by Clee, Adele
She couldn’t raise an argument because she feared it might be true.
“What proof do you have that Henry Watson was responsible?” Dante spoke like a professional agent, calm, exact, though she could sense his emotional turmoil.
“Proof?” the dowager scoffed. “Henry Watson was a gambler and a cad. Indeed, were I not so incensed, I might laugh at the irony of it all.” She shook her head. “They sat there, too, Daphne and that fiend. Accused me of paying someone to attack my daughter in an alley. Demanded—”
“Someone did attack my mother. It cannot be a coincidence.”
“If I’d had anything to do with it, I would have hired someone to attack your father, not Daphne. He’s the reason my poor child is dead. He’s the one who seduced her with his exotic ways, the one who hired that damn Watson fellow.”
Beatrice found it hard to breathe, let alone think logically.
Instinct said Lady Deighton had not hired brutes to hurt her daughter. Had Mable hired them to ransack Babington’s home, hoping to find the letters? Probably. Had Mabel hired a brute to slay Babington in the street? Perhaps.
“Henry Watson conspired with my cousin’s boy to bring about my downfall. They concocted the whole story so they might blackmail me for funds. Two devious men. Two wicked men. They’re the ones responsible.”
Dante stepped closer to his grandmother. “Lord Summers’ letter suggests otherwise. Is Coulter your son? Answer me!”
The dowager’s lips curled into a scowl. “Do you think I would admit to siring a child with a lover? Do you think I would sacrifice everything I’ve worked for all these years? Mr Coulter is the child of my cousin Wilfred. And you will never, never, hear me say otherwise.”
After a lengthy pause, Dante bowed and stepped back. “Then there is nothing more to say. As an agent of the Order, I shall present the letters as evidence in the murder of George Babington.” He turned to Beatrice and offered his hand. “We should go now.”
Beatrice gripped his hand and stood. She wanted to look at him but needed to see passion and admiration in his eyes, not suspicion and doubt.
“You would embroil this family in another scandal?” A hint of fear marked the dowager’s tone. “You would have people question your lineage?”
“You courted scandal when you jumped into bed with Lord Summers. You made matters worse when you abandoned your son. When you disowned your daughter because she fell in love with a foreigner. My integrity is not open to manipulation. It’s time we all faced the truth and dealt with it.”
Was the last comment directed at Beatrice?
Was she to accept her father may have played a part in the tragedy?
“Goodbye, Lady Deighton,” Dante said as he escorted Beatrice from the room. There was an air of finality about his parting words, which had the dowager calling him vile names as he marched along the hall.
Once outside, it took a moment to shake the oppression of that room, to grow accustomed to the daylight, to breathe freely again.
“I need to visit Coulter,” Dante said tightly. “We should have questioned him about the attack in the alley. There’s every chance my mother spoke to him about it considering it occurred within the vicinity of Wilson Street.”
“Will you visit Bow Street first?”
Conversation felt strained, awkward.
He released a weary sigh. “I wish to dispose of the letters as soon as possible. We don’t know if my grandmother had a hand in Babington’s murder, and so it pays to be cautious.”
“Indeed.” A shiver ran the length of her spine. She glanced around the square, thought she saw someone watching them, but blinked and he was gone. “I shall accompany you. I wish to speak to Sir Malcolm about something, and—”
“Your father had nothing to do with the murders,” he stated. “And I doubt he would risk his reputation for a brooch and cheroot case.”
She managed a weak smile, but proving her father’s innocence was of paramount importance. “We’re due in Hart Street this afternoon.” She hoped one of the men had something new to impart. “We’ll visit Bow Street together, but I’ll leave you to speak to Mr Coulter.”
She hoped to follow another line of enquiry.
One Dante would object to most vehemently.
Chapter 18
“Visit Manning? Have you lost your mind?” Alice Crouch shuffled uncomfortably on the long oak settle in the crowded taproom of the Bull in the Barn tavern. She shouted for the drunken lout at the bar to shut his loud mouth before turning back to Beatrice. “It’s said he can crush a man with the weight of his stare. You don’t want to know what he’d do to a woman.”
Beatrice rubbed her temple to ease the tension. “I’ve been granted permission to question him in the chapel yard at Newgate. Sir Malcolm has arranged for me to meet the prison chaplain but insists I’m not to go alone. I hoped you might accompany me.”
Sir Malcolm had advised she take Mr Daventry, a constable or an agent of the Order. When she explained her dilemma, her fear the moneylender wouldn’t speak to anyone if he thought they were acting on behalf of the law, he’d demanded she find someone else.
“Me?” Alice brushed a hand through her curly red hair. “Luvvie, I can’t go, and you shouldn’t go neither. Best stay away. The man’s a wolf in human form. He’ll see it as a challenge, seek to punish us in some twisted way. Yes. Best stay away.”
“Then I shall have to go alone.”
Alice reached across the table, her large bosom spilling onto the crude surface, and grabbed Beatrice’s hand. “Don’t be a fool. Manning will take one look at you and imagine all the ways he might inflict pain.”
“I’ve no choice, Alice. If I’m to keep my position as an enquiry agent, keep my room in Howland Street, I need to discover if my father had anything to do with the murder of Dante’s parents.”
Suspicion flashed in Alice’s emerald eyes. “So, it’s Dante now?”
“I love him.” There was little point denying the fact, and it felt good to tell someone. Besides, time was of the essence. “It cannot be helped. But for both our sakes, I need to find out if my father owed Mr Manning money.”
Alice sighed. “Did I teach you nothing? Did I not warn you to protect your heart?”
“Not knowing if my father is a hero or a villain is breaking my heart, too.” She squeezed Alice’s hand. “Sir Malcolm assures me Mr Manning will hang. While awaiting trial, he’s lodging with the turnkeys to prevent him from running his operation from behind bars.”
“Luvvie, I’d bet there’s a turnkey or two on Manning’s payroll. And I heard they were struggling to find anyone to testify against him.”
Criminals like Mr Manning used fear as a weapon. Even Alice, the most formidable woman Beatrice had ever known, was scared to the marrow of her bones.
“You’re right.” Beatrice pushed to her feet. “I shall return to Hart Street and speak to Mr Daventry.” First, she would call on the only other person in the world who might assist her. “You’ve been so kind to me, Alice. The last thing I want is to cause you problems.”
Alice nodded. “You don’t survive around here without knowing which battles to avoid. Where Manning’s concerned, you close the shutters and turn a blind eye.” She glanced through the dirty window to the carriage parked outside. “Tell Mr Bower if he fancies a drink and a little company of an evenin’, my door’s always open.”
Beatrice smiled but could hear an internal clock ticking. She said goodbye to Alice, asked Mr Bower to take her to Howland Street, where she pleaded with Miss Trimble.
“Mr Daventry should be informed,” Miss Trimble said in her matronly tone.
“Yes, he should, but these are exceptional circumstances. Sir Malcolm has arranged for the Reverend Jenkin to chaperone us.” She grabbed Miss Trimble’s hand. “Please. Mr Manning might speak to me. It’s the only chance I have of discovering the truth, of bringing an end to this nightmare.”
Miss Trimble’s gaze softened. “I’ll come as long as
Mr Bower accompanies us. At least I won’t have disobeyed all of Mr Daventry’s orders.”
A rush of relief had Beatrice throwing herself into the woman’s arms. Miss Trimble’s stiff body melted into the embrace, and the woman hugged Beatrice back.
The Reverend Jenkin was a young man with a wealth of golden hair. He possessed a kind, innocent face, and no doubt thought those with the darkest hearts could be delivered unto the Lord if they repented.
He met them at the entrance to Newgate, a gloomy gaol that cowered beneath the backdrop of St Paul’s majestic dome—a visual heaven versus hell. The introductions were made. The chaplain read a list of rules: maintain a distance of six feet, give no name or personal information, nothing that might help Mr Manning find them.
Find them? Hopefully, the blackguard would remain within the grim walls until he swung from the gallows.
“The Lord will guide you.” The chaplain cupped her hand. Not in the lecherous way some did when they craved human contact more than morning prayers, but in a genuine gesture of support.
A shudder of fear shook Beatrice as she stepped through the fortified entrance. Given a choice, she would rather sit across from Mr Manning than meet John Sands in a tavern.
They stopped at the Keeper’s room, where the stern overseer repeated the instructions in a much graver tone, complained that an enquiry agent was no job for a woman, a prison no place for a lady.
“Wait in the chapel yard. The reverend will remain with you.”
The chapel yard was a small outdoor space surrounded by a high stone wall on one side, the monstrous three-storey prison building on the other. It might have been a pleasant area were it not so stark, were it not for the beady eyes of inmates watching her through the barred windows littering the facade.
Shuffling, the thud of footsteps and the rattle of keys, preceded the screech of the iron door opening. Two turnkeys appeared, big, slovenly men clasping a prisoner by the arms.
Beatrice could only stare. She had expected to meet a beast of a man, a monster taller and wider than any human creature. But Mr Manning was short, thin, almost emaciated. With his pointed nose, straggly brown hair and spectacles, he looked like a crooked banker, not a man the whole of London feared.
Beatrice glanced at Miss Trimble. “Where do I begin?”
The woman tried to smile. Perhaps her bottom lip quivered because of the cold. “I have no notion. But he has something you want, and I imagine he will expect something in return.”
With clumsy steps and a shambling gait, Mr Manning moved closer. His feet were in leg irons, his hands secured in shackles. He couldn’t swat a fly, yet those frigid grey eyes could pierce a person’s soul.
Beatrice spoke first. “Good afternoon, sir. Thank you for agreeing to see me.” Not that he’d had much choice in the matter.
“A man can make time in his busy schedule for a pretty lady, Miss … ?” The dull, monotone pitch implied weakness, but one could not mistake the sinister undercurrent rippling like a noxious substance beneath the surface.
“Understood.”
“Misunderstood?” Mr Manning’s lips twitched. “Misguided, I’d say.” He looked to the Reverend Jenkin. “It will take more than this angel to save my black soul.”
“I’m not here to do the Lord’s bidding.” She turned to the guards. “This is a private matter. Might you step away so I may speak in confidence?”
The turnkeys frowned. They looked at the reverend, who nodded.
“You heard the lady,” Mr Manning jeered as the brawny fellows moved to stand near the wall. “Well, if this ain’t the most entertaining day I’ve had in here.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, as I wish to ask you questions about your business dealings eighteen years ago.”
The man’s gaze turned threatening. “And what is it to you?”
Her throat was tight with nerves. “Have you time to hear the whole story?”
“Can’t see as I’m going anywhere soon.”
She paused, recited the words in her mind before beginning. “My father was murdered in an attack near Hartley Wintney Common in Hampshire eighteen years ago. The other occupants of the carriage were killed too, though their son survived.”
She stopped for breath.
“Go on,” he prompted, rattling his shackles.
“I’m good friends with the son, but have reason to believe my father was in debt to you. That he arranged the attack to steal valuables but was betrayed by his partners in crime.”
Mr Manning contemplated the information. “And this son won’t be friends no more, not if he finds out you’re the daughter of the man who killed his parents.”
“Precisely.” There’d be no more passionate kisses in candlelit rooms. No more making love until the early hours. “It was a long time ago, and I doubt you’ll remember.”
“I remember every man who tried to diddle me, missy. I have their faces etched into my eyeballs, carved with the blade I’d gut them with if they failed to pay. But why should I tell you anything?”
“Perhaps we might barter, trade information, sir.”
What could a man like Manning possibly want?
“Barter?” He laughed, the sound wholly unpleasant. “What I want ain’t possible with these shackles. Happen you could drop to your knees and show your gratitude. Take my cock in that pretty mouth of yours and suck it hard.”
A year ago, the comment would have shaken her to her core, brought tears to her eyes. After her experiences at the Bull in the Barn, she simply sighed.
“With the hygiene practices being quite lax here, I fear I must decline your charming offer. But perhaps you might like to hear my harrowing stories. Perhaps I might tell you how I’ve suffered, why I cry myself to sleep at night.”
Mr Manning had no conscience. He liked inflicting pain, and no doubt liked hearing the sordid details too.
The reverend shuffled sideways, putting himself in her line of vision. He glared and shook his head by way of a warning.
“I’ll need your father’s name if I’m to remember anything,” came Manning’s cunning request.
“Henry Watson,” she said, much to the Reverend Jenkin’s dismay.
“Eighteen years ago, you say?”
“He lived in Hampshire, near Hartley Wintney Common. He worked as an enquiry agent and often came to town on business.”
Mr Manning glanced up at the windows, at the grim faces pressed to the bars, and they scurried back like frightened rats. “I know the name, but he didn’t owe me money.”
“Then how—”
“Not before you tell me what’s the worst thing that’s happened to you.” His gaze moved past Beatrice and settled on Miss Trimble. “The nightmare that keeps you awake.”
Miss Trimble jumped to attention. “Who? Me?”
“There’s something wicked hidden inside that stony shell.” He seemed excited at the prospect of discovering her secret. Probably would have tucked a napkin into his collar and rubbed his greedy hands together were they not bound in irons.
Beatrice was about to reply when Miss Trimble suddenly said, “My husband tried to kill me.”
Mr Manning’s cold eyes glistened. “How?”
“Tell me how you know my father first,” Beatrice interjected. “Should my chaperone find the topic too distressing, I will tell you about the terrible thing my uncle did.” Though by Mr Manning’s standards, a drunken grope was hardly horrific.
The reverend cleared his throat and reminded them that Christians should fight for the Lord, not make pacts with Satan.
“Henry Watson came to plead for clemency. Not on his behalf, you understand, but for a weaker man—his client.”
His client!
Beatrice didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Thank heavens her father wasn’t in debt to the moneylender, though he must have acted on Alessandro’s behalf. Oh, the thought of telling Dante, of ruining his idealised vision of his parents, cut deep.
“You wish to know what my hu
sband did to me?” Miss Trimble said coldly. “He drugged me, beat me and left me half dead in the woods.”
Beatrice swung around to face Miss Trimble. How she hoped it was all lies to appease a monster. And yet she saw distress in the woman’s eyes, saw her struggle to maintain her austere facade.
“Did he swing by the neck?” Mr Manning asked eagerly.
“No. I did not report the crime.”
“Why?”
Questions filled Beatrice’s mind. Where was this devil of a husband? How had Miss Trimble survived? But the overwhelming need to protect her from this gruesome fiend gave Beatrice a burst of courage.
“She has answered two questions in a row, sir. I imagine you’re a man who keeps his word, and so do me the courtesy of answering mine.”
Mr Manning kept his gaze fixed on Miss Trimble.
A little panicked, Beatrice said, “Do you not wish to see terror swimming in my eyes, sir?”
The man shook himself from his trance. “Oh, I’ll save that for the next time we meet, Miss Watson.”
His comment was like icy fingers to her spine. But she had come too far to be intimidated now. “When my father came to see you, was he acting on behalf of Alessandro D’Angelo?”
Doubts crept into her mind as soon as she’d spoken. Dante would know if his father had debts, and a wealthy man had no need to borrow from a moneylender. Could it be Mr Coulter, then? Was Henry Watson acting on behalf of his client’s brother?
“No.” He laughed. “You’ve one more question, then it’s time for my nap.”
Drat. She had wasted one asking about Alessandro and had revealed another name in the process.
“Whose case was my father pleading?”
“Whose case, you say? Why, that would be a whipster. A fox hiding in the warren.” Mr Manning jerked his head at the guards. “I’m done here. I ain’t saying no more.”
“No! Wait!”
They stomped forward, gripped his arms, ready to haul him back to his cell.
“I need his name.”
Mr Manning glanced over his shoulder as the turnkeys helped him shuffle towards the solid iron door. “I’ll tell you that when I’m out of this hole.”