Page 9
9
P eter Kendrick stared out the window, his attention not so much on his surroundings but on the catastrophe that had occurred in this very building an hour earlier. He never imbibed during the day. Certainly not while on duty. Yet here he was, at three in the afternoon, his fingers curled around a glass of brandy.
He took another sip, hissed in response to the burn. Whatever this stuff might be, it was stronger than what he usually drank.
Turning, he stared across to where Sir Nigel sat, his bulky mass distributed on the sofa that stood in the corner of his office. One arm was flung across the back, the other held a glass similar to Peter’s.
“I’m not comfortable with today’s proceedings,” Peter told him, finding the words that mattered most amidst all his conflicting feelings. He didn’t care about the praise he’d received from Prince George when he’d gone to answer his summons. None of that mattered if the legal proceedings following Croft’s arrest weren’t just. A point he chose to address by saying, “There’s no doubt in my mind that judge was bought and the jury’s verdict paid for as easily as I might purchase a pie from the bakery next door.”
Sir Nigel puffed out a breath, deflating slightly as he did so. “I’m sure you’re correct.”
Peter stared at him, at the man he’d looked up to for so many years, only to realize he lacked the integrity required by a man in his position. He’d spearheaded the mission against Mr. Croft, only to change course for some unknown reason. And now, knowing deliberate efforts had likely been made to eliminate Croft for good, the man was resigned – unwilling to speak up to try and stop the perversion of justice being committed.
It was outrageous.
“How can you agree with me and just sit there, doing nothing?” He knew he was pushing the bounds between them, that he had no right to question his superior’s actions this way, but damn it all, he could not be party to this any longer. “However much we dislike someone, whatever crimes we may suspect them of having committed, we have no right to fabricate evidence for the purpose of getting the outcome we want. Nor should Lord Carver be permitted to send assassins after someone, as he attempted to do with Croft. It’s abuse of the highest order. Corruption the likes of which I would have sworn did not exist in this country, until today.”
“It’s a flaw created by power. Some men have positions so elevated, their status alone poses a threat should anyone choose to question their actions.” Sir Nigel sipped his drink. “Whatever they are a part of, they will always exercise influence and swear by their honor in order to silence those who would dare try and stop them. Even you, Kendrick, a reasonably high-ranking officer of the law, can do nothing.”
“I can go to the press. We both can.”
“And what do you suppose that would accomplish?” Sir Nigel snorted. “If I were to guess, whatever article makes it to print would eventually be retracted with an apology. Because if there’s one thing I’m sure of based on recent proceedings, it’s that whoever wants Croft gone – whether it be one man or several – they’re just as willing as he is to break all the rules for personal gain.”
Peter drank more brandy and considered this. “Who made you go after him in the first place?”
“The same people who asked you to make sure the mission was brought to a close.”
Lord Carver and the Prince Regent then.
“And who got you to stop?”
Sir Nigel froze, his lips slightly parted as though he’d been just about to say something more. No additional words came, however. He merely stared at Peter, and the more he did so, the sicklier his complexion became.
Eventually, he drew a tight breath and shook his head. “Some questions are best left unanswered.”
“That’s har—”
“There’s nothing for you to gain from this besides trouble,” Sir Nigel snapped. He hauled himself off the sofa, his glass tilting and spilling his drink as he did so. Once upright, he straightened himself even further, his expression no longer troubled but fierce. “Stop digging or chances are you’ll end up just like Croft.”
* * *
The news of what awaited Croft gnawed at the gentleman like vicious teeth. His fingers gripped the thin piece of wood that would serve as part of the railing on the model ship he was building – a pastime that usually helped calm him.
It had no such effect today.
He was furious with the way in which the case had played out, with the blatant manner in which the Marquess of Avernail chose to tip the scale. That footman had clearly been paid a handsome fee for the drivel he’d spewed. And since the judge and jury had all gone along with it, they must have received bribes as well.
Not that he blamed the marquess. Losing a child was surely an unimaginable hardship for any parent to have to endure. In a way, he pitied the man. Despite his best efforts, Lawrence’s name would forever be blighted by Croft’s accusation.
As it should be, if Croft spoke true.
And he believed he had, for he’d never known the man to be anything less than brutally honest. Which just went to show how important Croft was to London’s stability. Nobody else had the brains or wherewithal to weed out the festering rot that put innocent people in danger.
Bow Street certainly didn’t. They’d had their chance and yet Croft was the one who had been victorious, bringing two killers to justice within the span of three months. Any idiot could see he was needed. Yet someone had thought him more of a threat than a benefit.
He sighed. What could he do? The words he’d whispered in Prinny’s ear had proven to be ineffective. Besides, he dared not push too hard, lest he raise Lord Carver’s suspicions. That man was too sharp to be dismissed as anything but a threat. According to Sir Nigel’s report, he’d led the effort to take Croft down.
“Blast the bastard to hell and beyond.”
Something snapped and his vision cleared, re-focusing on the fragile pieces of wood he’d been handling. Splinters now. Several hours of effort wasted.
With another series of curses, he pushed back his chair and stood. This wasn’t working, but a good fight at Reed’s just might.
* * *
Not wanting to go home and sit about thinking, which would only feed his misery, Edward decided on a brisk walk after leaving the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. How the hell had it all gone so horribly wrong? It was unbearable, this feeling of loss weighing him down. God help him, his friend was not yet dead, yet the knowledge he soon would be unless a bloody miracle happened was crippling.
Edward’s eyes burned with it and his heart ached with a sluggish attempt to keep beating. Numbed by the injustice that had transpired inside that courtroom, Edward strode forward, one foot in front of the other. His faith in the law, in justice and humanity as a whole, had been blown to shreds today.
It was wrong. Everything that had happened was…not as it should be. Adrian, who always triumphed, should not have been sentenced to death. Not with so much haste and clear disregard for customary procedure. Instead, further investigation into Benjamin Lawrence should have been called for. His entire household should have been turned over with care.
The fact that it hadn’t been reeked of interference, a guiding hand that did not have Adrian’s best intentions in mind.
Edward hoped the papers would make an accurate report of what had transpired. If so, a chance remained for those involved to be held to account. But it might be too late by then.
Which meant the greatest chance of all rested with Samantha. If she could find a way to help Adrian escape then…
He stopped at the corner of Berkeley Street and Piccadilly and stared toward Green Park. What the hell was he doing? All his life, he’d lived by the rules. To hope a convicted murderer might find a way to flee his punishment went against everything he believed in.
Of course, it did indeed look as though what he believed in was wrong. At the very least, it wasn’t the just legal system he would have placed his faith in last week. Adrian did not deserve to hang for what he had done. If anything, he should be rewarded for figuring out the truth – a truth that escaped everyone else’s notice.
It wasn’t fair.
Edward sent a hesitant look toward his home on Berkeley Square. He really didn’t want to return there yet. Nor did he want to keep walking. Reluctantly, he turned the corner and headed toward the townhouse where nothing but solitude waited. Was almost there when he spotted the Duke of Moorland at his door.
“I was just coming to see you,” Moorland said when Edward reached him. “Thought you might need a chat or perhaps some cheering up, though I’m not very skilled at the latter. I’ll do what I can however.”
“It’s kind of you to offer.” Edward glanced toward his front door, then suggested, “We could get a bite to eat at Mivart’s, if you’re hungry.”
Moorland, being amenable to that idea, accompanied Edward to the smart hotel located at Number 51 Brook Street. When they arrived, however, Edward realized he might have made a mistake in preferring a public venue. As soon as he entered the restaurant area, all eyes were upon him as everyone looked his way.
It was no better than what he had experienced at White’s.
But he decided this would be different. This time he knew the reason they stared. He was not caught off guard and he would not turn tail. Instead, he raised his chin and requested a table for two. With pride. Because there was no shame in being Adrian’s friend. Quite the opposite. And if he could do one small thing for him, it would be to try and convince the world of this.
“Unlike you, I cannot profess to know Croft well,” Moorland said once they’d placed their orders and had both received a chilled glass of white wine. “Our paths have naturally crossed over the years. We’ve attended various social functions together, but we’ve never been more than acquaintances. Even so, I’ve always felt that Croft lived by a strict moral code. Maybe not one the authorities would agree with, but certainly one that would stop him from killing a paralyzed man, regardless of what that man might have done.”
Moorland spoke slowly, as though a great deal of thought was placed behind every word. He also kept his voice low, preventing anyone sitting nearby from overhearing.
“This alone leads me to believe he was telling the truth about Mr. Lawrence. Add to that the footman’s testimony and Avernail’s satisfied smirk during, and I can only conclude that a storm was created with one goal in mind; namely to get rid of Croft. Permanently.”
“Your thoughts echo my own,” Edward told him. “Trouble is, I don’t think it matters. A ruling was made by a judge. Even if Croft were to appeal the conviction, you can be sure he’ll hang before it reaches anyone with the power to do something about it.”
“In other words, your friend is doomed.”
Edward detested thinking that way. Feared it might lead to acceptance. But how else was he to think when everything seemed so bloody hopeless? He reached for his glass. “It would seem so.”
“Do you suppose the chief constable might be involved?”
“Kendrick?” When Moorland nodded, Edward sipped some wine – the flavor a little too tart for his liking – and shook his head. “No. He refrained from mentioning the confession Croft made to me while in Kendrick’s presence. The part where he said very clearly that he had indeed shot Benjamin Lawrence. It made little difference, of course, since I was forced to relay it, but Kendrick didn’t know that would happen. I believe he may have questioned the way the trial was conducted and tried to protect Croft as best as he could.”
“If that’s true, Kendrick could be a valuable ally. Don’t you think?”
The question hung in the air as their meals were served. Edward sliced his lamb, waited until the servant was well out of earshot before saying, “He lacks the power to do anything or he would have fixed this mess already.”
“I think you give up too easily, Marsdale.” The edge of Moorland’s lips curled, producing a conspiratorial smile. His eyes flickered with a thirst for adventure. “Croft is your dear friend. He needs you to put in an effort on his behalf right now. Even if it doesn’t help in the end, knowing you’re there fighting for him will surely make a difference.”
Edward considered Moorland’s words while eating the piece of lamb he’d prepared. A savory flavor, enhanced by rosemary and thyme, coated the tender meat. Delicious. He started preparing the next bite. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“How about asking Kendrick to investigate further? If he can confirm Croft’s account of events to be correct, all blame falls on Benjamin Lawrence while Croft becomes the hero who put an end to his murderous ways.”
“Even if Kendrick were to do so, you and I both know that an appeal would not be granted in time.”
“It might. If the right people add a bit of pressure in just the right place.” Moorland gave him a pointed look from across the table. “Start by approaching Kendrick. See if he’s willing to help. If he is and he’s able to get the results we need, let me know.”
It was a great relief, knowing Adrian had the Duke of Moorland’s support. Perhaps there were others who felt as he did and were willing to do as he suggested – add pressure where needed. The possibility bolstered Edward’s spirits and saw him returning directly to the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court after parting ways with Moorland.
He entered the building, which was far more peaceful now than it had been that morning, and approached a Runner. “I wish to speak with Chief Constable Kendrick if he’s available.”
Edward produced his card and handed it over. The Runner gave it a quick look, asked Edward to wait, and went to relay the information. He returned within a few minutes. “This way, my lord. If you’ll please come with me.”
They turned down a short hallway containing a couple of doors to the right and one at the end. It was the one at the end the Runner brought Edward to. A quick knock announced their arrival before the door was opened and the Runner showed Edward inside.
“Thank you, Lewis,” said Kendrick, half-turning toward them while shelving a couple of books in a bookcase. The Runner nodded before retreating a step and shutting the door, leaving Edward alone with the man he’d come to see. The chief constable, having finished his task, turned more fully toward him, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m sorry the trial was not in your friend’s favor.”
“The trial was a farce,” Edward told him. “A mockery of the judicial system you’ve sworn to uphold.”
Kendrick did not so much as flinch in response to the insult. Instead, much to Edward’s surprise, he actually nodded. “While I wish it were otherwise, there’s nothing I can do to change the verdict.”
“Don’t underestimate the power found in numbers.” Edward took a step forward and shared the idea he’d received from Moorland. “If you speak with the rest of Lawrence’s servants and anyone else he was in contact with after his fall – the doctor who treated him and…and maybe the coachman who took him to Miss Fontaine’s lodgings, provided you can find him, then maybe you can prove that Lawrence was a brutal murderer and that Croft acted with just cause.”
The chief constable did not interrupt Edward’s impassioned plea. He listened to every word. But it wasn’t until Edward finished that he noticed the sympathetic look Kendrick gave him. “I was hoping to do precisely that. Were it up to me, I would also conduct a thorough search of Mr. Lawrence’s home. See if there might be… something …linking him to the crimes he committed.” Kendrick’s frown suggested he had a very specific item in mind, but rather than name it, he said, “However, I’ve been ordered to close the case and to focus on finding a young girl who has gone missing.”
Edward shook his head. “But…”
A missing child was precisely the sort of thing that would redirect Kendrick’s attention and the Bow Street resources away from Adrian. “Can’t you find a way to do both?”
“Even if I could, there’s not enough time for me to make the necessary headway.”
Edward stared at him and as he did so, he saw that it wasn’t sympathy filling Kendrick’s eyes, but bleakness and failure. His mouth went dry and the energy that had propelled him to come here vanished, leaving him weak-limbed and numb.
“What’s happened?”
“The date and time for Mr. Croft’s execution.” Kendrick handed Edward a piece of paper that sat on his desk.
Edward read each dreadful word then grabbed the back of a chair, supporting himself against it to keep his knees from buckling. He couldn’t feel his heart any longer. Was not even sure he still breathed as he raised his gaze to Kendrick’s. “This is the day after tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s regular procedure in murder cases, for the sake of preventing appeals.”
“No.” Edward tossed the notice aside, not caring where it landed. “I won’t accept this.”
“As disagreeable as it is, I’m afraid you must.”
“Why?” Anger shot through him, stiffening his limbs so much they started to tremble. “Croft isn’t guilty of the crime he stands accused of. He did not murder an innocent man but rather a villainous scoundrel who got exactly what he deserved. For Croft to die before this can be verified is beyond unjust. For him to be executed with this kind of swiftness reeks of corruption.”
“As I told you, it is common practice in severe cases. That said, you’re likely correct.” Kendrick crossed to his chair while gesturing for Edward to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. Though he hesitated, Edward eventually sat, pulled into the chair by the kind of heaviness that made him wonder if he would ever be able to get up again. “Unfortunately, the time to make a difference has passed. A ruling was made, the execution scheduled accordingly. There is nothing left to be done.”
Edward’s pulse raced. He shook his head, refusing to accept the chief constable’s words. “I can’t give up. Not yet. Not until…”
God help him, he could not say it. Would not even let himself think it. His throat closed and he clasped the armrest, holding on to that piece of wood for all he was worth. This was Adrian’s life they were speaking of, his future, and the atrocity that was being carried out against him. In the name of justice.
“If you refuse to act,” he told Kendrick, “you’ll be no different than the men who are placing that noose around his neck.”
“Careful, Marsdale.”
Despite the bleakness wearing him down, Edward found the strength to straighten his spine and look the chief constable straight in the eye. He was about to take a massive gamble on the man, but with Adrian’s life on the line, he had to try. Even if it meant ignoring his own moral code for a change. Because to do nothing was not an option.
He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try everything he could think of to save his friend from death’s grasp.
So he took a deep breath and asked, “When will Adrian be transported to the Old Bailey?”
Kendrick held his gaze, a warning there, but understanding as well. “I plan to make arrangements for Monday morning at ten.”
“He’ll be taken straight to the Old Bailey from here?” A nod confirmed this. “And what sort of carriage will you be using?”
Only the barest hesitation preceded Kendrick’s response. It was followed by additional questions and answers, all of which Edward intended to pass along to the one person who might be able to stop this.
Samantha Croft.