“Read them.”
“‘W dash 367…’ After that, it is ragged. I cannot see what comes next.”
“Al, why did you hide that piece of paper without informing us about it?”
“I meant nothing in particular by it,” he said. “Just some waste paper, which I was going to throw away later.”
“You know that I have a good ear. You are concealing something.”
“Do you know what these numbers mean, Mr. Wood?” asked Anne. “You must not hold anything back from us.”
“I honestly thought it was a bit of rubbish.”
“Al, I want you to produce the rest of the paper from your pocket—the part that remained when you tore it in two while reaching in to retrieve it for Miss Moore.”
This was only a hunch, but he spoke with assurance. When there was no answer, he spoke again.
“I have no wish to treat you roughly, Al. But if you were to insist on this peculiar concealment, I should have no choice but to order Abbott to search you by force.”
“It tore when I was taking it out of my pocket. It was not intentional.”
Sir John sensed that this was untrue, but decided not to press him further.
“He has handed me the rest of the paper,” said Anne. “‘53.’ Then a date and signature. The date is the seventh of July, 1770—this year. The signature is hard to make out… . ‘A dot O-P-P…’ I can read no further, it is little more than a scrawl.”
“Who is A dot O etc., Al?”
“I do not know,” he insisted. It was apparent from his voice that he was lying.
They summoned the publican and asked him who had used the room.
“Who indeed? I believe it was one of our regulars, but with so many comings and goings I can hardly remember every one.”
“This is important. Search your memory.”
To loosen the publican’s tongue, Sir John gave him ten shillings.
The man wavered.
Another ten shillings.
“Ah, yes. Now I recall. The room was taken by a man of middle years and, to judge by appearances, some breeding. We do not use real names here, however, so I cannot identify him further.”
None of this, Sir John sensed, was a true recollection. He was simply making something up to earn his twenty shillings. The truth was that the publican did not remember a thing.
After sending Al home, Sir John returned to his own residence by sedan chair. Al had not been asked to keep the matter quiet, so it seemed likely that he would call on Professor Barton on his way home, to report the events of the evening.
Back in his chambers, Sir John eased himself into a chair, but he was not yet able to relax. He called Abbott in and said something that he expected would shake the man profoundly.
“I believe you used one of the messenger boys at the crossroads to send a message to Edward Turner.”
“Wha— No, not… not Mr. Turner…” He trailed off.
“Nigel Hart, then. Do I have it right?”
“Yes, sir,” he admitted unhappily.
“Which solves the mystery of how Turner knew that Evans was in the Tom Queen. Did you do this at Hart’s request? Did he ask you to keep him informed about the activities of Evans and Robert Barton?”
“That boy is a witch.”
His voice sounded like a brush scraped across rusty metal. Sir John almost thought the reply had come from someone else.
Abbott fell silent, as if he already regretted saying as much as he had.
“You mean that you were taken in by him?”
“I thought he meant to assist us.”
“Nevertheless, you felt uneasy about what you had done. Which is why, when Anne asked what you said to the boy you over-tipped, you struggled to answer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I expected better of you, Abbott!” cried Anne. “Nigel Hart a witch? His drawings are bewitching, but that’s all, surely?”
Sir John had never seen Abbott in person, but he believed that his mental image of him, based on the angle from which his voice came and Anne’s description, was more or less accurate. Now in his mind’s eye he saw this Roman gladiator of a man (Anne’s imagery) standing there with lips pressed tight together and cheek twitching above his square jaw.
“Anne, go and fetch Nigel Hart. Take Abbott with you.”
“It is the middle of the night. Why not question him tomorrow?”
“I would rather finish the task while in the mood to do so. First, something to drink.”
He heard the tread of three people approach.
“Anne, how does Mr. Hart look?”
“We interrupted his sleep. His eyes are bloodshot, his eyelids puffy, and his overall countenance drowsy.”
Sir John heard the faint sound of a stifled yawn.
To sleep soundly while locked up with grave-robbers on suspicion of being an accomplice to murder showed surprising composure on his part. Was their image of Nigel as a shy person hiding in Turner’s shadow the result of a carefully maintained masquerade? Sir John recalled the word that Abbott had used: witch.
“Nigel,” he said, addressing him warmly.
Sir John had called Wood “Al” without any ulterior motive—but if Nigel shared his ability to distinguish truth from deceit in what he heard, what would he sense in the magistrate’s voice now?
“Edward Turner is innocent,” Sir John continued.
“He is?” Delight was mingled with puzzlement in Nigel’s voice.
I must be careful, thought Sir John. He had viewed Edward as the skilled dissembler and Nigel as an open book, but it seemed that things were not so simple. Perhaps Nigel’s clumsy lies had been part of the ruse. Sir John was starting to lose confidence in his own ability to discern the truth.
“Robert Barton arranged a meeting with Evans at the Tom Queen. Abbott employed a messenger boy to inform you and Edward Turner of that fact.”
How had they got at the stiffly proper Abbott, who now could be heard breathing hard?
“After discussing the matter with Turner, you slipped out to the Tom Queen to spy on the two of them. To that end, you took the room next to theirs. Do I have it right so far?”
There was no reply.
“The rooms are for fornication. To rent one alone would arouse suspicion. You took a wench in with you, then paid her off so that you could listen to what transpired in the neighbouring room. Robert Barton arrived, and—whether as expected or otherwise—murdered Evans. As he was leaning out of the window searching for a means of escape, you offered him one. You tore off the bed skirt, knotted it at one end to add weight, and threw it to him from the window. The two of you hid in your room until you were able to slip out of the pub together. You then smuggled him into the room you share in Professor Barton’s house, using the rear staircase.”
Nigel remained silent, so Sir John went on.
“When I visited your room, there were five people in it. But I sensed a sixth.”
“Someone hiding in the wardrobe, perhaps,” said Anne.
“As for you, Mr. Hart, the odour of the whore’s cosmetics clung to you. You changed your clothes, but it was still in your hair, on your skin. There was no time to bathe. Knowing of my keen sense of smell—was it Turner’s idea?—you contrived to mask the odour by pouring wine over your head and breaking the bottle.”
“Why did you not denounce Robert Barton?” demanded Anne. “Was it lack of funds to bring suit against him?”
In France and elsewhere, the state itself could indict an offender against whom there was no one willing to take legal action. In eighteenth-century England, however, only a suit from a private citizen could launch a trial. The bill for apprehending the criminal, court fees—all were payable by the litigant. In this way, even a lesser offence could cost five to twenty pounds to litigate, with more serious crimes imposing a
burden of fifty to seventy pounds. The costs involved were enough to persuade many victims to cut their losses and let the matter drop. As a result, even known criminals were not always taken to court for their misdeeds, although political figures like the Lord Mayor sometimes stepped in to cover court fees for the sake of public safety.
To eliminate the harm of known law-breakers going unpunished, a scheme had been instituted whereby if someone were found guilty, a reward was paid to the person who had brought suit against him. This system, however, was immediately abused by people concocting indictments solely for the reward money.
But Edward and Nigel surely would not spare Robert simply for financial reasons, and Sir John doubted that Anne thought so, either. Frustration must have led to that sarcastic outburst of hers.
Anne was a capable pair of eyes; it was unfortunate, he felt, that when she grew excited her voice began to sound like an ill-tuned violin.
“The two of you had agreed with Robert Barton to co-operate. Is that not the case, Mr. Hart?”
“It is.” Nigel broke his silence at last, using the soft voice they were accustomed to hearing from him. Sir John reminded himself not to be fooled. Nigel had got the better of Abbott and helped a culprit escape. This was a formidable young man.
“Edward Turner volunteered that he had murdered Evans. For what reward?”
Anne broke in without waiting for the reply. “You forced him to write some sort of contract. About the ownership of the preparations.”
“Anne, let Mr. Hart speak.”
“After you, Miss Moore,” said Nigel.
“Tell us yourself, Mr. Hart.”
“It is as you suppose. We threatened to bring charges against him if he did not accept our offer. He was hiding in the wardrobe during the exchange between Edward and Sir John.”
“Robert accepted this?”
“He had little choice in the matter. We made him draw up an agreement, but he insisted on one condition: he would not sign it until Edward had publicly taken the blame. By now, I imagine, he has signed his name and left our room. Which means that he is fair game,” he added with a quiet laugh.
An innocent laugh, or a sly one celebrating the success of a subtle scheme? Sir John could not tell.
“I have constables stationed outside your room,” he said. “Even if Robert planned to use the rear staircase, surely he would still need to leave by the door.”
“I meant through the window,” said Nigel. “Dr. Barton is quite sprightly for his age.”
“He proved himself a very tightrope-walker at the Tom Queen,” Sir John conceded. “Nigel,” he went on, deliberately using the familiar form of address. “Were you not aware that Turner might still have risked a death sentence? All to save Professor Barton’s preparations? I might have sent him to the Old Bailey, you know. Even if he were to recant his earlier statement in court and plead innocent, there is no knowing whether the jury would accept that.”
“We decided to trust you, sir.” There was a hint of a smile in his voice. “We were sure you would arrive at the truth. And so you have, just as we hoped.”
“But your illegal acts to help an offender escape still remain. You, in particular, have committed a serious crime.”
“Not a capital one, though. Not even one meriting transportation to the colonies. With a skilful lawyer, I believe that I might receive a light sentence by pleading extenuating circumstances. If I face the stocks, well, I can bear that.”
“Turner shoulders the blame for Evans’s murder. Very well. But Dr. Barton is also a suspect in the deaths of Nathan Cullen and Thomas Harrington. If he did kill them, he will be found guilty whether Evans forced him to do it or not.”
“But there is only circumstantial evidence—nothing definite. Even if he were brought to trial, a verdict of not guilty might be secured through his lawyer’s efforts and bribing the jury. Evans’s murder is different: I was there when he did it. He would have no hope of escaping punishment except by eliminating me, the witness, as well.”
“That,” Abbott exclaimed, “he will not be allowed to do.”
Anne hushed him, rolling her eyes.
“Even with Evans dead, the promissory notes remain,” said Sir John. “What if they are inherited by his heirs?”
“Robert will presumably visit Evans’s home to remove them.”
“Anne, show Nigel the scrap of paper we found earlier.”
Both Robert and Nigel had apparently used the room in question. Which of the two had dropped the note? It could not have been a previous visitor, or Al would have had no reason to conceal it.
“You dropped this at the Tom Queen,” said Sir John disingenuously. “What is it?”
“I do not know.”
Nigel’s answer came after just a moment’s hesitation. The magistrate sensed a lie—but Nigel seemed to have a talent for handling several layers of deception. Where the truth lay, Sir John could not be sure.
Was he lying to conceal what he knew?
Was he lying to conceal the fact that he did not know?
“What does that signature say? Whose is it?”
“I do not know.”
Exhaustion had begun to show in Nigel’s voice.
Sir John sensed from the atmosphere and voices in the room that he was on the verge of collapse, and was propped up by Abbott. This was confirmed by Anne.
“Take him back to the holding cell to rest.”
“Abbott, lend me a hand.”
“The grave-robbers are in there. Must he be put in with them?”
Sir John remembered Nigel’s dizziness during the examination of Evans’s cadaver. The youth was surely used to dead bodies, while in the pub he had listened to a murder in the next room and then helped the killer escape. Barton had bemoaned Nigel’s physical weakness, so there was no reason to doubt that it was real. But it was also useful for avoiding awkward situations.
“Anne, you are to handle the key. Abbott, once he is safely locked up, I forbid you to have any further contact with him.”
“Yes, Sir John.”
The magistrate removed his wig and let out a long breath. He groped across the table for the wine and poured himself a glass.
He was accustomed to his blindness. But it irked him not to know what Nigel Hart looked like.
Sir John recalled many faces from his first nineteen years, before losing his sight, and he had a habit of assigning faces from his memory to the people he met. When speaking to Anne, he thought of his younger sister’s features. He constantly reminded himself of the people and things he had seen, to ensure that he retained those memories from the visible past. Once lost, after all, they could never be recovered.
Daniel Barton, Robert Barton, Guy Evans… . He could imagine the general outlines of each man’s appearance. For Barton’s pupils, too—Turner and the others—he could summon faces to mind that he did not think were too remote from reality.
To Nigel Hart, too, he had assigned a shy-looking face. But behind this mask seemed to be an unyielding obstinacy. If he still had the use of his own eyes, would he have been able to see through him? Or would he have been led further astray?
Anne and Abbott reappeared.
“Abbott, return home and stay there. Leaking information like that was a grave offence. I shall decide on your punishment tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you not even going to apologize?” demanded Anne.
“Please accept my apologies,” said Abbott, without sounding very sincere.
Once his footsteps had faded out of earshot, Anne placed a cold metal key in her uncle’s hand.
“The key to the holding cell,” she said. “Two guards are on duty, but as both are friendly with Abbott, I thought it imprudent to entrust them with it.”
“Keep hold of it yourself,” said Sir John. “What has weaken
ed Abbott’s defences like this? Is Nigel Hart so bewitching?”
“He seems no more than a shy young man to me. Although…”
“Although?”
“Gobbin and Dick, the grave-robbers in there with him, appear to be quite fond of him.”
“They must be on familiar terms with Barton’s pupils. Particularly with Turner and Hart, taking delivery of cadavers in the early morning before the others arrive.”
“When we first brought Hart in, they were asleep in the cell. But as soon as they saw who it was they came wide awake, demanding to know if we had maltreated him. There might have been trouble if we had.”
“Let us put them on trial tomorrow afternoon. They are charged with the excavation and removal of Elaine Roughhead’s corpse, are they not?”
“Yes. Hart is now under their wing. Gobbin said, and I quote, ‘If anything happens to Nigel, we won’t forget who done it, not even if it was a bloody magistrate.’ Forgive the language, but those are the words he used. It seems that Gobbin’s son—even grave-robbers have children, apparently—is a mudlark, and was once in danger of being washed away by a sudden swell in the river. Turner and Hart happened to be passing by, and leapt in to save him. Later, when they heard that the boy had come down with pneumonia but Gobbin had no money for a doctor, they provided treatment and medicine without charging for it. In Gobbin’s view, he owes his son’s life to them. I understand they usually visited their young patient at night—some of the nocturnal outings that Wood said they went on must have been for this purpose.”
Anne paused for a moment.
“Sir John,” she continued. “I know that Turner and Hart should not have abetted Robert Barton. But I believe they did so solely to protect his brother—not out of any malicious intent.”
“You were moved, then, by this poignant story of saving a child from drowning?”
“I was moved also by their willingness to accept punishment to save their Professor’s research—and by their faith in your ability to arrive at the truth, Uncle John.”
From the sound of her voice, he suspected that her eyes might be a little moist.
We decided to trust you, sir. In retrospect, Nigel’s words did have a pleasant ring to them.
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 30