The Silk Weaver's Daughter (27 page)

Chapter 36

C
laude was still in the shop when they arrived. They found him in Paul’s office, putting all the valuable jewellery into the large iron vault for the night.

“Claude, can you get us something to stand on?” Louise said. “We have to take a closer look at the window. It might tell us something.”

He brought in one of the benches from the workshop, and Marc immediately placed it under the window and jumped up. The latch was still broken. He pushed the lower pane up as far as it would go, creating an opening not much over one foot square.

“Louise, look,” he cried eagerly. “Can you get up here, dear? Do you mind helping her up, Uncle? There’s something she should see.”

Her father and Claude lifted her onto the bench, and Marc put his arm around her to keep her steady. Looking to where he pointed, she could see a small piece of cloth caught on a rough piece of wood on the window ledge. It looked as if it had ripped off a garment of some type.

“Marc, that’s the colour.” She almost shouted in her excitement. “That’s the bright peacock blue of Walter Robert‘s breeches. It’s not a normal colour for a poor man’s clothing. Aren’t those silk threads, Papa? Oh, do come up and see.”

“Louise, calm yourself, girl,” Pierre admonished as he climbed onto the bench beside her. “You’ll fall off.” He looked closely at the small piece of torn cloth. “Yes, this is a silk-velvet. As you say, quite expensive material for a man such as Roberts to be wearing.”

“Don’t touch it, anyone,” Marc cautioned, as he stepped down and put his arms out to lift Louise down. Once they were off the bench, he continued. “I think we should get Sir John Houblon here to see this. It’s definitely important evidence. And we
must
locate that pawnbroker before he tries to flee London. I suppose Paul knows where he lives. I think I’d better try to see the barrister today and tell him about this. Pierre, you and Louise, take the coach and go to Sir John’s office. He may still be there. I’ll go to the warden and see if he’ll let me into the prison to speak to Paul.”

“Have you got your own keys?” Claude asked as he closed up the shop. “In case Sir John wants to come here tonight after I’ve gone. There’s a lantern under the counter in the front office. It might be dark by the time you get back. Don’t forget to lock up after yourselves, if you do come,” he instructed.

“Don’t worry, dear brother. We will take care of everything. We’re quite responsible,” she reassured him with a smile.

Sir John was anxious to see this new piece of evidence. He brought along his clerical assistant as he thought there should be two witnesses outside of the family. The two of them rode in his coach following Louise and her parents back to the shop. Claude was still in the office, as he had not yet finished putting everything in the vault.

Pierre and Claude helped the older man up on the workbench, so he could see the small, torn piece of material stuck in the corner. “Hmm,” he mouthed as if he mulled it over, an idea clearly forming in his mind. “This certainly looks as if it could come from the breeches my clerk described. It’s an unusual material for a poor man’s everyday wear, isn’t it?”

“Could it be someone wealthy gave the man this pair of pants? Someone, who finds it advantageous to have such a man as Walters, in his debt?” Louise inquired.

“Yes, you may be right, my dear. The criminal may have a wealthy backer who isn’t above using him for his own nefarious purposes. It sounds reasonable. Anyhow, I’m going to take this piece for evidence.” He turned to his clerk, “You are witness to where I got this from, William. We‘ll both have to make a sworn statement.”

The clerk nodded his agreement.

Turning to Louise, Sir John continued. “I’ll turn it over to your barrister Monday at the trial. But we certainly do have to find the owner of these amazing breeches to get Paul out of this mess.”

“My cousin will visit Paul tonight, Sir John,” she said. “Marc thinks he might know where this Walter Roberts lives. That’s who we suspect it is. I saw him the night of the ball wearing breeches that peculiar colour. And he’s very thin—he could easily slip through the office window.”

“Right then. I’ll go back to my office and get a warrant out for his arrest. If we can find him, we’ll force him into court as a witness for the defence. Well, let’s pray this is the answer for Paul. I hate to see a man like him imprisoned in that hell-hole they call Newgate.”

Claude locked up the shop and Louise, with her hopes somewhat raised, drove off with her family in the Thibault coach.

They found Walter Roberts. He ran a small, dirty pawnshop in one of the most crime-ridden parts of London. Here, the poor kept to themselves and even developed their own form of language known as
canting.
It was to keep others, outside the area, from knowing what they were talking about—a protection for them against the law. One of the thief-takers of the city, hearing there was a reward for information about the man, happily told the sheriff the location of his shop.

Roberts was still wearing the bright blue breeches when they arrested him. However, they said nothing about them to him. To make sure he wouldn’t flee, Sir John had him locked up for two nights.

Monday morning found Louise and her family once more in the Old Bailey courtroom. A rustle of astonishment arose from the crowd when Walter Roberts came to the witness box. His appearance was exceptionally strange. Again, he wore the telltale breeches. However, they were almost entirely covered by a gold, silk cloak, which also concealed his reed-like body. The hood of the cape was down, and nothing could hide the gaunt face with its long, pointed chin and bulging eyes. His grey-brown hair, which he wore to his shoulders, was thin and scraggly and looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. Even where they sat, they could catch a whiff of the strong, offensive smell of rancid sweat, which emanated from his clothing.

“State your name and occupation,” Paul’s barrister said to the man.

“I’m Walter Roberts. I’m a pawnbroker in the City of London,” the odd little man said. “And I’ve got no idear at all why I’m ’ere.”

“You need only to answer the questions as I ask them, Mr. Roberts, thank you,” Sir Thomas replied. “Now, I want you to think back to last spring. The 20
^th
of April to be exact. It was a Monday. Did you take a note to the office of the City of London Sheriff and give it to the clerk.”

“It might ’ave been that day, I don’t remember dates. I don’t ’ave any idear at all wot were in the note. Were a gentry cove give it ter me to deliver it for ’im and I did.”

“Did he pay you to do it?”

“Yes, ’e did. He equipt me with five quid ter do it.”

“I see. That’s quite a lot of money. Can you tell me the name of the man who gave you the money to deliver the note?”

“No, I can’t. I swear I never saw ’im before, and I never got a good look at ’im. ’e ’ad ’is face covered and it were dark. It were a real coin, though. I tested it, and it were a proper piece, so I said I would do the job for ’im the next morning.”

“Did you read the note?”

“Nope. I don’t read words too good. But I knows money and I knows jewellery. I runs an ’onest pawn.” He thrust his long chin out as he made this statement, as if to defy anyone to doubt the fact.

“All right then, sir. Now, after you left the man who gave you the money, do you have any recollection of where you were on the late hours of Sunday, the 19
^th
of April or the early hours of Monday, the 20th of April?”

“That’s two month ago—’ow do I know where I wuz. I ’ad the money, so I probably went to the ale house and then ’ome to bed—seems the most likely.”

“Let me ask it another way then, sir. During any of the times, I mentioned to you—were you in the office of Paul Thibault’s goldsmith shop planting the ‘coining’ items you see on the table there in his desk?”

There was a general eruption of sound from all over the audience, and every eye in the courtroom was now on Walter Robert‘s face. The protest of voices continued

“Order,” the judge shouted above the hubbub, banging his gavel. “The witness will answer the question,” he ordered in his sonorous voice.

“Of course, I weren’t there. I were home in bed like I told yer.”

Sir Thomas took off his spectacles. Looking straight into Walter Roberts’ eyes, he said very softly and very sternly, “Mr. Roberts, I want you to take off your cloak, and then I want you to turn slowly around in a circle.

The witness’s face went red, but he stood his ground not moving. “That’s dim. I ain’t gonna do it—what fer?” he said.

The judge again banged the gavel. “The witness will do as asked, or he will be held in contempt of court. Do it now, sir.”

Roberts shrugged and took off the gold cloak and tossed it over the railing. As he turned around, everyone could see the small patch on the side of his breeches where it would cover his hip. It was a ludicrous shade of bright orange. The court once again erupted—this time into gales of laughter.

“Order,” the judge bellowed, again banging his gavel.

“Your breeches have been patched, Mr Roberts,” the barrister said. “You must have torn them. Can you tell me where it happened?”

“How do I know? I go all over the place. It could have been anywheres. I found it out when I took ’em off ter go to bed one night. So I sewed them with a piece of cloth I happened to ’ave. They’s the only breeches I’ve got. Times are bad for my business right now.”

“I believe that is true, Mr. Roberts. So bad, that you were happy to take money from someone who paid you to go—late at night—to Mr. Thibault’s goldsmith shop, slip into the alley running alongside his shop, and climb through the small window that goes into his office. Not too many people could get through that window, but you could. Then you took the devalued coins and the ‘coining’ tools and planted them in the drawer on the lower, right hand side of Mr. Thibault’s desk. Someone paid you quite a lot of money to do this, and then to take the note to the Sheriff’s office. Is that not true, Mr. Roberts?”

“No, of course, it’s not true. Wotever makes you fink so?”

“This—Mr. Roberts—this tiny piece of material.” Sir Thomas pulled out a small package and showed the court the small piece of peacock blue material they had found on the window, in Paul’s office. It was the exact shade of Walter Robert’s breeches. Turning to the judge he said, “The defence would like the jury to see this small, peacock blue piece of material, which both Sir John Houblon and his clerk, William Clark have attested to the fact that it was found, caught on a piece of wood, in the small window, in Mr. Thibault’s office. We should like it marked as an exhibit in the case, mi lord.”