The Resurrection Fireplace

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The Resurrection Fireplace Page 32

by Hiroko Minagawa


  “Very well. No doubt Sir Charles did not relish the prospect of his daughter’s pregnancy and so on being exposed in open court. Arrange for their release, and then bring Nigel Hart to my quarters.”

  Sir John repaired to his sitting room to wait. Behind his eyelids, he could sense the sunlight from the window. His ability to distinguish darkness and light, at least, was a small mercy.

  He was just sampling the coffee his maid had brought when Anne and Nigel’s footsteps drew near.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  There was no fatigue in Nigel’s voice.

  “You slept well, I gather… . Take a seat.”

  “I informed the other two of their release,” said Anne. “They were not displeased.”

  “Now,” Sir John began, only to be interrupted by a servant announcing a visitor. His first thought was that it must be Hitchin, but the name the servant gave was Albert Wood.

  Al greeted the magistrate as he entered the room, then turned to Nigel. “I spoke to Edward last night. He said you can tell Sir John everything—which is what I came here to impart.”

  Why, at the height of summer, was there the smell of coal in the air? Sir John found it strange. Who had brought in the smell—Al, or Nigel? But the holding cell had no coal in it.

  There was concern in Nigel’s voice as he asked how Edward was.

  “Not very well. Moreover, Professor Barton has hurt his back.”

  “How?!”

  “A misjudged tumble.”

  Al now gave the magistrate his attention.

  “I lied to you yesterday, Sir John,” he said. “On one point.”

  “I know it. That scrap of paper.”

  “It is a pawn ticket.”

  “Al, did Edward really say we could confide in Sir John?”

  “How else would I know about Peter, for example?”

  “By forcing Edward to talk, perhaps.”

  “The pawn ticket,” Al told Sir John, “was left behind accidentally by Edward. He was Robert’s accomplice in the neighbouring room. Moreover, Edward arranged the attack on his person himself, hiring an acquaintance to wield the knife. He pawned his watch to pay for this service. He did not say who it was, however.”

  The judge detected another evasion here. No doubt Al had agreed not to reveal the man’s name—although he had mentioned a Peter to Nigel.

  A minor detail. Sir John elected to overlook it.

  “What is the name and location of the pawnshop?” he asked.

  “Oppenheimer’s, on Streatham Street.”

  “It should have been me,” Nigel said. “All of it.”

  Sir John noted this outburst with interest.

  “Edward’s scheme was a complete success,” Al told Nigel buoyantly. “You were brought here before you could see it, but he obtained the signature he needed. I saw it myself. Professor Barton knows, too.”

  Barely able to contain his excitement, Al explained for Sir John’s benefit how a contract had been extracted from Robert Barton.

  “The Professor now has full possession of his preparations. Robert Barton shall continue to support his brother just as he has done to date. Upon his death, his assets shall be used to establish a Barton Foundation, providing funds for research as well as the anatomy school. It is all in writing. This is the price Edward imposed on Robert for taking the blame for murder. So… we are almost there, surely, Sir John? Edward did not commit a lethal crime. He only gave the culprit some assistance, and made a false confession—and this solely for unselfish reasons. We beg you to treat his case leniently.”

  “I find it surprising that Robert Barton should sign such a document,” Anne remarked. “Did he fail to consider the possibility that Turner would retract his confession once he had the agreement in hand?”

  “He had little choice,” Al said, and began to explain the events leading up to the signing.

  “Wait a minute. Miss Roughhead died by her own hand, surely!”

  “Edward heard a different account from Nelly, our cook… .” And he filled in the reasons why Robert was thought to be responsible for the girl’s death, too.

  “Information like that,” said Sir John, “is to be shared with me first.”

  “Robert Barton escaped through the window,” said Al. “No doubt he is in hiding now, waiting for Edward to be arrested and condemned.”

  The previous search of Robert’s home by the Bow Street Runners had not turned up the man himself. Since then, they had been watching both front and rear entrances. Whether he was hiding at his wife’s family property would be revealed to them that night or the following day. He had not yet appeared at Evans’s residence, either.

  “Al, how did you learn all this from Turner in person?” asked Sir John. “I had officers keep watch on his door. Were they so lax in performing their duty?”

  If so, he thought, they might also have missed Robert slipping into and out of his own house.

  “The window,” said Al. “I wanted to ask Edward about the pawnbroker’s note, so I threw a pebble at his window to attract his attention. He showed me a ladder that could be used to climb up. Nigel, is that how you and Edward get in and out for your excursions at night?”

  Nigel only smiled in reply.

  “I am letting you go, Mr. Hart,” Sir John decided.

  The two of them gave a little cheer.

  “Edward Turner will be indicted for abetting a crime, but that can wait until we have arrested Robert Barton himself.”

  Something still nagged at him, however—something that remained unexplained.

  The broken wine bottle. The smell of cosmetics.

  Had Turner been with a whore at the Tom Queen? If so, her smell would have lingered on him, not Nigel. What reason could there have been to soak Nigel in wine instead?

  “I shall call off the guard outside Robert Barton’s house, to make him feel it is safe to show himself. But I want one or two officers to stand watch in secret. Anne, arrange matters as necessary. Announce publicly that Edward Turner is to be charged with murder. The truth must remain confidential—at least until Robert is under arrest.”

  “Without Professor Barton and the rest of us knowing?” protested Al. “That might be difficult. Clarence and Ben are at the school as we speak, waiting for news. Am I to leave them in the dark?”

  “I suppose not,” said Sir John. “Very well. You may keep them informed, but exercise the greatest caution to ensure that the suspect does not get wind of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Al. “About the surveillance on Robert’s house—you might consider having us take on that duty. It is perfectly natural for us to be in the area, so we would not attract the sort of attention your officers might do. Clarence, Ben, and I can take turns and maintain a watch even at night. Nigel should be allowed to rest for the time being, after his detention.”

  “A sensible proposal,” said Sir John. “I shall take you up on it. Take care, however, that Robert should not find out.”

  “We shall, I assure you.”

  As the pair of them took their leave, another visitor arrived. This time it was Hitchin, reporting just as Sir John had requested the evening before.

  The marshal’s footsteps were oddly irregular.

  “Who was that young man leaving as I came in?” he asked, with scarcely even a greeting. His voice was as unsettled as his tread. “The younger of the two. Was he brought here in relation to some crime?”

  “Why should that concern you?”

  “I, er—I thought I recognized his face… .”

  “From where?”

  “Never mind. My mistake, I am sure.”

  “Speak plainly to me. Where did you meet the boy?”

  “I cannot recall. It simply feels as though I have seen him before, that is all.”

  “Anne, call Nigel Hart back
in.”

  He sensed Hitchin’s restlessness after she left the room.

  “Now, Mr. Hitchin. Pull one of those chairs closer, sit by me, and place your hand on mine.”

  The man’s hand was as soft as an eiderdown quilt, albeit clammy with sweat.

  “What business did you have at the Tom Queen last night?” asked Sir John.

  “I was merely passing by. If I may say so, sir, I can see no grounds for complaining about where I choose to walk.”

  “I am sure you know what happened in that pub not long before.”

  “No. What did happen there?” There was genuine curiosity in his voice. Word must not have spread yet.

  “You do know what manner of establishment the Tom Queen is?”

  Hitchin clumsily denied it. “Ah… er, no.”

  “Like the Rose, it is a house of ill fame.”

  Hitchin groped for words. “That pamphlet was malicious,” he said finally, and pulled his hand away as he did so. He then placed a leather pouch in the magistrate’s palm instead. The bag was not large, but it was heavy and full.

  Sir John felt for the drawstring, then opened and upended it.

  The sound of gold on silver is a unique one. It is not only misers who find it pleasant.

  “Regrettably,” said Sir John, “we put out no basket here. Were you unaware of it?”

  Arbitrators who openly solicited for bribes—leaving out “baskets” for them—were known as “basket justices.”

  “Take it away with you,” said Sir John.

  The sight of him down on the floor picking up the coins would surely have been a humiliating one. Hitchin had reason to be glad of the strip of black cloth that covered Sir John’s eyes.

  The pouch jingled faintly with every coin that was returned to it.

  “Was there some law you wished me to bend in your favour?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Hitchin. “I merely—that is to say—”

  Something seemed to shift within him, for rancour now filled his voice.

  “I was tired of being harassed on the matter,” he said. “My obligations make me a busy man. I was only walking past the inn, as I stated clearly, and yet you refuse to listen. I thought this the most expedient way to put the matter behind me.”

  Three sets of footsteps drew near.

  “I have returned with Mr. Hart,” reported Anne. “Mr. Wood is with us too. He insisted, but he did agree to leave at once if you preferred.”

  “Anne, first of all, describe for me in detail Hitchin’s reaction on catching sight of Nigel Hart. Then describe the latter’s reaction.”

  “Hitchin’s eyes fairly popped out of—excuse me; Hitchin’s eyes widened and he stared at him, although he is now looking away. As for Mr. Hart, I noticed nothing unusual about his behaviour.”

  “A case of mistaken identity,” said Hitchin, the lie immediately apparent to Sir John’s ears. “May I leave, sir?”

  “Nigel, do you know this man?”

  “No,” he replied calmly.

  Hitchin made a hasty exit.

  “Anne,” said Sir John once the man was gone. “Were the soles of Al’s shoes dirty, by any chance?”

  “Yes. I had him wipe them thoroughly before entering this time.”

  “Was it mud? It is a sunny day.”

  “No, coal-dust. It made quite a mess, in fact.”

  “Al, where did you tread on some coal?”

  Al thought for a moment. “I do not know,” he replied.

  “You said you climbed to Edward’s window from the rear lane last night,” Nigel muttered. “The coal chute is there too.”

  “Perhaps the pebble I threw was actually a bit of coal, then? It was too dark to tell. That does explain why my hand was so dirty.”

  Most houses in London stored their coal in a cellar with a chute at the rear of the building. This allowed the coal man merely to open the hatch and pour his load straight into the cellar, rather than tramp through the house.

  “Is Robert Barton’s coal chute in the same lane?” asked Sir John.

  “Yes. Oh—do you suppose he was able to get into his house secretly that way?”

  Chapter 22

  On their return to the school of anatomy, Nigel and Al received a rousing welcome from the others— at least, those who were present: Professor Barton, Clarence, and Ben, accompanied by Charlie.

  Al recounted what had happened at the magistrate’s office.

  Edward, whose stratagems had secured Robert Barton’s signature on the written agreement, remained upstairs, saying he was still too weak to celebrate with them. Nigel retired to the bedroom too, citing fatigue.

  “He was in a holding cell, after all. Hardly a hostelry.”

  “Robert is probably hiding in his own house,” said Al. “The Runners are watching only the front and rear entrances. He may have slipped in through the coal chute.”

  “He would be as black as a sweep.”

  “Sir John is about to recall his officers. When he does so, we—at his specific request—are to take their place, watching Robert’s residence without drawing any attention to ourselves.”

  “We shall be known as the Castle Street Runners,” said Clarence.

  “If Robert should get careless and show himself, one of us is to engage him in conversation while another gets word to Sir John.”

  A bottle of wine began to make the rounds.

  As was their custom when their spirits were high, they soon broke into the Dissection Song.

  S was a Scalpel, for stabbing precisely;

  T was a Tourniquet, for strangling him nicely.

  “So, who is to sponsor the indictment against Robert? Evans had no family, did he?”

  “Do you think Edward will face trial as an accessory after the fact?”

  “If so, we must hire the same lawyer as that mutineer had. He might be able to secure a verdict of not guilty due to extenuating circumstances.”

  “Helping someone escape is hardly a mortal sin. And he had good reasons for what he did.”

  “That lawyer will not be cheap, though.”

  “Whatever the expense,” said Barton, pounding the table, “we shall hire a lawyer to secure Edward’s freedom. Even if we must pawn every preparation in the building to do it!”

  “But, Professor, if we lose the preparations, all Edward’s efforts will have been for nothing.”

  The laughter at this prospect reflected the optimistic mood of the gathering.

  Inwardly, however, Barton was in some distress: learning that one’s own brother was suspected of murder cannot have been easy to accept.

  Chapter 23

  Awaiting you at the Rose

  That one line had been the entirety of the note the messenger boy had delivered to the magistrate’s office. Who the letter was from the boy had been unable to say; he had simply been handed the paper and a tip as he waited by the side of the road.

  “Unsigned, and—to judge by the childish-looking script—intentionally written with the wrong hand.”

  At Sir John’s request, Anne had compared it to their collection of people’s handwriting, just in case, but she found no match. Of the writing of Charles Hitchin, alleged patron of the Rose, they had no sample yet.

  The magistrate blew his nose loudly. “Despite the courtesy of the invitation, I find little joy in the prospect of attending a gathering of pederasts.”

  “I shall go.”

  “Out of the question, Anne. The Rose is no place for a woman.”

  “I could take Abbott for protection.”

  Sir John shook his head.

  “He has disgraced himself, I know,” Anne said. “But let us give him a chance to make amends.”

  Women were not even allowed into the Rose. Anne was accustomed to dressing as
a man for her duties, but she took even greater care to conceal her femininity for this excursion. By candlelight, she could pass.

  Cigar smoke curled towards the ceiling in the dimly lit room. It was hard to make out anything clearly, but even so, everywhere Anne looked she saw something she would rather not.

  They sat at a table in the corner. A waiter dressed in women’s clothes came to pour two glasses of punch, then draped himself over the two of them as if hoping for further attention. Abbott brushed him away.

  What Anne saw next she was unable to clearly recall afterwards. When the time came to make her report to the magistrate, she had trouble distinguishing what she had actually seen from what might have been a dream.

  She was familiar with punch, a then-popular drink combining liquor, sugar, lemon, water, and tea. But perhaps something else, something conducive to hallucinations, had been added to it here.

  Several years had passed since the death of the printmaker William Hogarth, but that night it was as if his final work, Credulity, Superstition, and Fanaticism: A Medley, had come to life before her eyes.

  A squatting woman—or a man in woman’s clothing—pulled up her skirts to give birth to a litter of rabbits. Beside her, a girl—or boy—spewed out a shower of nails and pins. There was a man in priestly vestments who opened them to reveal himself, while he held aloft an image of a witch suckling a cat. A rickety dwarf plunked away at a virginal off to the left in the rear, with a crowd of little figures of some sort dancing above him.

  One by one, the waiters snuffed out the candles. Darkness filled the room like a rising tide.

  A fire had been lit at the back of the room, and a cauldron bubbled on it as if in readiness for Macbeth and Duncan.

  But what arrived instead was a girl clad in gauzy silks. Or was it a youth? “Titania, Titania!” cried the audience as they burst into applause. The Queen of the Fairies reached into the basket that dangled from her arm and began tossing the items she found there into the metal pot, one after another. Her features were blurred by the steam, but every so often she seemed for a moment to be a wrinkled hag.

  Then a man in his underwear emerged, an ass’s head covering his own, and began to frolic around her. The head-dress concealed his face, but his sagging, corpulent body was on full display.

 

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