexing, to say the least. Was Elsie really the only person who’d seen him late that night – or at least, the only one who would admit to it? He was known for his mysteriousness, but it seemed a little much. A slight shiver raced down her spine as she recalled the feeling of her blood fleeing her veins, being drawn into his mouth. Perhaps any other activities or meetings he’d had that night had been understandably secret.

  But why hadn’t Damon gathered men from the club to testify that he hadn’t left with Lord Griffith – that he’d in fact left nearly three hours earlier? It seemed like an obvious first move. That he’d neglected to do so didn’t make any sense. Could the members of Green’s perhaps be so under Griffith’s thumb that none of them dared testify on Damon’s behalf? Or was Damon relying on his bribe money to secure the verdict? Elsie buried a tooth in the soft flesh of her inner lip, trying to determine what could possibly render the younger Griffith more formidable than Damon Remington.

  The screeching of the courtroom doors interrupted her increasingly circular thoughts. She turned automatically toward the entrance, where a female figure had appeared. A brief moment of silence was followed by an explosion of half-whispered conversation that put the hubbub that’d occurred during Elsie’s testimony to shame. “What is it?” Elsie leaned to speak into Jenny’s ear.

  “Well she looks like a prostitute,” Jenny whispered, her voice high with a sort of shocked disapproval.

  “How can you be sure?” Elsie asked, squinting at the figure in green skirts.

  Jenny pulled herself together with a slight huff of a breath, settling into a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s clear as day that she wears no stays, and her breasts are in serious danger of escaping her bodice altogether. What’s more, her face bears more paint than most houses, and by the looks of it she’s had it on over a very lively night.”

  The woman lurched forward, pried her fingers from the edge of one door and tottered precariously, as if she were walking on a tightrope instead of a perfectly even floor. “She looks as if she’s going to fall!” Elsie exclaimed. Even to her eyes, the woman’s gait was painfully graceless. After half a dozen unsteady steps, she floundered, her arms milling through the air in frantic circles. A collective gasp ensued as she seemed to defy gravity for a moment.

  An anonymous man darted forward just in time, catching her before she hit the floor. Though he looked to be making an effort not to hold the woman too near to his body, she completely thwarted his cautiousness by throwing an arm around his neck and clinging to him. The sound of tearing fabric ensued. “His coat!” Jenny explained, whispering into Elsie’s ear. “She’s torn it!”

  The silence that followed was broken by a hiccup.

  “She’s drunk!” Jenny’s explanation was rendered useless by the chorus of barely subdued murmurings that sprung up around them, the loudest of the day.

  “Order!” The judge called attention back to the front of the room with a barked command and a few swift fells of his gavel. “Gentlemen, ladies, please spare a thought for decorum. This is a courthouse, not a menagerie!”

  Appropriately shamed, the buzzing audience quieted. Mostly.

  The judge laid his gavel down. “Now,” he said, his tone wary, “who have we here?”

  The woman clinging to her reluctant rescuer straightened a little, tossing her head in an exaggerated gesture that further evidenced her inebriation. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly loud. “Amelia White.” She paused to hiccup again, then apparently remembered her manners. “Your Honor.”

  “And have you any particular reason for entering this courtroom, Miss White?”

  “I am here to give my testimony.”

  The judge still sounded cautious. “Have you some information regarding the death of Lord Griffith?”

  “Oh yes. I saw him murdered with my very own eyes.”

  The judge beat a preemptive tattoo against his desk, quelling any inclinations the rest of the room’s occupants may have had to discuss the latest development. “Indeed? You’ll need to be sworn in before you speak further.”

  Apparently aware of the graveness of the matter, Amelia White managed to swear her honesty without a single hiccup. Afterward, a breathless sort of silence filled the room as everyone awaited her testimony.

  “I was out for a bit of fresh air, perhaps a quarter of an hour before three that morning,” Ms. White began, eliciting a few snorts from the otherwise quiet crowd. “I passed by Green’s gentlemen’s club, and was just rounding the corner when I heard a frightful noise.” She paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, or perhaps only to stifle another hiccup. “It was a plea for mercy. When I worked up the courage, I peered around the corner and saw a man towering over another in the alleyway behind Green’s, holding a knife to his victim’s throat. The man holding the knife demanded money, and when the other said he couldn’t pay, he stabbed him through the heart. It was a frightful sight. I nearly fainted.”

  A strangled sound came from the vicinity of Lord Griffith. At first, Elsie thought he might have been struck by a sudden bout of stomach pain, or perhaps an aneurism. Then she remembered the constable’s account of finding the elder Griffith’s corpse in the alley. He’d been stabbed through the gut, not the heart. Elsie was apparently not the only one to realize Ms. White’s mistake. The courtroom burst into a chorus of noisy explanations, and the judge tamed the uproar with half a dozen hearty fells of his gavel and several vehement admonitions.

  Ms. White was apparently oblivious, perhaps thinking that the commotion was due to her bold testimony. She stood there, hapless, and the judge continued. “Where were you when the constable arrived?”

  “I’d fled by then. After witnessing the murder, I was afraid for my life. Naturally.”

  “And the two men. Can you identify them?”

  “Oh yes. The man who was stabbed was Lord Griffith, and the one who killed him was Damon Remington.”

  “You were able to identify them by sight, in the dark?”

  “My eyes are quite accustomed to the darkness, Your Honor.”

  A few people in the crowd tittered.

  The judge brought his gavel down half-heartedly onto his desk before continuing. “And you were familiar with the appearances of both men?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  She answered with alacrity, seemingly unaware of the mildly scandalized murmurs rolling through the crowd. “I have traveled the street outside Green’s often enough, and Lord Griffith engaged me in conversation once or twice.”

  “Conversation indeed,” someone muttered under his breath.

  The judge, if he had even heard the remark, chose to ignore it. “And Damon Remington?”

  Elsie’s already considerable interest peaked, her curiosity undercut by incredulousness. Surely Damon hadn’t had any associations with this uncommonly classless woman. Her heart tightened curiously as she listened with bated breath.

  “No one who’s laid eyes on Damon Remington is likely to forget his face. And though he never favored me with his company,” – her tone was tinged with something that might have been disappointment – “as I said, I’ve walked the street in front of Green’s often enough.”

  Elsie’s heart felt remarkably light as the courtroom buzzed softly with renewed conversation. She turned her head to peer at Damon, who stood a few yards to her right, but couldn’t quite make out his facial features.

  The judge spoke above the din, and all fell quiet. “You said you heard Mr. Remington demand money from Lord Griffith before he killed him. What was the sum?”

  Whether the judge actually believed that Ms. White might have really witnessed the murder or was simply allowing Ms. White to dig her own grave, Elsie didn’t know, but she listened raptly anyway.

  “Oh.” The woman’s initial reply was half-hiccup. “One hundred and fifty pounds, it was.”

  The buzz that ensued failed to completely muffle another stra
ngled-sounded exclamation that came from the direction of Griffith and his lawyer, followed swiftly by a curse that Elsie doubted would ever make it into the court transcript. Elsie couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction. It had already been established by both Griffith and Damon that the late Lord Griffith had owed Damon just fifty pounds. Any hope that Ms. White might be at all credible had been thoroughly destroyed – not that Elsie had believed her for a moment in the first place. No doubt the woman’s false testimony had been bought as easily as her body.

  “Order!” The judge abused his desk brutally with his gavel. “That will be all, Ms. White,” he said when the room had quieted.

  Elsie was still basking in relief when the woman tottered back down the aisle.

  “There aren’t any other witnesses hiding in the corridors, are there?”

  No one answered the judge’s slightly exasperated inquiry.

  “Very well. Then the jury is dismissed.”

  Elsie sighed and squeezed Jenny’s arm in relief. “Thank God that’s over.”

  “There’s still the verdict,” Jenny replied cautiously.

  “As if Griffith has a chance after that fiasco!”

  Jenny shrugged, but didn’t seem completely convinced. “I suppose not.”

  Elsie fought down a wave of irritation. Did Jenny always have to be so contrary? No one could possibly declare Damon guilty after what they’d just witnessed. Could they? Worry began to gnaw at her confidence, slowly obliterating it. If all the gentlemen at Green’s could be paid off or intimidated, perhaps the jury could be as well. She grasped Jenny’s arm tightly, praying for a favorable verdict. She’d barely finished her silent imploration by the time the jury returned.