“Good.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Take care, Bess.”
“We are ready, sir.” Mr. Atwood called from the door.
Bess held my hand. “Do you have a plan?”
“Not at the moment, no.” I gave her a weary smile.
“Please, be careful.”
“I will. Once I have worked out a plan, I shall send word to you.”
She gave a quick nod as a tear formed in the corner of her eyes. I turned and walked out the door, not knowing if I would see any of them alive again.
“Mr. Newton,” Mr. Atwood broke the death-like silence that filled the carriage. “Please, know you have the full support of the king. Whatever you need…”
“Thank you.” I knew I should have said more, after all, what he was offering could be the key to winning the battle. Despite his gracious offer, there were no words left in me to speak. I was anxious to see Pierre, despite knowing the conditions of Newgate Prison and the state I would find him in.
“You and I are similar, Mr. Newton.” He blushed with his confession. “Know I would do whatever necessary to protect the person I love. The men and women involved in this plot have left us little choice. In war, there will always be casualties. The ones who are least prepared for battle will suffer the most.” He raised the seat cushion next to him and pulled out a pistol and dagger and handed them to me. “Let us plan wisely and hope our losses will be few.”
“Thank you, Mr. Atwood, for these and your words.” I took the pistol and slipped it into the waistband of my breeches, then leaned forward and slid the dagger inside my boot.
The carriage came to an abrupt stop, pushing me forward from my seat. I reached out to steady myself on the first thing nearest me. Unfortunately, it was Mr. Atwood’s leg. The muscles in his leg tensed from my sudden touch. Our eyes met and lingered longer than appropriate. Without saying a word, I straightened myself on the seat and peered out the window at Newgate Prison. I shivered at the sight.
“A terrifying structure is it not?”
“I try to avoid this part of the city. It is shy of two years since I first came here, yet the atmosphere of despair and death still hover.”
“You were taken up in the raids?”
“No, I escaped, but the woman I lived with, Mother Clap, was arrested and brought here.” The coachman opened the door, for which I was thankful. It was one thing to have the memories of those times, but quite another to talk about it. I stepped out into the warm, dense air of the morning. The stench of death and rot seeping from the walls of Newgate permeated everything on the grounds of the prison. I leaned back against the side of the carriage and placed my hands on my knees to help steady myself.
“Are you all right, Mr. Newton?” Mr. Atwood asked as he stepped out and saw what must have been the color draining from my face.
“Yes, fine, thank you,” I said. The words were more to convince myself than Mr. Atwood. I knew facing Newgate again would be difficult, but I was not prepared for its lingering emotional and physical effects on me. I took a breath and nodded at Mr. Atwood to ease his concerned expression then pushed myself off the carriage. “Let us go and get this over with.”
I followed Mr. Atwood as we headed toward the gates. As we approached a large, burly man stepped out of the goaler’s office and blocked our entrance.
“What is your business here?” The unpleasantness of the man’s voice brought a fresh round of nerves to my already anxious body.
“We are here to see a prisoner.” Mr. Atwood took the lead. “He was brought in sometime last night. Mr. Pierre Baptiste.”
Hearing Mr. Atwood speak Pierre’s name as the prisoner knotted my stomach and made the burning bile rise into my throat.
“Mr. Baptiste is not allowed visitors.”
“At whose orders?”
“The magistrate, Jonathan Wilcox.”
“Those orders do not stand where we are concerned. I am Gideon Atwood, deputy to the sergeant-at-arms. We are here on official business of the king. I am afraid the king’s orders trumps the magistrate’s.”
The gaoler eyed us with suspicion. “What proof do you have of this claim?” The man stood his ground.
“If you continue to delay our movements,” Mr. Atwood reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper with the king’s seal. “I will assure you are arrested for perverting the course of justice.” He handed the gaoler the paper. I worried we would not be allowed to enter and began forging plans to take the gaoler by force. My fingers itched with the knowledge of the pistol and knife I had on my body. I reached behind me as if scratching my back and felt for the butt of the pistol. As I moved to pull the gun from its hiding place, the gaoler gave a heavy sigh.
“As you wish.” He gave the document back to Mr. Atwood unread, stepped aside, and opened the gate. We were led across the courtyard and escorted into the prison.
The smell of piss, shit, vomit, and disease struck me the moment we stepped inside. Nothing had changed inside the walls of Newgate, though truth be told, I knew nothing short of tearing down the prison would ever end the extreme living conditions the prisoners endured.
“Take these gentlemen to the drinking cellar, then fetch Mr. Baptiste.” The gaoler spoke to another.
“What about the orders?”
“They are here at the king’s request. Do as they say. We cannot have his majesty thinking we are not loyal to the throne.”
The man nodded. “Follow me.”
“Where is the prisoner being kept?” I asked as we followed the gaoler through the labyrinth of corridors and cells.
“He is considered a dangerous threat to the other prisoners and therefore is in solitary confinement.” The gaoler chuckled as if he knew the lies set against Pierre. Keeping my tongue at bay, I said nothing further and let him lead us into the drinking cellar. The room was empty due to the early morning hour. We took our seats at the table as the gaoler locked us in then went to fetch Pierre.
“Mr. Atwood. The sealed letter from the king. I could you have predicted we would need it?”
“It is nothing more than a decoy, Mr. Newton. It’s blank inside. The seal is usually enough to convince people of my position.”
“That was a risky move? What if he would have opened it?”
“Thankfully, we will never know.” He paused. “Mr. Newton—”
“Please, call me Thomas.”
He nodded, looked around the room then leaned into me and whispered. “I do not have to remind you that someone will be watching our every move.”
“No, I do not need the reminder.”
“No matter how much you want to express affection for Mr. Baptiste, be mindful of where you are, and keep your emotions in check.”
“I remember.” I turned to look at him, a bit too premature. Our noses touched. His hot breath battered my face, and for a moment there was a desperate longing between us, to escape into the void one only finds in sexual pleasure. We hesitated a moment longer. His lips, dry and cracked and yet begging to be kissing. I pulled away from the addictive powers of lust just before the gaoler returned with Pierre.
“Thomas, what are you doing here?” Pierre struggled with the shackles around his ankles and wrists as he rushed toward us. He tripped and fell against the table. The gaoler grabbed Pierre by the collar, righted him, then pushed him into the chair across from us.
“Ten minutes, no more.” The gaoler left the room and locked the iron gate. I could see the bulk of his shadow standing in the hallway.
“Where else would I be?”
“You should not have come. It is far too dangerous. If Mr. Wilcox—”
“Mr. Baptiste.” Mr. Atwood interrupted. “We do not have time for these sentiments.” He nodded at me.
“I did not kill that woman.”
“No one believes you did,” I said. I looked into Pierre’s eyes and saw, perhaps for the first time, fear. I knew firsthand the tricks the mind played in this place. My heart bled for the man I
loved, and I vowed to myself to free him or die trying. “We need you to tell us everything that happened.”
“I met with Mr. Borgstrom. Though he wouldn’t admit to anything, I know he is hiding something. What I cannot work out is how deep he is involved.”
“Mr. Borgstrom is not our concern.” Pierre and I both looked at Mr. Atwood. There was something in his expression, though I could not place my finger on it, nor decipher what I saw.
“How can you say that?” Pierre asked. “We believe he is the one passing on the private information of the victims, not to mention uncovering the true identity of the Reid’s.”
Mr. Atwood looked at Pierre then me and shook his head. “Leave Mr. Borgstrom out of your investigation. Despite what you might believe, you must remember he is a foreign dignitary. He cannot be touched.”
“I am sure he is using his position and his natural magic as a way to aid the resistance. He wanted to trance me.”
“What? You did not let him, did you?” I asked with alarm.
“In order for the trance to work, the subject must have faith in the power. The explosions, the friction apparatus, it is all there to make people believe in him. If they believe he has the power to trance and speak to the dead, then it becomes possible. It is about controlling the mind of others, Thomas.”
“So, you were not tranced?”
“No, and it infuriated him. Unfortunately, I was so wrapped up in the situation I made a grave mistake. I played my hand and told him what a fraud he was and that I was going to expose him. Someone must have come up behind me and struck me on the head. The next thing I remember I was being pulled off the ground in some alley in London by Mr. Wilcox, covered in the woman’s blood.”
“A little too convenient.” Mr. Atwood looked over Pierre’s shoulder toward the gated door. “There is at least one thing to be thankful for in this situation.”
“What?” Pierre and I asked simultaneously.
“Sessions are out for another thirty days. Nothing can be done as far as a trial until then. It at least buys us time.”
“I shall be damned if I am going to let this go that long.”
“Thomas, do not do anything foolish. You cannot help me if you get yourself arrested, or worse killed.”
“I will not sit by and let this happen, Pierre.”
“There is nothing to be done until the trial.”
“Bollocks,” I spoke too loud. The gaoler looked through the gate. I took a deep breath to calm myself, then when I knew I had my emotions under control, I whispered. “The bastards are not going to get away with this.”
“It is bad enough I am in here. I cannot spend these long hours worrying about you.” He looked at Mr. Atwood. “Sir, please help me talk sense into Thomas.”
Mr. Atwood shook his head before responding. “I am sorry, Mr. Baptiste, I cannot do what you ask of me. You see, everything is connected. Mr. Borgstrom’s arrival in London, your arrest, the murders, the uprising to overthrow the king, all of it. Like it or not, Thomas may be the only one who can stop it.”
“Pierre, I am getting you out of here. I do not care what I have to do, and as God as my witness, I am going to make sure the people who did this to you pay.”
“Thomas, please.” He wiped at the tears falling from his eyes.
“I shall be all right. I have sent word for Christopher and Sheppard to return immediately. We have Bess, Crowe and all of the resources of the king.”
“Even with all of that, how are you going to prove my innocence?”
“By proving someone else’s guilt…” I paused and let the knowledge of my words sink into my mind.
“Thomas, what is it?”
“I cannot explain it, but I think I might have a plan. Mr. Atwood, I need you to take me to see the sergeant-at-arms.”
“I am at your service.”
“Pierre, I shall have you out of here by the end of day tomorrow. I promise.” I wanted nothing more than to lean across the table and kiss him. A goodbye kiss, knowing that if my feeble attempts at a plan failed, it would be the last time we ever saw each other. Besides, there was too much at risk to display my affection. Instead, our eyes locked upon one another. We lingered there, speaking volumes of love which only our eyes could convey.
“Please, Thomas, take care of yourself.” Pierre said as the gaoler came into the room to take him back to his cell.
The painful emotions of not knowing if I would ever see him again welled up in my throat. I choked as I tried to speak. “I…will…and be back soon.” I nodded with a forced smile. As I watched the gaoler take Pierre away, I had to force myself not to run into his arms. A small, frightened voice spoke to me and tried to convince me that spending our last days together in Newgate Prison would be better than never seeing him again. I turned and left the drinking cellar before I could change my mind about leaving him behind.
Every step I took toward the main gate of the prison was one step farther away from the man I loved. I had suffered in the same prison, but it was different being on the outside and knowing the horrors that a loved one faced on the inside. As I sucked in the fresh, coal-laced air, I doubled over and vomited. I leaned against the old brittle stone of the prison and waited for the dizziness to pass.
“Will you be all right?”
“I honestly do not know.” I looked up at Mr. Atwood and noticed the sky being overtaken by dark, rolling clouds. In the distance, thunder rumbled. “I am not sure if I have the strength and courage to do this.”
“May I speak in a more personal tone with you?”
“Yes.” I wiped the bile from my lips.
“I know more about you than you may realize. When have you ever backed down from a fight, Thomas?” He came to me and pulled me off the wall and straightened my overcoat. “You fought your way through your childhood, through Cheam Classic School. When they arrested Margaret Clapton, you went after the one man who caused the raid. You challenged the Paris police and did not back down even though you thought you would die in the Bicetre—”
“How in the hell do you know all of this?”
“It is my job to know everything about the men who interest the sergeant at arms.” He put his arm around my shoulder and led me toward the waiting carriage. “What I am trying to say is that you have the courage and strength to fight and win. But to do so, you have to believe in yourself. Besides, is it not better to have tried and failed, than never to have tried at all?”
“Thank you,” I said as the coachman opened the carriage door. “I guess I needed the proverbial slap in the face, to pull myself from wallowing in doubt.”
The coachman leaned into the carriage. “Where to, gentlemen?”
“The Palace of Westminster, Bradford. We need to see the sergeant-at-arms at once.” Mr. Atwood nodded as Bradford closed the door. “I hope I was not too forward with my thoughts back there,” he said.
A sudden wave of sickness came over me as my stomach tried to recover from its previous loss. I swallowed hard, determined not to vomit in the king’s carriage. “On the contrary. I appreciate your honesty.” I choked down another sour breath of bile.
“What are your plans?”
“I do not have any yet.”
“But you told Mr. Baptiste…”
“I told him what he needed to hear, in hopes of lessening his worry of me.” I smiled as best as I could under the circumstances. “Deceptive, perhaps, but I know what it is like in Newgate. The less he has to worry about the better.” I glanced out of the window as the sky seemed to open up, unable to contain the rain. I closed my eyes and listened to the patter and pound of the raindrops as they hit the roof of the carriage. Despite the handsome man sitting across from me, I remained behind my eyelids and let the rocking and the rain lull me into a short but necessary nap.
“Thomas, wake up. We are here.” Mr. Atwood whispered then nudged me.
“What…?” My eyes fluttered open. I was leaning against Mr. Atwood’s body, his arm around my shoulder.
My face snuggled against his stout chest. I sat up on the cushioned seat, a little embarrassed and surprised by the intimate proximity.
“I am sorry, but you looked quite uncomfortable as you slept. I hope you do not mind.”
“No,” I replied, though I was not sure I believed my response. The carriage door opened and no sooner did I step out, Mr. Atwood took my elbow and rushed me across the expansive lawns and into the Palace of Westminster. “I look affright.” I paused, tucked in my shirt, and tried to straighten the outfit I had been wearing for the past several days.
“Trust me, Thomas, in times like this, appearances are the last of anyone’s worry.”
“Mr. Atwood.” One of the guards outside the doubled-door office called as we approached.
“Is Sir, Theodore?” Mr. Atwood asked.
“Yes,” the guard looked embarrassed as if speaking of things that were better left unsaid. “He is with his wigs again, sir.”
“Excellent, then he will be too preoccupied with their care to worry about specifics.” Mr. Atwood winked at me. “Thomas, shall we?” He opened the door and allowed me to enter then shut the door behind us, keeping all those out in the hallway unaware of our business.
“Mr. Newton.” The sergeant waved his hand in front of his face to clear the dust cascading around him. “Please, excuse the mess.” He placed the dusting mask on the table, patted a couple of the wigs, tilting his head from side to side as he admired them. Brushing his hands against each other, he came from around the table. His step was light, which seemed to enhance his pale pink breeches and matching overcoat. His white shirt, with coordinated white stockings, and bright ruby red shoes added to the entire package. I wondered how he got away with such effeminate behavior in his position. “Please, before we discuss anything, let me offer you my sincere regret at what has happened to Pierre.”
“That is what I have come to talk to you about.”
“Would you care to sit?”
“No, no thank you. We do not have the time.”
“Then if you will pardon me, we can talk while I go back to my wigs.”
Den of Thieves Page 21