Secret Night (19 page)

"No, of course she did not—I did not say she did, did I?" she retorted hotly. "I merely said that Papa did not kill her."

He relented slightly. "Exactly what did he tell you?" As he said it, he gestured to a chair drawn up before his desk. "If you do not sit, I mean to be utterly un-gentlemanly and take my seat anyway, for I am rather tired. And unlike you, I have a great deal of work to do before my day is over."

She sat down, clasped her hands in her lap to keep from displaying her nervousness, and mentally prepared herself to speak as matter-of-factly as she could. He sat behind his desk, leaning back, his arms behind his head, his feet stretched out before him.

"You have my attention, my dear."

"I am not your dear," she snapped. Recovering, she managed, "I am sorry—I shouldn't have said it quite that way, should I?"

"It was a manner of speaking, merely. But do go on with your tale."

"There is no delicate way to say most of it." She inhaled deeply, then let her breath out slowly. "He said," she began, "that he has been seeing those, uh—those females—"

"The word is whore, Miss Rand—there is no need to be delicate about it now, for I seem to recall having heard you say it before," he said brutally. "But if that is too difficult to repeat, you may call them unfashionable impures as opposed to the fashionable ones such as Harriette Woods and her sisters."

"Those women," she said defiantly. "And you have no right to make fun of me—no right at all."

"Your pardon," he murmured sardonically. "It must be my Tory leanings."

She was well aware that she was getting no help from him, that he was still irked with her, and she knew she had to mollify him. "Well, I daresay there can be good Tories," she conceded judiciously. "And I did not mean to impugn your—"

"Yes, you did. But we are going afield, Miss Rand."

"You are making this exceedingly difficult for me, sir."

"I suppose I am. All right, then. You may go on, and I shall try to stifle my levity. I think we were speaking of your father's explanation," he prompted more gently.

"Yes. As I was saying, Papa turned to those women after my mother nearly died giving birth to me. He did not wish to risk Mama's life again, you see, and he found it difficult to—"

"Live the celibate life?"

"Yes."

"Noble of him."

"Mr. Hamilton," she said evenly, "if you are wishful of hearing his side of the tale, I would that you also refrained from an unseemly display of sarcasm."

"Objection taken under advisement."

"I don't know why I have to do this. It would have been better had you spoken directly to Papa about what happened."

"I tried—as you will recall, I tried. And I heard a great deal of bluster and nonsense—and very little more, my dear."

"I told you I am not your dear. And I have asked that you cease—''

"I merely said he failed to say enough to convince me."

Feeling very much as though she were whistling into the wind, she forced herself to go on. "All right. He has admitted to me that he has made a habit of seeking the services of"—she met his gaze squarely now, determined not to let him rattle her again—"of whores, then—for at least the past twenty-one years. But while the action was contemptible, his motives for it must surely be understandable.''

"If you can reason that out, you ought to make someone a complaisant wife," he murmured.

"Will
you listen? Is everything a jest to you?"

"No. Your pardon. I am nearly too tired to think."

Despite her resolve, her face reddened. "Yes, well, at first he merely kept a female, but she proved a greedy harpy, and she threatened to tell Mama if he did not pay her money sufficient to satisfy her."

"This is quite edifying, my dear, but what does this have to do with Annie Adams?"

"I am getting to that, sir. I am merely asking that you attempt to understand him."

He leaned forward to take his sand glass from his drawer, then he turned it upside down. "You'd best get done ere the sand is gone."

"What happens then?" she asked nervously.

"I go home to sup." Leaning back again, he rested his head against his interlocked hands. "Until then, you have my attention."

"Barely, sir," she muttered dryly. Nonetheless, she plunged ahead again, trying to speak as calmly as she could. "After he paid her off, he began visiting the—"

"Brothels," he supplied for her.

"Yes." She looked down at her clasped hands. "This is not particularly easy for me to say, sir. I may be a Cit, but I have been brought to speak properly in public, if not at home. If you heard me say it before, it was because I did not know you could hear me. And somehow saying it to you is nothing like saying it to my mother." Sucking in her breath again, she let it out, then nodded. "He was afraid he would be remarked coming out of those establishments, so he turned to the worst sort of female, Mr. Hamilton. Last night, he encountered that unfortunate woman, and she agreed—well, they struck a bargain, and—"

"I suppose one could count murder an unfortunate circumstance," he murmured, "particularly if one were Annie Adams."

"Indeed." She dared to look at him, but for all that he sounded otherwise, he appeared to be regarding her quite soberly. "Yes, well, he was quite frank with me on this head, sir, and there is no way to wrap this up in clean linen at all. He—he said he was with her when her protector interrupted them to demand money," she recounted baldly. "Apparently Papa had already paid her, and there was a quarrel between her and her—"

"Pimp. The word is pimp, Miss Rand."

"Well, I cannot say I have ever heard that one. In any event, the man became incensed and began stabbing her. Papa said he managed to—-to disentangle himself—and—" At this point, Hamilton could not quite suppress a smile, and her face burned with embarrassment. "Well, he tore off his bloody coat and ran, sir. The next thing he knew Annie Adams's murderer and the watch were pursuing him, and 'twas he who was accused. The watch would not listen to him, Mr. Hamilton. There—that is everything, I think." Done, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. "So you see he did not do it."

He sat up. "An edifying tale, Miss Rand."

"Then you will not abandon him?" "I told you—he is lying."

"You cannot know that! There is no way you can know that!"

He appeared pained. "Miss Rand, I never believe a client who evades my questions, for I have found most defendants ready to babble their heads off to convince me of their innocence. Your father, on the other hand, either could not or would not tell me how his coat came to be left near Annie Adams's bucket of bloody water. Or how his ring came to be found there also. He gave me some farradiddle about having had it stolen."

"Why don't you believe it was?"

"It was found with his coat, and both were by the bucket."

"What difference does that make?"

"If he stopped to wash her blood off him, he could not have felt any particular danger from Annie's pimp, which in turn would indicate that she was dead before the fellow discovered him, which is precisely the story John Colley told the watch."

"Maybe you gave him no chance to explain! Maybe you were as disagreeable to Papa as to me!"

"Miss Rand—"

"But I have told you how the coat came to be there!"

"The Adams woman was not only stabbed, but she was also throttled quite brutally. This was a crime of passion, not greed, my dear."

"There! Then he had no reason, for they—well, she was not refusing him, was she?" This time, she could not look into his face. "They had agreed on the money and everything."

"Why would Colley kill her? He only had her, so one must suppose she was his golden goose, so to speak."

"As you took Papa's money, you have no right to turn your back to him!"

"He engaged me under false pretense, Miss Rand. He said it was in the event he had a problem at his brickworks, and I told him at the time that I did not usually take such cases."

"But you took his money," she repeated.

"And it has been returned."

"He could not have known he would be taken up, sir," she argued desperately.

"He may have thought it but a matter of time. There are, after all, several unfortunate females who have been murdered rather brutally within the past year. Quite frankly, Mr. Peale is meeting with the magistrate to determine if there is reasonable suspicion to warrant an indictment in the matter of Fanny Shawe— or of Peg Parker. And they will search the records to see if perhaps there are others."

"What?"
she screeched indignantly. "Oh, of all the—"

"I expect they will get around to interviewing the watchman who erroneously identified Maddie Coates as Peg Parker's killer."

"Why are you telling me this?" she demanded furiously. "You know very well he could not have done those things—you know it! And he does not deserve to be held in fetters!"

"You asked why I have refused Rand's defense, and I am merely giving you your answer."

"But you must defend him! You yourself said you were the best damned barrister in London!"

"I am. But there are others of repute."

"Oh, now I see everything clearly! You are afraid Papa's case will be too unpopular for an aspiring Tory, aren't you?" She rose angrily. "You, sir, are naught but a sham! No wonder you account yourself the best lawyer to be had—you do not attempt that which you fear you cannot win! Or else you meet with the justice in chambers and do your dirty little deeds where none can witness!"

He stood also, facing her across a space that might
as
well have been a gaping chasm. "I am sorry, but I have to believe that my clients tell me the truth."

"But just this afternoon you were arguing for one who didn't," she reminded him bitterly.

"Oh, but he did. He told me precisely what he told the magistrate."

"Do you want my father to say he has done what he has not?" she asked incredulously. "For if that is what you are saying, I'll not countenance it! I am telling you that Bartholomew Rand would not, could not, and did not murder that woman!"

"There is no need to shout at me," he said calmly. "We don't happen to agree, I'm afraid."

She glanced to where the sand was half-gone from the glass, and knowing that she'd failed, she tried to collect what dignity she could. "I think perhaps I ought to just get my cloak and leave. Obviously, I cannot appeal to your conscience," she added bitterly.

His gaze took in her dark blue walking dress, then traveled to her nearly perfect face. "It would take a great deal to change my mind," he admitted.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"No. I should not have said it." He walked into his outer office and found her hooded cloak hanging on a mahogany hook. Taking it down, he held it out for her. She regarded him sourly for a moment, then stood still as he draped it over her shoulders. As she fastened the braided frogs, he stepped back.

"It is a pity we could not have met under different circumstances, Miss Rand, for I admire you greatly."

"And I would that I could say the same of you," she retorted, drawing on her gloves. "Good day, sir."

As she started out the door, she encountered John Byrnes, who apologized. "I'm terribly sorry it took so long, Miss Rand, but there was a sad crush. I have acquired a jar of punch for you, however, and I can get you a glass out of the cabinet."

"Thank you, sir," she managed civilly, "but my business with Mr. Hamilton is quite at an end. Perhaps he will share the punch with you, for he is in sad need of warming his exceedingly cold heart." With that, she left.

Patrick's eyebrow lifted perceptibly. "Punch, John?"

"Well, she was here quite a long time, sir, and there was scarce anything else to offer her. I did not think you would mind it."

"No, I suppose not."

Byrnes stared after her before turning back to Patrick. "Miss Rand must surely be the loveliest female I have ever seen," he murmured. "An absolute Incomparable."

"She's above your touch, old fellow." As the clerk's face fell, Patrick nodded sympathetically. "Alas, but she's above mine also."

''Yours, sir?"

"She has money—and far too many principles. Come on, John, let's go home," Patrick said tiredly. "I don't even care if I eat ere I go to bed, but if I don't, I'm afraid my cook will give notice. And I have got to sort out the quarter's bills for Mr. Sinclair before I try to find a suitable precedent to justify transporting poor Findley rather than hanging him. Somehow it does not seem quite right for the state to kill him for butchering his neighbor's pig."

"Should not Mr. Sinclair collect the bills, sir? He's the secretary, isn't he?" Byrnes reminded him-

"Yes, but I keep an incredibly disorganized desk, old fellow. Would you want me rambling through yours?"

"No, I suppose not." Byrnes looked down at the jar in his hands. "But the punch—"

"Take it with you. Perhaps you can share it with someone more able to appreciate it. Just now I feel as though the blood has been drained out of me."

Feeling as though she were living a nightmare, Elise came down early to discover her mother already at breakfast. Taking her place at the table, she stared for a long moment at her father's empty chair, then looked up.

'T suppose you could not sleep either," she said finally. "No."

"Poor Papa," she murmured, sighing. "It is such an awful place. And to make everything worse, they have got him in irons."

Her mother said nothing.

"I dread telling him that I could not persuade Hamilton at all."

Her mother looked away without speaking. "Mama—"

"There is nothing to say, is there?" came the toneless reply.

"He needs you, Mama." "No."

"I know you cannot understand it, but he said he visited those women to save you." When her mother did not respond, she tried to plead her father's case. "He said you nearly died having me, and he could not risk losing you." She cast a sidewise glance, but her mother sat still as a statue, almost as though she did not hear. "Mama, he didn't kill that woman—he didn't"

"I shall never hold my head up again. Never."