Secret Night (44 page)

"What a fond parent you are."

"Well, that's the lay of it, ain't it? If you ain't, you ought to be, eh?"

He wanted to reach across the table and lift Rand by the neck, holding him while he punched the arrogance out of the old man's face. But he held his temper by saying nothing.

"Your fool of a solicitor was here while you was gone, spitting questions at me until I sent him packing. Aye, that's why you are come, ain't it? Well, I ain't answering any more, and that's all
there is to the matter," Rand declared truculently. "This is Bat Rand, the fellow as has made more money than most of the nobs, and you got me sitting here like I was nothing, Hamilton—nothing!" When Patrick still didn't answer, he snapped, "Well, that's what you want, ain't it? You want to ask me something as I don't want to answer."

"I don't need any more answers, sir," Patrick said evenly. "None."

"Eh?"

"Do you recall that I told you that it
didn't make any difference whether you were innocent or guilty, but that you had to tell me the whole?"

"And I did—damme if I didn't!"

"Peale isn't a fool, sir—nor am I."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He's going to hang six murders around your neck and choke you with them." Patrick paused a moment, waiting for Rand to meet his eyes. "And I think it ought to be eight or more."

"Eight?" the old man howled. "The devil it is!"

Patrick nodded. "Maddie Coates and Thomas Truckle."

"What? Whose side are you on, anyways?" Rand demanded angrily. "It don't mean nothing if she was to kill herself with the demned opium! Nothing, Hamilton—nothing! Ain't a decent body anywheres as misses her!"

"Have you ever seen a cake of opium?" Without waiting for an answer, Patrick went on. "When it is pressed, it looks something like raw sugar, only there are bits of leaves and seeds in it sometimes."

"So?"

"But usually they are from the poppy itself rather than from jessamine."

"What? Here now—what's your lay, sirrah?" But even as he blustered, Rand paled.

"Jessamine. A rather showy plant, but deadly if eaten. According to the chemist's report, it makes the muscles weak before it causes convulsions and paralyzes the lungs."

"Never heard of it," Rand snorted.

"And when combined with the already dulling effect of the opium, the combination is probably overwhelming, possibly making the victim feel exceedingly drowsy, so much so that there are no convulsions. How did you explain that to her? I wonder. Did she know what you did to her, or did she think she was merely going to sleep?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"I think you do, for you gave Mrs. Clark some jessamine to plant in her garden."

"That don't mean as I knew it could kill anyone, does it?"

"It means you are a liar, but I am afield just now. Going back to the murders, you were the old gent who visited Peg Parker in Mrs. Coates's establishment, weren't you? Only when you got too violent with the girls, Maddie refused your custom."

"If she told you that, she was lying!"

"Poor Maddie. No doubt she thought if she had Truckle with her, you would not dare to harm her. She didn't know that you were going to leave her to die, then induce him to try it also, did she?"

"Damme if you ain't way wide of the mark, Hamilton!"

"I'm not asking anymore. I'm telling you what I believe happened. But again we digress—you wanted Peg Parker because she was one of the few who could make the pistol fire, didn't you? And then when it took longer and longer until you couldn't do it anymore—maybe even when she laughed at you, you got your pleasure from hurting her—and the others. When she ran away from Maddie's, you asked until you found her, didn't you? I have an informant who says you were with Peg the night she died—or so my source told Weasel."

"Weasel?" Rand's eyes narrowed. "Who the hell is that?"

"But the watch was mistaken about who threw Peg's body into the river, because of the cloak you had pulled about your face. As you heard in court, he has now decided it was you. Now—do you want me to guess about Fanny Shawe—or Annie Adams—or any of the others? Once you convinced yourself they were nothing, it was an easy thing to do, wasn't it? How many were there, sir? Eight? Ten? Twenty?"

"You are just wanting to throw me to the hangman, ain't you?" the old man sneered. "You ain't wanting to hurt your chances with the Tories, eh? Well, let me tell you something, Hamilton—you go trying to cut me loose, and I'll ruin you!"

"If you don't help me, I can all but guarantee you'll hang."

"Devil a bit, and I ain't. I told you—you are getting me out, else your rep's in shreds and you are ruined."

"How many women, Rand?" Patrick persisted.

"Women! They was dirt, I tell you—every one of 'em was dirt! Why, they wasn't nothing!" Collecting himself, Rand leaned forward, staring malevolently. "And if you think you ain't getting me off, you got something else to know. I ain't above telling the world as how you made a whore out of my daughter, sirrah! And what do you think Dunster is going to make of that, eh? While you was smiling at his girl, you was a-puttin' it to mine!"

Patrick's hand snaked out, catching the white stock, twisting it beneath his chin until Rand clawed at it. It wasn't until the old man's face purpled that he released his grip and let him fall back.

"I ought to have finished you," Patrick muttered. "How did it feel? Did Annie Adams claw at you like that? Did she fight for her life like Peg Parker did? Damn you! Why can you not admit the truth?"

"You are getting me out, I tell you! I don't care if it takes a hundred thousand pounds to the justice—or to Dunster himself, if you got to pay 'em both! He's the Home Secretary, ain't he? Tell him as I want out!"

"It came to me last week why you thought you had to have me," Patrick said. "It wasn't as much for my vaunted rep as for the connection to Dunster. You were making mistakes, but you couldn't quit crawling the streets for girls, so you thought you could get a bit of insurance after nearly getting caught with Fanny Shawe's body. You knew that if the watch had to keep bringing you home, they would eventually suspect you were either incredibly stupid or else you were the man they wanted."

"Much good it's done me," Rand growled. "You ain't done nothing for me."

"I am still representing you."

The old man eyed him suspiciously. "And why would you want to do that? You have already said I am guilty."

"I'm a barrister, not a jury. If for once you will tell me the whole, I can still attempt a defense."

"Who's to keep you from telling it?"

"I cannot give testimony against you."

"And if I was to plead guilty to all of it?"

"You will be sentenced to hang."

"And if they was to try me?" Rand demanded sarcastically. "What then? I'm just as dead, ain't I?"

"Probably."

"Then you, sirrah, are worthless! The great barrister Hamilton," he sneered. "The one as has such reputation as the Tories is wanting him to stand with 'em."

"If you confess to all of it, I might be able to save your life."

"You said if I pled guilty I would hang!"

"It is my intent to prove you insane." As Rand glared at him, Patrick explained, "There is some precedent, sir—in rare instances, insanity has been used as a defense, although as yet there are no rules of evidence for it. But it has been ruled that if you are determined to be so insane that you have no control over your unspeakable acts to the extent that you commit them in a frenzy, utterly without cognizance of the right or wrong of your deeds, it may be found that you cannot be hanged."

For a long moment Rand stared. "I got to say I am mad?" he asked incredulously.

"No, I shall say it. I shall take your confession to a number of consulting physicians, and if they agree, we shall petition the court to have you adjudged incompetent to assist in your defense. We may not have to go to trial even, but if we do, then a jury will decide whether a sane man would have committed such acts."

"You are telling me I got to gamble with my life! No, sir, I ain't doing it! You can bribe Dunster! Ain't a man alive as don't want a hundred thousand pounds!"

"For all that we disagree on principle, Lord Dunster is an honorable man."

"Then offer it to the Russell fellow!"

"Mr. Rand, there are two hundred capital crimes, sir—and bribery of a judicial official happens to be one of them." Patrick stood. "If you need time to consider the matter—"

"No." The old man shook his head. "I ain't going to say I am mad." He looked up at Patrick balefully. "I still got Elise, and I am directing you to defend me. You got the tongue—you can make 'em believe Colley is lying."

"You are making a mistake."

"I still got you, ain't I? If you ain't doing it for me, you'll be doing it for Ellie, eh?"

"If you want the best opinion I can offer, I honestly believe an insanity plea is the only hope you have. But you don't have to decide today. I expect to be in town until Wednesday."

It was as though it had finally sunk in, for the old man sat silently for a time, then his shoulders sagged. "I ain't mad," he said finally, "but I'll do it."

"Thank you."

"Do you still want to know everything?" "Yes. Is there anything I have not already surmised?"

"If you are wanting to count the old whore and the flash cove as was with her, there's been ten of 'em. Mebbe eleven—I don't know, for there was a gel as was still breathing when I left her."

"Where?"

"In an alley over near Carleton House—when it was still the market, you know."

"St James?"

"Aye. I was throttling her when some fellow was stumbling out of one of the dens. But she could've lived, I suppose."

"And the other two?"

"I ain't got no names for 'em. But they was in the rookery, just like the Adams bitch."

"I don't suppose you remember the dates, do you?"

"Aye—every one of 'em," the old man acknowledged. "I put 'em all down in mjournal."

"You kept a diary of the murders?"

"Aye," Rand answered smugly. "Sometimes I read it when I couldn't go out—when the weather was bad. I liked to remember every one of the bitches and how I did it with 'em."

Patrick's skin fairly crawled. "Do you still have it?" he asked with a casualness he didn't feel.

The old man looked up at him slyly. "Why, you got it, Hamilton—right under your nose."

"Where?"

"Graves said you got m'boxes as was in m'house." Rand reached beneath his coat to draw out his watch fob. "And I got the key here." He fumbled a bit, then managed to get it off. "I don't suppose as you can keep m'gel from knowing about it, can you?" he asked, handing the key over.

"No. But I would to God I could."

"Aye." Rand sighed heavily. "My poor Ellie, she ain't going to understand. She loves her papa, you know." His eyes teared, and he wiped them with the back of his hand. "She always was a beauty, Hamilton—even when she was small, she was a taking little creature." His lower lip quivered, then he mastered it. "You got to keep her from knowing, sir—you got to."

"Right now she is at my house near Barfreston, where she will miss much of the news," Patrick said quietly. "But there's no way I can keep her from the trial. She'll have to hear it—and even if she didn't, she'd be certain to read about it in the papers."

"Aye. Ain't no help for that, I suppose. I just didn't want her to know everything I did, that's all. I didn't want her to be like Em and leave me." Again, he looked as though he would cry, then his lip curled. "The Binghams!" he snorted. "They was poor, and they had the gall to call themselves Quality! Why, my Ellie's got more Quality in one hair than Em had in her whole useless body!"

"I know." Patrick pocketed the key. "Good day, sir."

"Wait." Rand licked his lips nervously. "What's to happen to me? If I don't swing, I mean?"

"I expect you will be incarcerated in an asylum."

"With the demned lunatics? No, afore God, I ain't!" the old man blustered.

"I suppose you could count yourself more fortunate than Maddie or the others."

"Where are you going now?" Rand demanded querulously. "You ain't going to turn m'book over to Peale?"

"I'm going home to read it."

This time, Rand waited until the jailer had been summoned to let Patrick out. "You going to take care of m'gel, Hamilton?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"Guess Dunster ain't going to be so hoity-toity when you got my money, eh? You can buy a lot of Tory votes with it, you know."

Patrick didn't answer.

As the door was closed and locked, Rand let his head fall to the table, and for a time, he was still as he contemplated his fate. He could almost feel the collar of rope about his neck, the bulge of his Adam's apple, the panic of being unable to breathe as the trap dropped from beneath his legs. A cold sweat poured from his brow.

No, Hamilton would save him—for Elise's sake, Hamilton would save him. And he'd be clapped up in Bedlam all the rest of his days on earth, alone and reviled. And once she knew what he'd done, Elise would turn away also. Just like Emmaline, she'd turn away.

He sat up. No, he wouldn't let it happen. Rising, he stumbled toward the corner where he kept his possessions. Throwing open the lid of his trunk, he rummaged through it until he reassured himself that the small cake of opium was still there. His hand closed
over
it, drawing it out so he could see it.

He'd see his daughter one last time. His hand shook
is
he put it away again. First he had to get a message to her, first he had to see her one last time ... then
he
'd part from her, and she'd never have to know the monstrous creature he'd become. Aye, it would be for the best.

Patrick was tired, so very tired, and yet as he stared at the locked box on his desk, he was drawn to it with what must surely be a macabre fascination. Rand had said it was all there, the record of unspeakable crimes put down in black and white.

He rose and removed his coat and cravat, then went to lock the bookroom door. Coming back, he poured himself a glass of Madeira and sprawled again in his chair. Taking a deep drink, he glanced at the fire, then he settled his shoulders. In his years at the Bailey, he'd seen and heard nearly everything, he told himself as he reached to turn the key in the lock.