by Jane Feather
“I told you, Sir Stephen, the woman’s up to no good,” Maude announced with that odious air of triumph. “I’ll wager anything that she has stolen the volume, and who knows what others, while she’s been busying herself all alone in here.”
“Not so, ma’am!” Alex exclaimed, even as a little voice said that her removal of the Chaucer could indeed be considered theft, even though it was rightfully hers.
“We must search her room, go through her possessions,” Maude stated. “We’ll see what else the woman’s stolen away. You would never know what priceless volumes are missing from the library. She could have half a dozen books hidden in her room.”
Stephen looked at Alexandra, and she saw the growing suspicion in his eyes. “I agree, my dear. You will come with us, Mistress Hathaway, while we search your chamber.”
They would find nothing, she thought. If she continued to deny all knowledge of the Chaucer, she should brush through this somehow. “As you wish, sir,” she murmured. “I have nothing to hide.”
A touch of uncertainty crossed his eyes, but Maude said, “Come, there’s no time to lose.” She swept from the room, and Stephen followed on her heels. Alex came behind them, filled with dread despite her knowledge that there was nothing incriminating among her possessions.
In her bedchamber, she stood immobile by the door while Maude began to go through her clothes in the armoire and the drawers in the chest, tossing her shabby, pathetic garments aside as she searched in every corner of every drawer, even shaking out her shoes to make sure there was nothing concealed in the toes. Stephen simply stood by, watching his wife with a somewhat awkward air. But he said and did nothing to stop her, not even when she pulled back the bedclothes and felt beneath the pillows. “Sir Stephen, help me turn the mattress,” she demanded.
“Is that really necessary, my dear?”
She quelled his faint protest with a glare, and he helped her lift the mattress from the bed, holding it while she swept her hand along the rope springs beneath from one end to the other. “Ah, what’s that?” she said, suddenly bending down. She hauled the portmanteau out from under the bed.
Alexandra turned to stone, remembering for the first time what was concealed beneath the false bottom of the bag.
Maude opened the bag and tipped it upside down. She shook it, and there was a distinct chink. She ran her hand over the bottom and found, as was inevitable, the little tab that lifted the false bottom. She looked up at her husband and then at Alexandra, then raised the piece of stiffened leather, revealing the small compartment beneath. In a silence that was now thick and heavy with dreadful anticipation, she took out the little pouch.
Maude pulled apart the drawstring and upended the contents onto her palm. Sir Arthur’s diamond fob and signet ring, both engraved with the Douglas arms. “So!” she declared, extending her hand, palm up, towards Alexandra. “So, where did you get these, madam?” Without waiting for an answer, she extended her hand to her husband. “Look. I warned you about her, husband, but you wouldn’t listen.” Her eyes glittered with an almost manic satisfaction as she thrust her opened palm under his nose with a dramatic gesture that made him take an involuntary step back.
He stared down at the contents of her palm. “What are these?”
“These, sir, belonged to Sir Arthur Douglas. See the engraving.” She gazed up at him with that glitter still in her eyes. “Hidden in this thieving, deceitful mountebank’s baggage.” She turned back to Alexandra. “These belong to the Douglas family. Where did you steal them from?”
Alexandra felt faint, as if the world were fading around her. Maude didn’t wait for an answer. “I knew there was something wrong with her, something not right with her namby-pamby, oh-so-shy, oh-so-demure, butter-wouldn’t-melt manners. She’s no middle-aged spinster, husband, she’s a thief, with some connection to Sir Arthur. She must have stolen the ring and the fob from somewhere, and I don’t know what else she’s stolen from us, but by God, we shall find out.”
“No . . . no, you are mistaken, ma’am.” Alex found her voice at last. “I have stolen nothing.”
Maude gave a short derisive crack of laughter and turned back to the portmanteau, pulling out first the silk gown and then the breeches and jerkin of Alex’s male costume. “Look at these.” She held up the garments, waving them in front of her husband. “Look at this gown . . . and breeches, Sir Stephen, breeches and a jerkin. Why would the shameless hussy have such garments in her bag unless it was for some piece of trickery?”
“Just a minute . . . just a minute.” Stephen held up his hands for quiet. “I can’t make head or tail of this rigmarole. What is all this about, Mistress Hathaway?”
“ ’Tis obvious,” Maude said. “Look at her.” She pointed a finger. “Guilty as sin. Fetch the beadle, Sir Stephen. I demand you fetch a beadle. You’re Justice of the Peace, ’tis for you to have her arrested.”
Stephen looked across at the ashen Alexandra. “Can you explain any of this, Mistress Hathaway?”
Alexandra could see no way out. To protect Sylvia, she must continue to conceal her real identity. She had no choice but to maintain a steadfast silence, and with that knowledge came an almost fatalistic acceptance of whatever path fate had now laid out for her. “I have nothing to say.”
“Condemned by her own mouth,” Maude announced triumphantly. “The deceitful, thieving baggage.”
Stephen waved her down impatiently, addressing Alexandra once more. “Come, woman, you must have an explanation.”
“No,” she answered simply. “None that I am willing to divulge.”
“And what about this mysterious volume?” Maude demanded. “This Chaucer that’s so valuable and is no longer part of the library. You told this Mr. Murdock that Sir Arthur had left it to his daughter, but such a bequest was nowhere in his will. You have stolen it.”
Alexandra felt the guilty flush flood her cheeks even as she shook her head vigorously. “Not so, ma’am. I have stolen nothing.”
“Then where is the missing volume?” Stephen demanded. “If you cannot tell me, then I have no choice but to assume you have stolen a priceless piece of the estate, and as the Justice of the Peace, I will have you arrested for theft. You will be committed to the cells at Shire Hall to await the quarterly assizes, which are set for one week hence. We will let a judge decide what should be done with you.”
He gestured to his wife. “Come, Lady Douglas.” He swept the lady in front of him out of the chamber, and Alex heard the key turn in the lock, imprisoning her.
Her mind was racing. She knew full well that once she was locked up in the prison cells beneath Shire Hall, she would to all intents and purposes have disappeared off the face of the earth. She would be just another piece of human flotsam who had somehow fallen afoul of someone in power. No one would know where to look for her.
If she could get a message to Perry . . . but would he come? After she had left him without a word, would he care enough to come?
But even if she could reach him and he came, the case against her was impossible to disprove. They had Mr. Murdock’s letter. She had certainly offered a seemingly false explanation for the volume’s absence from the collection, and the law would look no further. There was no legal document to say that Sir Arthur had left her the Chaucer. It was all the evidence a court would need to hang her. A cold shiver went through her. Would they hang her?
The awful reality was undeniable. Hanging was the usual sentence for thievery. Perry had pointed that out to her often enough. Even stealing a penny loaf could put your head in the noose. If she couldn’t prove that the volume belonged to her all along, then she was guilty of stealing it. And not even the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan could protect her.
Alexandra fought the waves of despair as she sat alone in her chamber waiting for the beadle. Could she write to Sylvia before he got here? But she dismissed the idea even as it came to her. Sylvia must not be implicated in any way.
What would they allow her to take with her
into prison? Money. She had some; it might smooth her path a little and would certainly help her buy food. She didn’t think prisoners were fed in jail. She thrust her coin purse into the bottom of her pocket. For an instant, the forethought made her feel marginally more in control, until reality swamped her yet again and she sank down on the bed.
Oh, God, this was such a nightmare. How could she find herself flung from the peak of happiness to the depths of this hellish pit in a matter of days?
The key turned in the lock, and the door opened. The beadle stood there with Sir Stephen. “Come along, then, mistress.” The law officer flourished his staff of office. “You goin’ to come quietly?”
“Yes, of course,” Alexandra said with a quiet dignity that she did not feel. She wrapped herself tightly in her cloak. “What may I take with me?”
“Ye’ll not be needin’ much,” the man said. “There’s little enough in the ways of the gentry where you’re goin’, mistress.” He gestured that she should precede him through the door. “The cart’s waitin’ below.”
Stephen said nothing to her, merely stepping aside as Alexandra moved through the door. The beadle stated, “You’ll be makin’ formal charge down at Shire Hall, sir?”
“Aye,” Stephen said shortly. “In the morning.” He didn’t move as the beadle hustled Alexandra down the stairs and across the hall, where she was conscious of greedily curious eyes on her from the shadows.
Outside, a rough farmer’s cart stood with an old nag between the shafts. The beadle jerked his head upwards. “Climb in, then, mistress. ’Less you’d rather walk.”
Alex didn’t deign to reply. She climbed into the cart, stepping fastidiously over the rotting straw covering the floor, and sat down on the single wooden bench with her back to the driver. Her jailer climbed onto the box and took up the reins, and the horse started wearily down the driveway.
It was a rough journey in the ramshackle cart to Dorchester, the County town, where the assizes were held. The narrow streets were crowded with farmers, horse traders, yeomen and their wives, country folk who had come to the thriving market from miles around, to sell or buy. They looked with naked curiosity at the well-known cart, driven by the unmistakable figure of the beadle, and the cloak-wrapped figure on the bench behind. Alex shrank into her cloak, pulling the hood low over her head. She didn’t think anyone would recognize her, but word would get about soon enough. The servants from Combe Abbey would be the first to spread the tale of the thieving librarian.
Shire Hall was a stone building where all County business was transacted. The beadle drove the cart around to a narrow, fetid courtyard at the rear and drew rein. He clambered down and tethered the horse to a hitching post before beckoning to his passenger.
Alexandra climbed down without demurral, although her heart was thudding painfully. She could see the dark flight of steps at the rear of the building that led down to a barred door at the bottom, and a hard nut of nausea settled in her throat. For a moment, she contemplated making a run for it into the busy street behind, but she knew she would never outrun the ensuing hue and cry, not with such a crowd about, and it would only worsen her position. She might even find herself held in irons. Instead, she followed her escort’s wordless instruction to go down the steps. He came close behind her, hemming her in, dogging her every step. At the base, he fitted an enormous brass key into the lock, lifted the heavy bar, and pushed the door open onto a pitch-black space, reeking of bodies and ordure, of damp and tallow.
Alex swallowed the nausea, trying not to breathe as her jailer slammed the door behind him. He felt in the dark to strike flint on tinder and lit a tallow candle on a rickety table by the door. It illuminated a narrow corridor lined with wooden doors, the top halves of which were barred gratings. She looked around, shivering now in the dank, mildew-smelling cold. She saw fingers curled around the bars of the gratings, eyes peering at her, and heard a low murmur that sounded to her terrified ears utterly menacing. As if they were caged animals welcoming new prey. It was nonsense, of course. The inhabitants of these cells were as unfortunate as she was herself. But the sound still terrified her.
The beadle moved in front of her, fitting a key into one of the wooden doors, pulling it open. “Y’are a lucky one, you are. Sir Stephen says y’are to be kept alone, not in the common cells. In with ye, then.” He gestured to the dark interior of the cell.
Alexandra sent a swift prayer of thanks for her cousin’s merciful impulse. Maude wouldn’t approve of her husband’s charitable instruction, she thought grimly as she stepped into the small, fetid space. Before the man could slam the door on her, she said swiftly, “I have a little coin. I would like you to furnish me with a candle, some wine, and some bread and cheese. Oh . . . and a blanket,” she added, finally taking in the contents of her new home. A stone bench, a pail, a rickety three-legged stool, and some foul straw for floor covering.
The beadle looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Show me yer coin?”
Alexandra felt for her pouch in her pocket. She had no intention of showing her jailer how much she had and opened the purse without taking it out, feeling for a half sovereign. She drew out the coin and held it up and away from him, so it glinted in the light of his candle. If Stephen had thought to have her housed away from the rest, she reckoned the jailer would not dare to assault her. At least, not until she had been tried, convicted, and sentenced. She pushed the gloomy thought away from her. She had sufficient troubles for the moment.
The man’s eyes sharpened at the glint of gold. “Mebbe I can do summat for ye.”
“A candle, wine, cheese, bread, and a blanket,” she repeated steadily. “You shall have the coin when you have brought me those. I daresay Sir Stephen will wish to be sure that I am well treated until the assizes.”
He looked uncertain, and then, with a muttered “Hoity-toity,” he banged out of the cell, leaving her in darkness. And now the sounds of the jail seemed magnified, separating into whispers, coughs, rustles of small animals, and then an unearthly scream that brought the hairs on the back of her neck to life. She felt her way to the stone bench. It was cold and damp to the touch. A day in here, and she’d have an ague, Alex reflected wretchedly, huddling even deeper into her cloak, closing her eyes against the darkness.
She didn’t know how long it was before the dim glow of the tallow candle appeared in the grating of the door, but the key turned, and the beadle came in. He set down his candle, a leather flagon, and a napkin-wrapped bundle on the stool and threw a horsehair blanket onto the bench beside Alexandra. He took out the stub of another candle from his pocket and lit it from the other one.
“Leave me the longer one,” Alexandra instructed. “That stub won’t last the night.”
“Twopence more,” he demanded.
She debated for only a moment. She knew that a night in the pitch darkness inhabited by those ghastly sounds would drive her out of her mind. She felt for two pennies in her purse and silently held them out to him along with the half sovereign. He replaced the candle stub with his own and left her. She heard the key turn in the lock and his steps receding down the corridor. She heard the bang of the door to the outdoors slam, heard the heavy bar drop into place outside, and fought the growing sense of desperation.
Was she truly helpless?
Here, alone in the dim flicker of the tallow candle, she knew she was. Until the judge arrived to conduct the assizes, when they would bring her out of the dark prison and into the courtroom above, she was invisible.
The night passed somehow. In the windowless cell, she couldn’t distinguish between day and night, and with no timepiece, Alexandra had no way of telling the time. She tried to sleep and then gave up all attempts and sat up, shivering despite the blanket and her thick cloak, on the cold stone bench in her cell. The beadle did not appear again, but at some point—morning, she assumed—his place was taken by an elderly, toothless man in ragged breeches and jerkin, armed with a heavy wooden club. Half a sovereign bought her a fresh c
andle, a flagon of wine, and a tepid bowl of indefinable soup. A hunk of stale bread and a cup of water had also been provided—prison rations, she gathered. Around her, the noises continued, and occasionally she caught snatches of conversation, but for the most part, she seemed to be existing in a dim circle of light surrounded by the whispering darkness.
She grew grimier and hungrier as the hours passed, and her sense of helplessness at times threatened to overwhelm her. What was going on beyond the walls of her prison? People were leading their ordinary lives, performing their accustomed tasks. Combe Abbey would be running along its accustomed course. Did anyone wonder about the disgraced librarian? Or had she come and gone as such an insubstantial presence that once out of sight, she was out of mind altogether?
She had no idea what time it was when the door to her cell opened and the beadle appeared. For one glorious moment, she thought that perhaps he had come to say that Sir Stephen had withdrawn the charges and she was free, but one look at his expression banished such a forlorn hope.
“Just takin’ a look at ye. Justice likes a report on the prisoners every day or so.”
“Would you tell Sir Stephen I’d like to talk to him?” It was another forlorn hope, she was certain, but nothing ventured . . .
The beadle shook his head. “Bless you, woman, he don’t come down ’ere. Too afraid of catchin’ summat, if ye asks me. Doubt he’ll be back in town until the assizes. Ye’d best save your talk till then, when y’are brought up afore the judge.”
Alexandra sighed, swallowing her disappointment, blinking back a surge of tears. She realized she had still been nurturing the tiniest hope that her cousin would reconsider. And now there was nothing left. She would rot in this filthy hole until the assizes. And if no one knew she was there, there would be no one to speak up for her to the judge, and once she was sentenced and condemned, there would be nothing anyone could do to help her. She turned her face to the wall, and after a moment, the beadle went out. The key grated in the lock, and the heavy bar came down with a crash.