An Artless Demise Page 35

  Bree shook her head. “We searched every saloon between the Strand and Castle Street, and they havena seen hide nor hair o’ him this evenin’.”

  “He could have ventured into the Holy Land,” Anderley remarked, referring to the rookeries of St. Giles to the north. “But I hesitated to take Miss McEvoy into such seedy environs.”

  “It’s well you didn’t. Not at night.” Gage swung his walking stick, which I knew doubled as a cudgel, back and forth in aggravation. “If Yaxley has ventured into the back alleys to partake of some blue ruin or indulge in some other disreputable sport, we might never locate him. We can only hope that he and his chums have gone on to a gentleman’s gambling establishment or, barring that, one of the higher-class houses of ill repute.”

  My eyebrows arched high at this comment.

  “Neither of which you or Miss McEvoy will be entering,” he stated, shooting me a dagger glare.

  “I wasn’t about to suggest that we should,” I retorted, aggravated by his presumption. I might be stubborn at times, but I wasn’t foolish. “And if he’s not to be found in either of those places?”

  His eyes clouded with unease. “We’ll face that if we must.”

  It was obvious from the looks on all of our faces that none of us relished the thought of attending a public execution, not even Anderley. We might be in the business of apprehending criminals and bringing them to justice, but that did not mean we enjoyed watching it be carried out. Especially when the proceedings were certain to draw a bloodthirsty crowd. The idea of encountering such a mob made my chest tighten and my stomach churn, but if the only alternative was to allow Poole to kill again, I would swallow the acid burning my throat and wade into the fray.

  But I prayed with all my being that it would not come to that.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Come away from the window, m’lady,” Bree urged directly into my ear to be heard. “One minute’s respite willna make a difference.”

  I shook off her grip on my arm. “It might.”

  “And if ye faint? What then?” she persisted. “Mr. Gage willna thank me for lettin’ ye come to harm.”

  I inhaled a deep breath through the lavender-scented handkerchief I pressed to my nose. When some of the fuzziness had faded from the edge of my vision, I lifted aside my veil to take another fortifying sip of the rum-hot Bree had fetched me from the King of Denmark next door.

  The pub was doing a bustling business even at 7:55 A.M., and had been since well before five o’clock, just as the other shops lining the streets surrounding Newgate. Most had removed their entire frontage in order to accommodate more seats they could charge the spectators for. Some limber lads had climbed the lampposts or up onto the rooftops surrounding the Old Bailey, and every window was packed with people. Gage had paid a premium price to give me and Bree the sole use of this vantage point over a dispensary, and as the hours inched toward eight o’clock, and the crowds thronging the area grew, the more grateful I had become for his forethought.

  “See. I am perfectly well,” I declared, though I still leaned against the rough edge of the windowsill. “Now, help me scour this crowd for any sign of Poole or Yaxley.”

  Bree harrumphed her disapproval but moved forward to stand next to me. She clasped my elbow gently, and though I wanted to pull away, the truth was I needed her to steady me.

  The street of Old Bailey was packed with people as far as the eye could see in the fog that had descended over the city. To the south, I couldn’t even glimpse Ludgate Hill through the thick mist, while to the north, the large wooden barrier they’d erected at the entrance to the Old Bailey from Giltspur Street to prevent a surge of men when the prisoners were brought out was hazy at best. If anything, the fog had only exacerbated the crowding, as people jostled each other, pressing closer to the scaffold erected outside Newgate’s Debtors’ Door.

  From our view above, we saw more than one person swoon amid the press of bodies and have to be passed over the heads of the onlookers to a place away from the mob. I watched these relays carefully, sharply conscious that I could have been one of those people had I insisted on trailing Gage through the crowd, and also fearful that I would see Yaxley’s body among them. After all, the excited mob was the perfect concealment for such a crime. Poole could sidle up next to his victim, stab him in the side, and flee before anyone would even notice that Yaxley was in distress.

  Mr. Goddard stood below, near the entrance to the King of Denmark, the place from which Yaxley was supposed to be watching the execution. But dash it all, he wasn’t there. I couldn’t decide if Paddington’s heir was simply this capricious or if Lady Felicity had completely fabricated her brother’s plans for the evening. The fool!

  Whatever the truth, Poole would not be the sole criminal at work in the crowd. Young pickpockets weaved their way through the horde, taking very little care not to be seen. And earlier, a trio of enthusiastic young men had presented themselves as constables in order to try to make their way to the front, but they were found out and pulled aside. The cries of the broadsheet sellers could be heard above the dull roar of voices, peddling the “last dying speeches” of the burkers, though many of them must have been pure fabrication. The case in point being those that included May’s confession—a confession he’d never made.

  At first the scaffold had been erected with three ropes, but around seven o’clock, the error was perceived and corrected. Most of the crowd was not surprised by this, as news of Melbourne having respited May at half past four the previous afternoon had already spread throughout the city. Even so, there was some cheering when the third rope was removed.

  But that small gesture was about the solitary display of goodwill there was to be observed from the seething mass before me. It was a roiling cauldron of anxiety and desperation, as if all the horrid discoveries and the fear that accompanied them had been mounting until this moment. People were rabid for revenge. You could see it raging in their eyes and hear it ringing from their shrill voices. This execution was more than a public exhibition of justice; it was personal.

  I narrowed my eyes behind my veil, searching the mob of milling humanity, trying to probe beneath every hat, silently begging for those who faced away from me to show me their profile. Across the street, near the scaffold, by the line of constables who stood there to prevent anyone from interfering with the hanging, I spied Anderley peering over the heads of those around him. Farther north, I saw the back of a gentleman’s head, his golden hair curling beneath the brim of his hat as he moved in the direction of the barricade at Giltspur Street. He weaved this way and that as if aiming for something I could not see.

  “Hats off!” someone suddenly cried, and then others took up the call, eagerly complying so as to get a better view. The reason for this became evident as Calcraft, the executioner, and his assistant mounted the steps to the scaffold. Then a ghastly silence fell over the crowd—one that made my already pounding heart begin to beat faster.

  I forced my gaze away from the proceedings to search the crowd again. Perhaps with their hats off and all eyes turned forward, I might spot them. Or at least, see some anomaly, some irregularity in their behavior that would draw my attention.

  And there! There, at the edge of the throng, near a coach-office, stood Yaxley arguing with Gage.

  I exhaled a long breath.

  Both men gestured broadly, heedless of the objections of those around them. Thank heavens Gage had found him. Alive. But it seemed he was not going to be easily persuaded to see the danger he was in.

  Then someone shifted in the mass beyond the men. It was but a flicker of a movement, but if I leaned just a bit farther out, I might be able to see . . .

  A great roar rose from the crowd, and I might have tumbled from the window if Bree had not been there to right me. I clutched at her, my eyes swinging toward the scaffold as Bishop climbed the steps of the platform. Hi
s face was a mask of stone, his thoughts seeming to have turned inward, for he showed no reaction to the shouts, and screams, and curses hurled at him. He merely marched to his place and waited for the sack to be placed over his head and the rope fastened around his neck.

  And there he stood, alone, for several minutes while there was some delay.

  In this interval, I recalled myself from the ghoulish spectacle to the more pressing matter of finding Poole. Leaning forward again with greater care, I spotted Gage tugging at a resisting Yaxley’s arm and then allowed my eyes to travel over their heads to the people immediately behind them. Most were yelling at the scaffold, their arms raised in outrage, but one man did not look toward the gibbet even once. He had eyes only for Gage and the fatheaded lordling who was about to get himself killed, and possibly my husband in the process.

  I screamed down toward Goddard, pointing my finger in the direction of Gage and Yaxley. He was supposed to glance my way every few moments to discover if I’d spotted anything, but it seemed ages before he finally lifted his gaze, having been unable to hear me over the crowd. His eyes widened, and he began to struggle his way through the frantic mob, signaling to some of his other men along the way.

  I was wild with fear as I watched the drama unfold—Poole inching ever closer to Gage and Yaxley while Goddard and his men seemed impeded at every turn. And Gage so distracted by Yaxley’s obstinacy that he had no idea who was stalking nearer. Bree clutched my hand as we stood there helplessly. If I had trusted myself to be able to make a clear shot, I would have pulled my pistol from my reticule. But at such a distance, the notion was reckless, if not impossible. Even firing into the air to draw attention to the matter would only insight panic and kill more lives than it saved.

  Another roar went through the crowd, momentarily raising the pitch of the maelstrom of voices, as Williams emerged onto the scaffold. He stumbled forward, almost appearing to be drunk, before teetering at the edge and making an awkward bow to the crowd. There was no theatricality to it, only a fumbling bend of the waist, as if he thought that was what he was supposed to do. Before he could recover, he was hooded and noosed.

  For a moment, the deafening noise of the crowd and the excruciating tension racking my frame were almost too much to bear. My ears began to ring, my heart beat so fast I could feel the pulse throbbing in my neck, and the muzziness from earlier returned, creeping along the edges of my vision. I leaned heavily against Bree, fearing at any moment I would drop.

  Then Gage’s head came up, as if seeing Goddard, and his gaze swung over his shoulder toward Mr. Poole. Rather than continue to advance, Poole froze. When Gage took a step toward him, he turned and fled toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and Giltspur Street, bumping and elbowing people in his wake. Having learned from a previous pursuit through a throng of people that had not ended well, Gage followed at a more sedate pace, with Goddard not far behind him.

  I exhaled in relief, sagging against the wooden windowsill. However, my respite was short-lived, for in that next moment, the loud thwack of the trapdoor dropping pierced the air, and Bishop’s and Williams’s bodies plummeted. Bishop hung there lifelessly, but Williams twisted and twitched, his feet fumbling for purchase. I turned away, recalling now the tales I’d heard of Calcraft’s ineptitude. Far too often he chose a rope which made for too short a drop, and had to dangle on the backs of condemned prisoners to make sure their necks broke.

  Before Williams had stopped jerking, the sound of another deafening crack echoed down the street. But this time it came from the north, and the shrieks that accompanied it made the hairs on the back of my head stand on end. I swiveled around to glance in the direction of Giltspur Street, watching as the wooden barrier they’d erected there collapsed. People had scaled it, eager to see the execution, but the added weight was either too much or the balance was overset, and the entire barricade came crashing down.

  I gasped in horror, trying to find Gage in all the chaos. He had been moving steadily in that direction after Mr. Poole. But I’d been distracted by the hanging, and I couldn’t tell how close they’d grown to the barrier before catastrophe struck. The lingering fog and the billowing clouds of dust and debris which rolled upward from the barricade effectively cloaked the people at that end of the street.

  I wanted to race forward to help, to find Gage. But I couldn’t. I was trapped by the raving crowd. All I could do was stand in the window and watch. And pray.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Anderley, when we return home, I want you to fetch Dr. Shaw.” I glanced anxiously at Gage’s pale face, tight with pain, before leaning forward to peer out the window of the carriage at the buildings as we flew by. “Maybe we should ask the coachman to drive at a more sedate pace.”

  Gage blinked open his eyes where he leaned against the corner of the squabs. “Kiera, I’m not at death’s door,” he groused. “I merely dislocated my shoulder.” He grimaced, adjusting the makeshift sling that cradled his left arm.

  “Even so, I want the physician to look at it.” I worried my bottom lip between my teeth. “Maybe we should have had one of the doctors at St. Bartholomew’s examine it.”

  “Not while they had far more serious injuries to treat.” He reached forward to grasp my elbow. “Kiera, sit back.” His right arm wrapped about my waist, securing me to his side. “How you are not melted into an exhausted puddle after the past twenty-four hours, I do not know.”

  “Oh, she’s exhausted all right,” Bree retorted with a snort. “’Tis the shock noo keepin’ her goin’.” She narrowed her eyes. “But she’ll make herself sick if she dinna rest.”

  “There. You have your orders from your maid,” Gage murmured absurdly, closing his eyes again.

  “How am I supposed to rest when my husband was nearly crushed by a barricade?” I demanded, trying to turn and face him.

  Gage held me fast to his side. “But I wasn’t, love,” he said softly.

  I inhaled a shaky breath at this statement of reassuring logic and subsided against him, all too conscious of what could have happened.

  Within minutes of the collapse, the victims were being rushed to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, which fortunately was located at the opposite end of Giltspur Street. The injured filled an entire ward, nursing broken limbs, lacerations, and crushed ribs. Among their number was Jonathan Poole, who even now lay in a hospital bed with a constable guarding him.

  Bree and I had been unable to escape the shop next to the King of Denmark until well after nine o’clock, when the bodies of Bishop and Williams were taken down and dropped into a cart below the scaffold. The crowd had cheered as the two deceased criminals, covered by sacks, were driven through the streets by the city marshal, adorned in his full ceremonial regalia, to the house on Hosier Lane rented by the Royal College of Surgeons for the official reception of the bodies of executed murderers. The constables flanked this stately procession, struggling to keep people away from the corpses.

  As the Old Bailey slowly began to empty, the crowd following the cart north, Anderley slipped into the room we’d rented to inform us Gage was safe. I’d sagged to my knees then, sobbing with relief. After a few minutes, I was able to compose myself enough to follow Anderley from the building. He led me and Bree through a series of back alleys around to the back entrance of St. Bartholomew’s, where Gage was attempting to question Mr. Poole.

  The secretary was in a great deal of pain, and not capable of saying much, other than to confess his guilt. Floating in and out of an anguished haze, he murmured his niece’s and his sister’s names over and over, which seemed to be the only confirmation of his motives we would ever receive. The doctors suspected he had extensive internal injuries, and they hadn’t much hope he would survive beyond a few days. However, Poole had asked Gage to tell Lady Newbury he was sorry. Of the others, he said nothing.

  I stared out the window of the carriage, where cold rain was now being driven agai
nst the glass, and I couldn’t help but wonder what I would be willing to do if a child I loved was taken from me—my own or one of my nieces or nephews. What lengths would I be willing to go to in order to ensure it never happened to another child, no matter their social status? Poole was right. We needed to do more to protect the children of London, of all of Britain. But murder was not the way, even if it had gotten all of our attention.

  If Poole survived, he would be tried and hanged at Newgate just like the men today. Men who even now were being dissected for their sins and would later be publicly exhibited—Bishop at King’s College as a reward to the school for reporting the crime done to the Italian Boy, and Williams at the Great Windmill Street School. And people wondered why the Radicals protested against legalizing the use of unclaimed paupers’ bodies in medical schools when we made such a pageantry and display of the punishment of dissecting murderers.

  I turned into Gage’s uninjured shoulder, feeling all twisted up inside. There was no happy ending in this situation, even if we had thwarted the murder of Lord Yaxley. Something I’m not sure his family would even acknowledge had been about to occur.

  But at least Gage was safe. I pressed a hand to my stomach. At least our child was. I supposed that was something to celebrate. However, knowing there were still other children at risk made that victory feel hollow.

  * * *

  • • •

  Several days later, I was seated on the sofa in the morning room with my feet up while I perused a letter from the Duchess of Bowmont, when Gage entered the room with a guarded expression on his face.