“He’s not,” Mr. McBride agreed. “Not yet.”
Another round of laughter. Jacko’s face was shiny with sweat, though it was nippy in here.
“I am finished with the witness, your lordship. In my summing up, I will be putting the case that what we have here is not a conniving young woman who killed her employer, smeared blood all over the room, and then remained quietly in the kitchen with an apron covered with the same blood—and, I might add, no time to dispose of the missing silver. I am going to instead put forth my belief that another person had much better opportunity, and, I might add, strength, to commit the crime, and that we are coming dangerously close to a miscarriage of justice. Perhaps your lordship would like to retire briefly and prepare for my outrageous statements?”
The judge growled. “Mr. McBride, I have warned you about your behavior in my courtroom before. This is not the theatre.”
Oh, but it was, Bertie thought. Only the play was real, and the curtain, final. Mr. McBride knew that too, she sensed, despite his jokes.
“You are, however, correct that I would like to recess briefly to gather my thoughts,” the judge said. “Bailiff, please see that Mr. Small does not leave.”
The judge rose, and everyone scrambled to their feet. The judge disappeared through the door into his inner sanctum, the journalists rushed away, and the rest of the watchers filed out, talking excitedly.
Bertie looked over the railing at Mr. McBride, who’d sat down, pushing his wig askew as he rubbed wheat-colored hair beneath. The animation went out of his body as the courtroom emptied around him, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
He glanced around and up, but not at Bertie. He looked at no one and nothing.
Bertie was struck with how empty his face was. His eyes were a strange shade of gray, like a stormy morning. As Bertie watched, those eyes filled with a vast sadness, the likes of which Bertie had never seen. His mouth moved a little, as though he whispered something, but Bertie couldn’t hear what he said.
Bertie remained fixed in place instead of nipping off for some ale, her hand on the gallery’s wooden railing. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man below, who’d changed so incredibly the moment his performance had ended.
He never left his bench until the judge returned, and the courtroom started up again. As Mr. McBride got to his feet, the life flowed back into his body, and he again became the eloquent, arrogant man with the beautiful voice.
He put his case so charmingly that all hung on his words. The jury went out and returned very quickly with their verdict about Ruthie, Not guilty.
Ruthie was free. Bertie had hoped for a miracle, and Mr. McBride had provided one.
After much hugging, Ruthie left Bertie and went home with her mum. Bertie found her dad and Jeffrey waiting for her outside the pub across the street. They were furious. Jacko was Jeffrey’s best friend, and Jacko had just been arrested for the murder and taken away by the police.
“’E’s to blame,” Jeffrey said darkly, jerking his chin at Mr. McBride, who was walking out of the Old Bailey, dressed now in a normal suit and coat. Once again, Bertie noted how Mr. McBride had changed from a man who commanded a room to a man who looked tired of life.
The day was cold, darkening with the coming winter night. Bertie rubbed her hands together in her too-thin gloves and suggested her dad and Jeffrey take her into the pub and buy her a half.
“Not yet,” Bertie’s dad said. “Just teach ’im a lesson, Bertie. Go on now, girl.”
Girl, when she was twenty-six years old. “Leave him alone,” she said. “He saved Ruthie.”
“But got Jacko arrested,” Jeffrey growled. “Whose side are you on?”
“Jacko killed the woman,” Bertie said. “He’s a villain. He always was. I say good on Ruthie.”
Jeffrey grabbed Bertie by the shoulder and pushed her into the shadows of the passage beside the pub. He wouldn’t beat her in public—he’d take her somewhere unseen to do that—but his hand clamped down hard. “Jacko is my best friend,” Jeffrey said, his breath already heavy with gin. “You get over to that fiend of a Scottish barrister and fetch us a souvenir. We deserve it. The traitorous bastard was supposed to be on Jacko’s side.”
Jeffrey’s grip hurt. Bertie knew that if she protested too much, both Jeffrey and her dad would let her have it. But she couldn’t do this.
“That fiend of a Scottish barrister is very smart,” she pointed out. “He’ll catch me, then I’ll be in the cell with Jacko, waiting to go before the magistrate.”
Bertie’s dad leaned in, his breath already reeking as well. “You just do it, Roberta. You’re like a ghost—he’ll never know. And if he does see you, you know what to do. Now get out there, before I take my hand to you.”
Blast. They weren’t going to drop it. In their minds, Mr. McBride was the villain and deserved to be punished. If Bertie refused, her dad would drag her away and thrash her until she gave in. If Mr. McBride went home while Bertie was taking her beating, her dad would make her wait here every day until Mr. McBride returned for another case.
Either way, Bertie was doing this. One way would just be less painful than the other.
Bertie jerked free of Jeffrey’s hold. “All right,” she growled. “I’ll do it. But you’d better be ready. He’s no fool.”
“Like I said, he’ll never see ya,” her dad said. “You’ve got the touch, Bertie-girl. Go on with you.”
Bertie stumbled when her dad pushed her between the shoulder blades, but she righted herself and squared her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she walked steadily across the street toward where Mr. McBride stood waiting, his sad face and empty eyes focused on something far, far from the crowded streets of the City of London.
Sinclair McBride pulled his coat close against the icy wind and drew his hat down over his eyes.
Remember Sir Percival Montague, Daisy? Well, I potted him good today. Old Monty was nearly rubbing his hands, wanting to pronounce sentence of death on that poor girl. Bloody imbecile. She was no more guilty than a newborn kitten.
The sky grew darker, rain coming with the night. So damnably cold here. Steven was always trying to talk Sinclair into traveling with him—Spain, Egypt, back to Rome at least, where winters were balmy.
But there was the question of Andrew and Caitriona. Sinclair couldn’t bring himself to foist them onto Elliot and Juliana while he traveled the world. His brother and sister-in-law were starting their own family, their own life, and needed time alone. I could take them with me. Sinclair had to smile. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?
Sinclair imagined his two terrifying children on trains, carriages, carts, all the way to Italy. No, not the best answer.
Thinking about Andrew and Cat helped him avoid the one thought he’d been trying to banish all day. Now as Sinclair stood in the cold, waiting for his coachman to bring the landau, the thought came unbidden.
Seven years to this day you left me, Daisy.
Margaret McBride, Daisy to her intimates, had died of a fever that had threatened to take Sinclair’s children as well. Seven years ago today.
My friends and family expect me to move on, can you believe it? But they’ve not had the loves of their lives ripped away from them, have they? They wouldn’t say such daft things if they had.
Moving on sounded like forgetting all about Daisy, his wife, his lover, his helpmeet, his best friend. And I’ll never do that.
Daisy didn’t answer. She never did. But it didn’t matter. The comfort Sinclair drew from talking to her, out loud or inside his head, was the only thing that kept him going some days.
When you’re ready for me to move on, I know you’ll tell me. Another gust of wind had Sinclair grabbing for his hat and clenching his teeth. Where the devil was the coach? I trust you, Daisy . . .
The crowd was thick, everyone in the City going home for the night. Sincl
air held on to his hat as he was buffeted. Richards was taking a damned long time with the coach. Sinclair wasn’t usually in a rush, but tonight it was bloody cold, and the rain started to thicken.
A shove and a thump made Sinclair take a step sideways. A young woman had stumbled right into him, her shoes skidding on the wet pavement. As she struggled to keep her feet, Sinclair put a steadying hand under her arm.
“Easy now, lass,” Sinclair said.
She looked up at him. Sinclair saw a dark hat covered with bright blue violets, then eyes of the same blue—clear and warm in the swirl of gray. The young woman’s face was round, her nose slightly tip-tilted, her lips red, curving into a charming smile.
“Now, I’m that sorry, mister. Some bloke put his elbow right in me back, and me feet went clean out from under me. You all right?”
“I’m whole.” Sinclair studied her with his professional assessment, honed by a long career of watching criminals. She wasn’t a street girl. Game girls had a more desperate look, and were too eager to be seductive. Want me to make ya feel better, lamb? was the cleanest of the many offers Sinclair had received on London’s streets.
This young woman was working-class, probably on her way home after a long day’s drudgery. She wasn’t dirty, but the sleeves of her bodice were frayed at the cuffs, her gloves threadbare and much mended. Poor, but making the best of it.
Still, she didn’t have the downtrodden look many factory women had. Her smile was sunny, as though telling the world things could be better if given a chance.
“Well, that’s good,” she said. “Night, mister. Sweet dreams.”
Another smile, and in the sudden flare of an approaching light, all Sinclair could see were her eyes.
Deep and blue, like the depths of the ocean. The Mediterranean could be that color. Sinclair remembered southern Italy and its shores, his time there in his youth, when he’d been in the army traveling the world. He’d known peace there, before he’d experienced the impossible happiness of meeting Daisy, followed by the equally impossible grief at her passing.
This young woman with her blue eyes was beautiful, with a beauty that went beyond her shabby clothes and working-class grin. She was a vision of light in the darkness, in a place where darkness had lasted too long.
Someone else shoved him, and Sinclair turned sharply. When he looked back at the young woman, she was gone. Sinclair blinked at the empty space where she’d been, then lifted his gaze and spied her slipping through the crowd, the violets on her hat bobbing.
The detail of her ridiculous hat kept Sinclair from believing he’d dreamed her. But of course he hadn’t. Visions of beautiful women were supposed to be of golden-haired sirens with perfect bodies, strumming on harps perhaps, to lure men to their dooms. Sirens didn’t have lopsided smiles and plump faces, and blue eyes that had pulled Sinclair out of his despair, if only for a moment.
But she was gone now, vision or no, and Sinclair needed to go home. Andrew and Cat would have locked their new governess in the cellar by now, or accidentally burned down the house. Or both.
They didn’t mean to be bad, his little ones . . . Well, mostly they didn’t. One of the governesses had claimed that Andrew was possessed by the devil. She’d even offered to contact a priest she knew who could have him exorcised. That governess hadn’t lasted more than an hour.
A clock struck. Sinclair, out of habit, reached for his watch to compare the time. His watch always ran a few minutes fast. Repairing it seemed to make no difference. Buying a new watch was out of the question, because Daisy had given him this one . . .
Which was no longer in his pocket.
Reality rushed at Sinclair with a cold slap. His gaze went to the violet-covered hat just as it disappeared around a corner.
Good God, how stupid had he been? He hadn’t pegged the young woman as a pickpocket, because pickpockets usually didn’t stop for a chat. They stole and slipped away before the victim was aware.
Her bad luck someone had tripped her. Or had it been luck?
All this went through Sinclair’s head as he whirled around and strode after the woman, his feet moving faster and faster as he went. Gone was any thought of finding his coach and going home. Nothing mattered but getting that watch back. Sinclair would find the young woman and take it away from her, even if he had to chase her to the ends of the earth.
Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie Page 39