Never Call It Love (9 page)

When
she reached the Bow Street house, she gave her name to a cheerful-looking youth
who guarded the door. He returned in a few minutes to lead her through a room where
ragged miscreants sat dejectedly on benches under the watchful gaze of a pair
of burly Runners. Then he stood aside for her to enter a smaller room.

A
man with a massive head and a leonine mane of gray hair stood up from behind
his desk. "Good afternoon, Miss Montlow." Even though she had heard
that he had been blinded by an accident at the age of nineteen, the sight of
the closed eyelids in his broad face was a shock.

"Please
sit down." She took the straight chair on the opposite side of the desk.
"May I say that I regret the circumstance that I am sure brings you
here?"

"Not
so much as I do, Sir John. My brother is being held for no reason. On the night
in question, he was fifteen miles from London. He was with my mother and me, in
our house near the village of Parnley."

He
said, "You will be willing to swear to that in court?"

Something
in his tone made her nerves tighten. She had heard eerie tales of this blind
man's powers. It was said that he could recognize more than three thousand
London criminals just by their voices. Had he also developed a sixth sense that
told him when someone was lying?

"Certainly
I will so testify. But why should his case come to court? I see no reason why
he should have been arrested at all. Surely your bailiffs told you that both my
mother and our servant stated that my brother had been with us Wednesday
night."

His
voice was perfectly neutral. "They told me. But he
cannot be
released. He has already been remanded to Newgate Prison to be held for trial
at the next General Sessions."

"May
I ask upon what evidence? Surely not just because the... the crime was
committed in our empty house!"

"Upon
additional evidence submitted the morning after the crime by an eyewitness, a
maid employed by a family across the street. She did not tell immediately
everything she had seen. Perhaps in her excitement she forgot it. Perhaps she
hesitated to accuse a neighbor of her own employers. But the next morning she
did tell them, and her employers brought her here to give her evidence to me.

Elizabeth's
pulse was beating hard in the hollow of her throat. "What had she
seen?"

"Your
brother has very distinctive hair, has he not? Yellow hair so pale it is almost
silvery, the sort of hair that is usually observed only in young
children."

"Yes."

"When
the youths were carrying the girl into the house, one of them lost his hat
Because of his hair, the housemaid recognized him as Christopher Montlow."

"Just
by his
hair?
There must be thousands of young men in London with hair
that shade."

"Not
thousands. Scores, perhaps."

"I
don't care if there is only one other! The man she saw could not possibly have
been my brother. And I shall so testify." It did not matter, she told
herself, that this blind man did not seem to believe her. He would not be the
judge at Christopher's trial, nor a member of the jury.

"That
is your privilege, Miss Montlow." After a moment he added, "You might
be interested to know that we have questioned the four youths who were sent
down from Oxford along with your brother. Oh, yes," he said,
almost as if he
could see the start she gave, "we know the circumstances of their having
been sent down."

She
sat there in silence, heart pounding. Could one of those boys, out of some sort
of malice, have tried to implicate Christopher?

He
went on, "All of them, including Lord Stanley's son, say that they have
spent every night since being sent down at Lord Stanley's house here in London.
A manservant confirms their story."

From
his tone, she could not tell whether he himself believed it.

"Each
of them says that at no time were they near the Montlow house on Kingman
Street. But they also say that your brother, although he stayed with them for
the first two nights after they left Oxford, was not with them Wednesday
night."

"Of
course he was not! He was at our house in the country."

"So
you have told me."

A
silence lengthened. Then Elizabeth said. "The girl. Has she been
identified?"

"Yes.
She was an Irish girl, Anne Reardon. She was seventeen. Her guardian had
brought her to London to arrange her marriage to an ironmonger's son."

Pity
swelled Elizabeth's heart. Only seventeen. And a respectable girl, apparently.
Whoever they were, those youths who had savaged her until she went screaming to
her death—they deserved hanging.

"Was
it her betrothed who identified her?"

"No,
her guardian."

"Who
is he?"

"An
Irish baronet, with lands near County Cork. His name is Sir Patrick
Stanford."

She
stiffened. Patrick Stanford, that tall, graceful man who, in a ballroom filled
with clashing perfumes, had somehow made her think of green fields, and cool
fresh
air,
and waves pounding on a rocky coast. That rugged-faced man whose
touch as they moved through the figures of the dance, and whose dark gaze,
moving from her face to rest on her almost bare bosom, had stirred her senses.

Would
he, like John Fielding, not believe the testimony she was determined to give?

She
said, eager to end the interview, "May I take some money to my
brother?"

"I
am afraid you cannot see him today. Certain formalities, necessary whenever a
new prisoner is admitted, will not have been completed as yet."

She
reached into her reticule and drew out a small chamois bag. "Then you will
see to it that he gets these five sovereigns?"

"Certainly.
I will send for a clerk and have him make you out a receipt."

Five
minutes later, as the carriage moved down the Strand toward the Inns of Court,
Elizabeth no longer felt lighthearted. She was troubled by the thought that the
housemaid's evidence, although obviously mistaken, might count against
Christopher. Too, now that she knew more about that young girl, she felt doubly
oppressed by the thought of her cruel death. And in her mind's eye she kept
seeing Patrick Stanford's dark face. It had worn a smile at their first
meeting. She did not like to imagine how his face would look the next time she
saw it.

But
at least her interview with the family solicitor, when she reached his gloomy
office in the Inns of Court, was more comforting than that with the blind man.
No look of skepticism crossed Mr. Fairchild's thin old face when Elizabeth
explained why Christopher could not possibly be guilty.

"Dear,
dear!" he said. "What a shocking ordeal for you and your dear mother.
But don't worry, my child. No jury will convict him after you and Mrs. Montlow
testify that he was with you that night."

"Nevertheless,
I want him to have the best defense possible."

"Of
course. I was about to suggest Sir Archibald Wade, a most able barrister for
this sort of case. True, we could engage someone whose fees are lower..."

"No."
This was no time to economize. "Please get in touch with Sir
Archibald." She rose. "I must leave now, Mr. Fairchild, if I'm to
catch the four-o'clock stage."

It
was not until well after dark that she walked up the brick path between the
untrimmed boxwood bushes. Just before she reached the front door, her mother
opened it, her face taut with anxiety.

In
the hallway Mrs. Montlow said, in a low, rapid voice, "Donald Weymouth is
here, in the side parlor."

"But
he wasn't to return from Bath until several days from now!"

"Nevertheless,
he is here. He has been waiting for you for over an hour." she paused.
"Well? Did you see her?"

"Yes.
He was with her from Wednesday afternoon until early Thursday morning."

Mrs.
Montlow's face went slack with relief. "Thank God! Then you will—"

"Of
course I will testify that he was with us that night." Joyful tears sprang
to Mrs. Montlow's eyes. Elizabeth said, with contrition, "Mother, forgive
me for not having believed him right from the first."

"Of
course I forgive you. And I was wrong this morning to call you unfeeling. I
know it is because you have strength of character that you had to... make sure.
And I realize that sometimes in the past the boy has been... rather
strange." Some memory shadowed her eyes.

Elizabeth
had never told her mother about the kitten dangling from its noose, nor the
crumpled print in Christopher's clothespress. Had there been other such things
of which her mother had been aware, but had preferred to keep secret?

Mrs.
Montlow said, "Did you see Christopher?"

"I
was not allowed to. But I left the money for him, with Sir John Fielding. And I
saw Mr. Fairchild. He thinks Christopher is in no danger whatsoever."

"But
he will have to stand trail?"

"Yes,
Mother. Now, about Donald. What did you tell him?"

"Just
that Christopher had been arrested, and why, and that he could not possibly be
guilty, because he was with us that night."

"What
reason did you give him for my being in London?"

"I
said you had gone to take Christopher some money and to consult with Mr.
Fairchild."

"Good.
I had best go to him now. May I ask him to supper?"

"Of
course, my darling."

Elizabeth
went down the hall. Evidently Donald had heard her footsteps, because when she
entered the parlor, he was already on his feet, a thin young man in a dark gray
coat and breeches. He crossed the room to meet her and to take her outstretched
hands. "Elizabeth!"

He
kissed both her hands, and then her lips. "Your mother has told me all
about Christopher." His gaze went over her face. "I imagine you don't
want to talk about it. You look tired, my dearest"

"I
don't mind talking about it. But first I would like to know why you came back
from Bath so early."

His
thin, intelligent face broke into a warm smile. "Because I couldn't wait
any longer to tell you my news. Come over here."

They
sat down on a small red plush settee facing the fire. He said, "We can be
married sooner than we planned. The vicar has written my uncle that he will
retire in June. After that, the living will be mine."

"Oh,
Donald! I'm so glad."

He
drew close to her and kissed her, his lips far more ardent than ever in the
past. Once, he had told her that for the last five years, ever since he was
twenty, he had wanted to marry her. Five years was a long time for a man to
wait.

He
released her. "We can be married in June, can't we? Surely by then this
trouble of Christopher's will be well in the past."

She
nodded. "His case will come up in February."

He
hesitated. "Surely you won't stay at the Kingman Street house...."

"During
the trial?" She shuddered slightly. "No, I'm sure we can stay with
Aunt Sara. Her house is very near Old Bailey." Sara Finchley, Mrs.
Montlow's older sister, was also a widow. Although badly crippled by
rheumatism, she always welcomed visits from the Montlows.

"Good."
He got to his feet. "I must go now."

She
said, dismayed, "But won't you take supper with us?"

"I
must not. I must see my parents. They may have heard by now that I arrived on
the stagecoach this afternoon." He laughed. "I was so eager to see
you that I walked right past my own house to get to yours."

They
moved to the parlor doorway. There he said. "You are not worried about
Christopher's trial, are you?"

"No,
not really."

"It
will be all right. From now on everything will be all right for you. I feel
there is no evil that I could not guard you against."

He
kissed her, more gently this time. "I will see myself out. You stay by the
fire, and rest."

She
listened to his footsteps go down the hall. Then she moved to the fire and held
out her hands to its warmth. There was no evil he could not guard her against,
he had said. Surely that was true. As long as they both lived, his love would
be like a warm, shielding cloak around her.

Then
why, even as she held her hands to the fire's warmth, did she feel cold, almost
as if she stood stripped and shivering in the blast of some black tempest?

On
this, the last day of Christopher's trial, an icy February wind swept the
streets outside Old Bailey, so that pedestrians hurried along with bent heads,
and horses scrambled for footing on the freezing cobblestones. But here inside
the courtroom, with every bench packed with excited spectators, and with oil
wall lamps blazing in their brackets to augment the feeble daylight that fell
through the windows, the air seemed suffocatingly warm. Or perhaps, Elizabeth
reflected, as she sat on the bench directly behind tall, portly Sir Archibald,
it was sheer anxiety that had brought the perspiration out on her forehead.