A Heart Deceived (32 page)

His ears rang from the blow. The judge’s pounding gavel didn’t help.

“Order! I will have order in this courtroom!”

Like petulant children, the spectators continued to thrum, albeit at a more respectable level.

But apparently not quiet enough. The judge’s eyes went from ice to glaciers. “What is this about? And mark my words, sir, this had better be of import.”

“I have a witness concerning the case of Ethan Goodwin.” Newton’s volume, no doubt about it.

“Witness!” Duffy cried. “That boy’s a—”

“Enough.” The judge banged his gavel again. If he ever lost his job, he’d make a fine carpenter.

Ethan shook his head, clearing out the random thought. Why could he not focus on the pertinent?

“This is highly irregular.” The judge’s brow furrowed, and he crooked a finger toward the rear of the room. “Nonetheless, step forward, boy.”

If he slanted his eyes, Ethan could see just far enough without turning his head to notice a ragamuffin walking a death march.

Giving an exasperated sigh that ruffled the curls on his wig, the judge leaned over the bench. “Come, come! We’ve not got all day. What have you to say, boy?”

“Awuzairsuh.”

“Louder, lad.”

“I was there, sir.”

Ethan cocked his head, careful to keep the movement a notch below smack worthy. Recognition, though slow in coming, was a surprising guest. What could Jack the crossing sweep possibly have to say?

“I see’d it happen, I did.”

Rummaging through a stack of disordered memories, Ethan tried to reconstruct that horrid eve. Sick. Opium. Money. Fight. Death. Jack hadn’t played into it at all. Why would the boy lie on his behalf?

“Tell us what happened,” said the judge.

“Hethenanwil thaycumin—”

“Speak up, boy!”

Jack took a big breath, but he did not look up. “Ethan an’ Will, they come in late. To the alley, I mean. Tha’s where we stay. It were drizzly an’ cold. I’d curled up a’ready. Ethan, he were sick, hacking up a fit, and tripped o’er me.”

It all came back. Stunning. Clear. Every last detail. Ethan’s mouth opened, more from a need for air than to speak.

“Then that bast—”

“Watch it, boy. You’re in court,” warned the judge.

Jack pushed his toe around in little circles. Ethan felt as chagrined as he. If Jack couldn’t use his street language, how would he speak?

“The ba … uh … bad man, Thorne, he crawled out o’ the shadows, grousing about some coin. Ethan tol’ him he din’t have it. He tol’ him plain as I’m a-tellin’ you. Din’t stop Thorne from pullin’ a knife, though. Ethan din’t see that. Will did. He took it, took what were meant for Ethan.”

The boy’s toe stopped.

So did his words.

When had the courtroom become so quiet?

The judge tapped his chin with his index finger, obviously in thought. But what exactly was he thinking? How much value would he place on a street sweeper’s word? Finally, he folded one hand over the other, fixing his terrible gaze on the lad. “Then what?”

“Ethan, why he were awful mad, he was. His friend a-bleedin’ in the alley and all. He hauled off and stabbed Thorne a good one, but it weren’t no killin’ blow. Ethan ranned off. Scairt, I guess. Don’t blame him. I would be too. And Thorne, why he stumbled away late in the wee hours. The watch don’t call out in Old Nichol, but I knowed the night were terrible spent by then. Tha’s all what I got to say.”

The judge looked from the boy to Ethan. Jurors, at each other. The spectators blinked.

A fierce glower tugged down the corners of the judge’s mouth. “If this were true, boy, then why did you not report it to the authorities sooner? Why this sudden and last-minute testimony?”

Jack shriveled, shoulders hunched, chin tucked. “Eyewer skairtoe—”

“You will lift your face and speak clearly to this court, or I will swap you for Goodwin here and now.”

Jack’s head jerked up like a marionette’s. Beneath a layer of grime, his skin blanched. “I … were … scairt … o’ Thorne!”

The judge frowned. “Those above the law have nothing to fear, boy.”

Jack’s lower lip jutted out. “Thorne weren’t above no law. He’d as soon slit my throat as he did ol’ Will’s.”

“Do you publicly malign the character of a law man?”

Jack’s toe circled furiously. He looked over at Ethan, then the judge. “Yes, sir. I do.”

A wave of whispers and mumbles rolled from one end of the courtroom to the other. The gavel cracked.

“Very well. Far too much time has been spent on this case as is. Boy, report to my clerk immediately. I have need of a staff member brave enough to speak truth under pressure. As for you …” The judge focused on Ethan.

Those weren’t glaciers for eyes. They were pools.

“I find Ethan Goodwin not guilty of the crime in the murder of Will Brayden. You are acquitted, sir. Next?”

The guard unlocked his fetters.

The clerk told him to move.

Newton clapped him on the back and urged him away, for a new prisoner was already vying for his spot.

His body went through all the motions of freedom, but his mind would not—could not—pull it off the table and hold it. Just like that, the nightmare was over? He felt shaky and clammy and—

“… hear me?” Newton shoved his face into Ethan’s. “Lad?”

“I’m … I’m free?” The words tasted sweeter than a raisin cake.

The reverend’s laugh boomed, earning a serious round of gavel banging from the judge.

“Come on.” Newton angled his head. “Let’s take this outside.”

Life and light and hope, too long held at bay, surged through him. He breathed a prayer, thanking God that His will hadn’t included death this time, then smiled. “Yes, my friend, I should love to take this outside.”

He fell in beside Newton. They strode to the Old Bailey’s front door, each step bringing him closer to fresh air and daylight. He’d never take such blessings for granted again.

“Not so fast, Mr. Goodwin.” A man rose from a nearby bench. Narrow shouldered but tailored to perfection, he held a hat in one hand and an ivory-headed walking stick in the other. “A few words with you, if you please.”

Of course. He should’ve known. Trepidation sank to the bottom of his gut. This had been far too easy of an escape. “The judge said I am free to go.”

“And freedom implies choice. Will you choose to humor me, sir? I have a carriage waiting outside.”

Ethan shot a glance at his companion. Newton raised his brows but said nothing.

The choice was his alone.

Miri slapped her shoulder, then scratched, hard enough that the coarse fabric bunched beneath her fingernails. Ahh. Relief for one blessed moment. For the past week, ever since she’d put on this natty gown, her skin crawled. Literally. Head lice she could deal with, but fleas? She shuddered for the hundredth time. And for as many times, wished down the wrath of God on Witherskim, Knight, and Fothergill for putting her here.

Her movement caused Lil to stir. The girl shifted, keeping her head on Miri’s lap. She seemed so tired lately. Withdrawn. Not snapping away like her usual self with the other ladies. Perhaps she’d given up.

Not that Miri blamed her. What was there to look forward to other than bleedings, purgings, and just for fun, the occasional blistering?

The door opened, but Miri didn’t bother to look. Too much effort. Come to think of it, fatigue was beginning to weigh on her as well.

In came the crony, gruel bucket in hand. The shuffle of her feet didn’t sound quite right. Too forceful, too deliberate.

Miri glanced over, then did a double take. The woman dragged the gruel pot with both hands as if it weighed eighty stone. Her collar draped open, and her sleeves were pushed up, exposing wiry arms with a pink rash flushing her skin. Her mobcap wilted, and beneath it, her hair lay plastered in streaks against a glistening forehead.

Miri nudged Lil. The girl sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Look,” whispered Miri.

Lil stretched, all the while following the crony with her eyes.

The woman stopped midroom, releasing the bucket. Grey paste slopped over the rim. She straightened and revolved in a slow circle, both hands to her head. Was she trying to keep her brains in or the snapping of the women out?

Miri stood. “Are you well?”

The woman turned toward her voice. Her mouth opened, and her throat convulsed. Either she was going to speak for the first time ever, or she might throw up.

Neither. She crumpled.

All the women rose at once, gathering around her—but not too close. She smelled bad. Sick bad.

Fever bad.

“We’ve got to get some help.” Miri looked to Lil. “You know the corridors better than I. Will you come?”

Lil shrank.

As did Miri at the thought of trying to weave her way alone amongst the maze of hallways. She held out her hand to the girl. “It’s all right, Lil. We’ll stay together the whole time. I promise.”

The girl hesitated, glanced at the crony, then slipped her fingers through Miri’s. Trust added an intensity to her brown eyes—hopefully it was trust and not the beginning of a fever.

Miri led her down the stairs, along the corridor, then stopped where two other hallways converged. “Okay, Lil. You guide us from here.”

“Where?” Lil’s nasal tone sounded like a goose honk.

Good question. Where should they go? Though he was a doctor, Miri had seen more than she ever wanted to of Pembernip. Probably Mr. Spyder would do. Too bad they couldn’t both just run off. Escape. But that would leave Roland—

She grasped Lil’s arm. “Do you know where the men’s quarters are?”

Lil scrunched her face, then finally nodded.

“There first. Then Mr. Spyder’s office. Lead on, Lil.”

The girl tugged her to the right instead of the usual left, then down a stairwell. The temperature cooled as they tromped down another set of stairs. The air took on a damp, earthy quality, like a root cellar, only … Miri sniffed. Rotted. Sickly sweet and acridly so.

The staircase opened onto a small area, no bigger than the rectory’s pantry. The floor was dirt. A torch sputtered in an iron holder attached to the wall. Miri’s stomach knotted. She’d never seen a dungeon before, but she could imagine none worse. This was where they kept her brother? Wasn’t this supposed to be an institution of rehabilitation?

Miri lunged for the door and yanked the knob. Of course it didn’t open. That she expected it should made her realize she’d resided at Sheltering Arms one day too many.

“Roland!” she yelled, then pressed her ear against the wood. No answer. No cry. “ROLAND!”

Nothing.

Miri turned, hope dashed to small bits.

Lil stared, wide-eyed.

“You think I’m mad, don’t you?” Half a smile lifted her mouth. “Mayhap I am, Lil. Come on. Let’s go.”

Retracing their steps, they wound back up to the main floor and entered more familiar territory. Miri braced herself, as always, for crossing the big room. So far, no matter how much she expected it, the noise shocked her afresh each time.

Lil darted forward.

Miri stopped.

Gooseflesh rose along her arms. Her neck. Her legs.

Silence filled the great room, like the sudden absence of crickets chirruping just before a tempest hit. Stillness so complete, it lived.

What would she see if she dared look into one of those doors’ peepholes? Wild eyes staring back, empty and unblinking? Madwomen cowering in a corner from only God-knew-what? Piles of corpses?

Without a step, her eyes traveled from door to door, coming to rest on the largest. The portal to freedom.

And it gaped open.

Lil plowed into her, wrapping her arms tight around her middle.

Miri ran a hand over her shorn head. “Don’t fret, Lil,” she whispered. To speak aloud would corrupt the balance of the universe.

They scooted across the room, out the door, and sped down the corridor.

Then froze.

At their feet lay a shirt, heaped as if thrown in a hurry. Stripped off and cast aside on the run. Like the wearer couldn’t wait to get the thing off.

Lil trembled against her.

Farther ahead lay a bare-chested man. A big man. Mr. Graves.

Miri tiptoed closer with awkward steps. Lil was a growth against her.

“Mr. Graves?”

He turned his head, but not to her voice. Sweat ran in rivulets down his temple. A rash, darker and angrier than the crony’s, covered his chest and arms—nowhere else, though. Definitely not the pox.

Miri tightened her arms around Lil. Either this was a simple case of the measles or …

Typhus.

34

Ethan glanced out the carriage window, ending the conversation between him and Mr. Spindle. What was the point? Though Ethan lobbed question after question, the man returned no answers of substance. The fellow belonged in parliament.

His shoulder bumped against the paneled wall of the coach as they rattled along. Tasseled curtains slapped his cheek when they rounded a corner. Finer houses lined this street, and if they held their westward course, they’d become grander still. But where they’d end up, and why, rankled him as much as the clattering wheels.

Perhaps he’d made a mistake in coming. The longer he tarried in London, the longer it would be until he saw Miri again. With Roland taken away, how was she faring? A wry smile twitched his lips. No doubt much better than he had.