Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "I'm afraid Mr. Peale will ask the same questions of you when you are under oath in court," Patrick said tiredly. "Now did you take your coat off before or after you coupled with Miss Adams?" Referring to notes he'd made after he'd spoken with Peale, he added, "Or did you finish your business at all?"

  "Of course I finished it! What do you take me for—a funny boy? I did her up real good, sir—real good."

  "Before or after you took off your coat?"

  "What's this coat business, anyway?" Rand demanded angrily. "What if I was to say I don't know?"

  "Then I hope you are prepared to hang."

  "Eh? No, sirrah, by God, I am not," the old man blustered. "I got you, and you are getting me out. Best demned barrister as there is to be had, ain't you?"

  "One of the best, in any event." Patrick regarded Rand soberly for a long moment. "But I cannot keep Peale or Milton from making you look as guilty as sin itself if you are unwilling to assist in your defense. Now—did you murder Annie Adams?"

  "I already told you I didn't!"

  "Then will you explain how your bloody coat came to be on the floor beside the bucket? Or how the water in that bucket came to contain what appears to be blood? Or how a gold ring that fits you was lying there also?"

  "I don't see—"

  "Because if you took them off before, you will have to satisfactorily explain to a jury of your peers how blood happens to be on them. And if you took it off after, you will have to explain how you found the time to do so."

  "She was just a tart, for God's sake! They ain't going to hang Bartholomew Rand over no tart!"

  "How did she die, Mr. Rand?"

  "They was rolling me, sir! There—I have said it."

  "When?"

  "When I was a-gettin' off the gel!" The old man sucked in his breath and let it out slowly. "I ain't used to being talked to like this, Mr. Hamilton."

  "Are you used to hanging, sir?" Patrick countered. "Somehow I cannot think you truly wish to kick out your life on the Nubbing Cheat."

  "No, of course not. But they ain't hanging a man as has got my sort of money," Rand maintained stubbornly.

  "Your sort of money will insure that the mob will demand a hanging. Now—honesty, sir."

  "It ain't easy to tell it." The old man looked at where his hand rested on his knee. "Thing is, I don't want it to get out and about what I was doing. I got to think of Emmaline."

  "I rather think it out already. Peale has spoken with the newspapers, and I daresay every paper and handbill in London will publish an account."

  "Aye, I suppose so," Rand conceded finally.

  "All right. What was you wanting me to say?"

  "I want you to tell the truth. While your guilt or innocence is of no moment to me, I still like to know what sort of cards Peale could have in his hand."

  Rand viewed him with disgust, then returned his attention to his knee. "I said I didn't kill the whore — ain't that enough? Have I got to wash all m'linen in court?"

  "There have been a number of prostitutes murdered and thrown in the river lately—I think Peale said there were at least five, possibly seven where there were similarities. In any event, there is a public outcry to end it."

  "Public!" Rand snorted. "Rabble's more like it."

  "Rabble, then. Whatever you choose to call them, they are clamoring for a hanging, and once the story is told in the newspapers, it will be your hanging they want."

  "I mean to tell the judge as I ain't done it," the old man retorted.

  "Unfortunately—or fortunate, as the case may be— you will not be allowed to testify for yourself." Patrick waited until Rand looked at him, then he added, "The only things between you and the noose are me and a jury, sir."

  "I still say they don't hang a rich man."

  "And I am telling you there will not be a ticket to be had to the gallery," Patrick declared flatly. "And if you are convicted, people will come with beds and picnic baskets to see you go to the gallows."

  The old man was silent for a moment, then he nodded. "All right," he said again. "We was finishing the business when the fellow came in and demanded money of me. I said as I didn't have any—that I'd given it to the gel. He pulled me off’n her and started going at her with his sticker. There was blood every-wheres, and I was afeared he was going to do me in with her."

  "And what did you do?" Patrick prompted. "Did you try to help? Did you run for help, sir?"

  "Dash it, but I been robbed thrice already! No, course I didn't go out a-calling for aid! No telling as who might've shown, eh? No, sirrah, I was in a hurry to go, I can tell you."

  "He stabbed her while you were positioned over her?"

  "I was a-trying to get out of the way."

  "But you saw him do it?"

  "Aye."

  "What sort of knife did he use?"

  "How the devil am I to know that?" Rand asked querulously. "I told you—I was a-wantin' to get out of there."

  "How did you lose your ring?"

  Rand toyed with his hand. "Damme if I ain't already told you that."

  "Before he stabbed her or after?"

  The old man eyed him malevolently. "How the devil should I remember that? If you was wantin' to know, ask the cove as killed her. You ain't got no right to talk to me as if I was the criminal."

  Patrick considered him for a time, then he shook his head. "No, it won't fadge, I'm afraid."

  "Won't fadge!"

  "Peale will have your story in shreds within an hour."

  "Then you tell me what to tell 'em when they ask me!"

  "I wasn't there."

  "Damn it! I'm paying you to tell me what to say, sirrah, and afore God you're going to do it!" Red-faced now, Rand rose to stand above Patrick. "I don't care what it costs me, you are going to do it! I ain't no hand with words, Hamilton!"

  "Did he stab her with your penknife?"

  "It was his."

  "He cannot read nor write, I'm afraid."

  "Look, I don't care as how you do it, but afore God, you're going to get me freed! And you ain't bouncing me, 'cause I ain't standing for it! You are getting me out today, d'you hear? Today!"

  "No." Patrick closed his leather folder and stood, towering over the stocky man. "I don't have to do anything, sir."

  "You got my gold! Dash it, but I paid you—you cannot refuse me, sirrah—you cannot!"

  "My clerk will see you get it back."

  The color drained from Bartholomew Rand's face, and his bluster left him. "You'd desert me?" he said, disbelieving it. "Hamilton, I got gold—whatever you was to ask, I got it."

  But Patrick already had his folder tucked beneath his arm. Picking up his walking stick, he started for the iron door. "Counsel done," he told the nearest guard.

  "But you cannot—you cannot—" Rand insisted. "How much d'you want? Ten thousand? Twenty?"

  "If you wish, I shall be happy to recommend another barrister to you."

  "I don't want another," the old man said plaintively. " 'Tis you as I engaged."

  "You might send 'round to Parker. He has an excellent reputation."

  It dawned on the old man then that Hamilton was indeed serious. "But why?" he demanded incredulously. "Why?"

  "Because I require my client's active cooperation," Patrick answered. "And because you are lying to me. You may lie to your family or to the magistrate, but you do not lie to me. Good day, sir."

  Following a guard, Elise Rand picked her way into the depths of Newgate. Lewd fellows called out to her from behind grate-covered doors, their voices intermingling in a cacophony of obscene words. She held her head high and pretended not to hear them. Her heart raced and her stomach sank within her as she viewed the squalor of the denizens of the prison. In some places, whole families huddled together over a single cooking pot, while in others, mothers in rags clutched babes against their breasts. As she passed one, a jailor winked at Elise's guard, then unlocked the cell and let himself inside, where he could be heard telling a faded flower what he wanted
of her.

  Someday, Elise reflected wearily, she was going to have to attempt doing something about the wretched conditions, but just now she had to see her father. The farther she went, the greater the stench as the odors of unwashed bodies, rotted teeth, and human waste commingled, nearly gagging her. She had to take out her handkerchief and hold it over her nose.

  "You have no right to hold my father among common criminals," she told the guard with feeling. "Surely there must be some other place he can stay until bail is set for him."

  He turned around at that, favoring her with a blackened, gap-toothed grin. "Aye, fer a bit o' blunt, Oy might could find 'im sommat better, me fine mort." As he said it, his gaze moved over her insolently. "And 'e ain't gettin' bail, Oy'll be bound."

  "What?"

  "No bail," he repeated plainly. "But if ye was t'cross me and—"

  "I should rather report you," she muttered. " Tis bribery you suggest."

  The fellow shrugged. "Then 'e can rot 'is rich arse below." Again, he grinned, pointing to another door. "Or 'e cud be tipplin' like he was a dook."

  "A what?"

  "Dook—like 'e was a royal."

  "You mean duke," she decided.

  "Aye. Fer a bit o' grease, Oy cud see as 'e 'ad a clean flop, a mite o' fancy bitin'—a fancy piece e'en."

  "I would that you spoke plain English," she retorted. Nonetheless, she peered inside long enough to see that a gentleman dressed as finely as any dandy lounged lazily over a card table with another like him, while a servant hovered behind ready to pour from a wine botde. "This is disgusting," she decided.

  For a moment he appeared wounded, then his grin widened from ear to ear. "A bit o' fancy yersel', ain't ye?"

  "I am sure I have not the least notion," she told him severely.

  "I can get 'im a bit 'igher, if ye was ter be nice ter me."

  "I shall speak to the keeper of your insolence." But as she said it, curiosity got the better of her. "What did they do?" she finally asked. "I mean—why are they here?"

  "The gent as is in the green? 'E's goin' ter' ang' fer stickin' a sharp as was cheatin' 'im. T'other gent's a-visitin' 'im."

  "I don't believe you."

  He gave a derisive snort, but nonetheless he fell silent until they reached a cell door. Then he gibed at her father, "Ye got a fine mort as is wishful o' seein' ye—see as 'er gets out whole, will ye?" Producing a ring of keys, he chose one and turned it in the lock. "No more'n ten, or I ain't lettin' ye in agin," he told Elise.

  She stepped inside and tried to adjust her eyes to the lack of light as the door was locked behind her. "Papa?"

  “Aye, Puss."

  Coatless, and with his cravat dangling, he sat on a single rough bench, his legs in irons. When he looked up to her, his eyes were sunk within dark fleshy bags, his expression bleak. She sank down beside him and took one of his hands between hers. Swallowing hard, she blinked back tears and tried to speak.

  "Are you all right?" she managed to ask him.

  "Well, I ain't exactly in alt," he muttered dryly. Glancing at the locked door, he grumbled, "If he was in my employ, I'd have turned that fellow off, I can tell you."

  "You are mistreated?"

  "I'm here, ain't I?" he retorted. He looked around the small cell glumly. "It ain't much like home, you know."

  "I know." She forced a smile. "I am told I can pay for a better situation."

  "Ain't they told you? I'm far too dangerous to move, Puss. I was brung here in fetters," he recalled with feeling, holding out his chained feet. "Fetters!"

  "But the jailer said—"

  "You ain't giving him a farthing! The dirty nabber'll naught but take m'blunt and leave me here to rot!" As her hands tightened on his, he brightened slightly. "But if you was to grease his fingers just a mite, I daresay he'd bring me a tipple of port." Nodding toward an empty cup, he added, "Demned ale as they give me is enough to make a man puke—ain't fit for the slop bucket."

  "I shall tend to it," she promised. Releasing his hand, she rose to hide her agitation. "I would that I could get you out of here."

  "Hamilton said they ain't going to bail me."

  She turned away. "They say you killed a woman, but I cannot believe it," she said finally. "I know you could not do such a terrible thing."

  "A woman!" he snorted contemptuously. "A pug-nasty, you mean! And a good riddance, too!" Catching himself, he added quickly, "But 'twasn't me as killed her, Ellie."

  "How did you come to be there, Papa?" she dared to ask, turning back to face him. "What were you doing in such a place? You have always condemned that sort of woman."

  "Still do," he maintained stoutly. Without meeting her eyes, he sucked in his breath, then let it out. "But I'm a man, Puss."

  "And that makes it right?" she demanded incredulously. "What is Mama to think?"

  "A man's got needs!"

  "But you have a wife—and—and you are so proud of Mama, that I—"

  "That ain't got nothing to do with it, Puss!" It was his turn to look away. "Your mama nearly died birthin' you, Ellie—I couldn't risk puttin' another loaf in her oven, don't you see? I took another chamber, trying to stay away from her, but man wasn't made to live like that." His voice scarce above a whisper, he went on. "I lived without for nigh to a year, Ellie, then one night I wasn't wanting to burn alone anymore."

  "But the Adams woman—"

  "Don't call her a woman!" he snapped. "She was no more than a flea in the straw! But I ain't got there yet—I was telling you how things was. When I first started doing it, I was going to the high-priced whores as could brag they'd had the fancy nobs between their legs, don't you see? I had this one as I set up in Hans Town, but she got greedy."

  "Papa, I don't want to hear this," Elise protested.

  "Aye, you do—you asked, didn't you? And you and me—well, we ain't got many secrets between us, Puss. You been my pride, you know. I always treated you as you was a son."

  "Yes." She smiled crookedly. "Yes, you have— except when I wished to wed Ben."

  "Fellow was a cent per cent, Ellie! All the Roses was!"

  "Yes, well, in any event, I am trying to understand how you are here, Papa."

  "Arid I'm telling you!" he snapped. "Got to do it m'own way, that's all. Anyways, I got myself into the clutches of a harpy as was threatening to tell Em if I wasn't wanting to buy her off. I knew it would kill Em to think I had to have a pot to pop it in."

  "Papa, please! You do not have to tell me everything. I shall quite understand if you wish to merely explain about Miss Adams."

  "Well, it would have killed your mama, like I was saying," he went on, unrepentant. "She'd have wanted to do it for me, and I couldn't take the risk. So I bought the harpy off—demned dearly, too—cost me a house for the creature and a bit o' gold on the side. Well, to get to the short of it, the tumbles wasn't worth Em's discovering about 'em, so I started going to the whorehouses."

  "I cannot believe you have been doing this since I was born," she muttered under her breath.

  "Had to," he insisted. Casting a sidewise glance at her, he sighed. "Didn't think as you or Em would know."

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. "You always said you hated prostitution, Papa."

  "And I do, Puss—you got to believe it. But they ain't like you or Emmaline, honey—they ain't noting."

  "Annie Adams wasn't even in one of those houses."

  "Aye. I quit going to them places, 'cause I didn't want to be seen. In and out, that's all I was wanting, and there's whole streets where e'en a blind man can find a lay, 'specially in the rookery."

  "Is that why you have been robbed thrice this year? Because you go to those places?"

  "Aye. But this time I nearly bought the ticket, Ellie. The Adams slut had a pimp as wasn't trusting her to give 'im the blunt." He looked up at her now. "Curst fool busted in ere I was done with m'business, and afore I knew what he meant to do, he was a-stickin' her like he was a madman. I tossed m'bloody coat and tried to run f
or it. Next thing I knew he and the watch was chasing me, and he was saying as how I'd murdered the tart." He paused, waiting for her to say something, then when she didn't, he asked, "You believe your papa, don't you, Puss?"

  "Yes, of course I do," she said finally, "but I fail to see how you could even do such a thing with a stranger. You make it sound as though you were shaking her hand rather than—well, than what you were doing,"

  "Told you a man's got needs—powerful needs. Ain't a man alive as don't do it or think about doing it full half the time."

  "I am sure that Ben never would have consorted with such females."

  "There ain't no heathen saints, Puss," he retorted. "If he was any man at all, he was wan tin' up your skirt." Abruptly his manner changed. "But that ain't to the point now, is it?"

  "No."

  "If you are wanting to help your papa, you'll go to Hamilton." Seeing that her eyes widened, he nodded. "Aye, the demned fellow's deserted me," he announced heavily. "I got to have him, you know— fellow's m'only hope."

  "Deserted you? But why? If you are innocent—"

  "Humph! You think that matters?" Rand demanded sarcastically. "Well, it don't. There's them as would cheer to see me swing just 'cause I made the gold, and so he told me. Said they'll have the Bailey gallery packed so's they are a-faintin' when the justices is hearing the case. If there was any right to it, I wouldn't be here."

  Never say you are one of those who believes that justice comes down like manna from heaven . . . The law suits the judge, not the judged . . . Patrick Hamilton's words seemed to echo in her ears. "Papa, did you tell Mr. Hamilton what you told me?"

  "Didn't get a chance to," he lied. "He don't want to defend me, that's all there is to the matter. Gone namby-pamby on me."

  "But he must have had some reason," she countered reasonably. "Perhaps if you offered more money ..."

  "Money ain't got anything to do with it. It's politics, Puss."

  "I see. Then I doubt I can make him change his mind."

  "He likes you—I can see it in his eyes, Puss. If you was to want, you could get him for me."

  "Did he make an excuse?"

  "Fellow's got ambition, that's all."

  "And you told him you did not do it?"

  "Of course I did! Look, Ellie," he coaxed, "I got to have him else I'll swing." He caught her hand and drew it against his cheek. "For your papa, Puss—for your papa. You got to get him to save me."