The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery, page 2
She would have to stand before one of them and hear their condemnation, watch Mr. Fielding put the black cap over his wig and condemn her to death.
She would do it all bare faced. They would know who they were killing. And she would protest her innocence to the end. That might not save her from the gallows, but at least she would die with her pride and honor intact.
Memories of last night jumbled in her brain. Pain and humiliation, strange new scents and tastes, and the echo of something else, but she could not put her finger on it, however hard she tried.
Standing like a marble statue, she let Wood dress her. The maid accomplished her task in tight-lipped silence. She found a blue petticoat and a darker blue gown, finely embroidered, made of the best silk lustring. She consented to a hip pad underneath, to give her a semblance of respectability. Her black mourning gown was at her parents’ house. Who knew she would need that?
Plain stockings, not the elaborate ones with embroidered clocks running up each side, and a modest, though rich, lace cap over her natural dark red hair completed her outfit.
Beneath her still surface, she expected the tears to come, waited for them, but she felt nothing. She steeled herself for the time when they would arrive, and determined to show no one. She had been trained by the best—her mother—and she knew how to still her thoughts, to school her face into impassivity. This she would do until she could do it no more, although at present she did not have any difficulty doing so.
Wood left the room, and came back with a cloak. “You are to come with me, my lady,” she said.
She followed, vaguely considering running and never coming back. But she had never been comfortable with running away from her problems. Until she knew more, she would stand her ground. Wood took her downstairs and out the front door, to where a carriage waited. Not a vehicle with a coat of arms emblazoned on the door, or with elaborate upholstery and fittings. No, murderesses traveled in plain hackney cabs.
Juliana climbed up without the help of a footman, or even her maid. The interior stank of piss and puke, and the leather seats were cracked and black with age. Straw was strewn on the floor. She took note, but cared little, certainly not as much as Wood, who climbed up after her, nose wrinkled in distaste.
Would they fling her into Newgate Prison? The building loomed ominously over everyone passing by. Even the carriages preferred to use the other side of the road, and it wasn’t only gaol fever that repelled them.
She expected to be flung into a cell within the hour. She would be a public spectacle, the murderess who had killed her husband on her wedding night.
Except she had not killed him.
She expected the carriage to swing left and head for the City, that dichotomy of poor and prosperous that some said was the wealthiest square mile in the world. Instead, the carriage took her down Hanover Street and across the square at the end, around the green area in the center, reserved for the use of residents only.
In the opposite direction to the City.
The carriage deposited her at the front door of her family house in London, like a parcel that had been delivered to the wrong address. A footman waited to usher her into the house. Not by the lifting of an eyebrow did he indicate that today was any different than any other. He snapped off his usual bow as she walked in, head held high.
Maybe twenty people clustered around the iron railings protecting the unsuspecting pedestrian from the area below, where coal and kitchen produce was delivered. She would rather have been the poorest, most harassed kitchen maid than herself today.
They were not there to sell produce, or repair chairs. They were here to watch. Word had escaped already, and the crows were gathering over the corpse.
They murmured as she entered, but nobody shouted. Not yet. Tension lay in the air, harshly bright.
A single shout of “There she is!” went up, together with “Murderess!” and “Vixen!”
Soon they would act, Juliana was sure of it.
The door opened as she approached, and closed behind her, the sound like the clang of a prison door.
Chapter Four
Ash knew better than to ask politely if anyone wanted the last slice of toast. He lunged for the rack, only winning it by a whisker. His sister Amelia barely missed the prize. He waved it triumphantly at her before he took his seat again. “Call Cook for more,” he said, pulling the butter dish across to his place without taking his hand off the slice of bread. “I’m expected at Bow Street in half an hour, so I need this. You have more time than I do.”
“What happened to being a gentleman?” Amelia demanded indignantly.
He picked up the bread and waved it at her. “First to touch wins. Stop changing the rules, sister dear.” Amelia shot him a poisonous look out of the corner of her eye. She was good at that. Their youngest brother sniggered.
Amelia grumbled under her breath at his winning the prize, but she shot him a good-natured grin and got to her feet to go to the dining room door. After bellowing, “Can we have some more toast, please?” she returned to her place.
Ash loved the normal chaos of family breakfasts, even though four of their number were missing—two for the excellent reason that they had lives of their own. Prudence looked after the house in the country, and William was at sea with the Navy. The others—they rarely talked about their dead brother, next in age to Ash, and the reason he had changed the direction of his career from the lucrative business of property law to criminal law. They rarely talked about their sister Silence, either, who had left her husband and now led her own life, separate from the family who loved her.
The remaining Ashendons had descended on the ample breakfast like the biblical locusts, but that was usual. The lids to the silver dishes had been discarded and the contents scraped out, only congealing pork fat and the odd grain of rice remaining. The servants set the table and sideboard with a plethora of coffeepots, teapots and deep dishes of scrambled eggs, bacon, pork chops and the like, then left them to it. Retreated to a safe place, as he’d heard the housemaid say to the cook.
Although the Ashendons had perfect table manners when out and about, breakfast tended to be a more vital meal, with every man for himself. Not to mention the female element. He had a lot of competition, and being the oldest and nominal head of the family didn’t count for much when the ravening hordes descended.
Ash buttered his toast and got to his feet with the piece of bread in his mouth. Put it down and it would be gone, as much from friendly rivalry and teasing as from hunger. Grabbing his coat from the peg by the door in the hall, he shrugged into it and swept up the battered leather folder containing the day’s cases. Fielding liked to crack on and get as many done as possible.
Ash had scanned them over breakfast. None looked interesting enough to pursue. The usual tally of larceny, burglary and breaking the peace met his jaded eyes, together with a highwayman. The public would no doubt throng the gallery for that case, but the man had been caught on the job, so to speak, and there didn’t seem to be any nuance involved. He’d go to the gallows with bravado and fine clothes, give the crowds a show and then die. Nobody would remember his name above a se’ennight.
Munching on his hard-won toast, Ash grabbed his hat and left the house to the friendly cacophony of a vigorous argument that sprang up in his wake. He had no idea what it was about, but if he’d turned back, they’d have dragged him into their discussion. Better he continue, or he’d be late.
Their house had a set of steps, which did go a way toward cushioning the family from the frantic bustle of London, but once on the street, he was in the middle of the largest, most vibrant city on earth. Ash loved it. Every day when he walked out of the house, he felt the city around him like a living thing. People hurried past on their own business, with the sound of street sellers and musicians ringing through the air. He breathed deep, the scent of smoke, horse dung and life filtering through his senses. He was home.
Ash strode along his side of the square, passing the grandeur of Newcastle House, home of the prime minister’s brother. His grace happened to be leaving his house, stepping into his carriage. He exchanged a nod with Ash. Quite something, being on nodding terms with one of the most powerful men in the country.
He took a gossip sheet from a shouting child and tossed him twopence for his trouble. The child snatched the coins from the air.
Gossip was part of Ash’s trade, one way he learned about cases that went on to occupy his time. That, and the information he received from the courts.
Bow Street was less than a half mile from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a mere ten-minute walk, if he took his time, which he did. Strolling down the broad thoroughfare of Great Queen Street, crossing Drury Lane and going down to Bow Street gave him a chance to reflect and plan, or just to watch life going on all around him.
He passed the coffee houses associated with the great and good and not so great and good, walked past shops selling everything the world had to offer, dodged past ladies in skirts so wide they could not walk two abreast, and neater City women casting disdainful glances in their direction. London had many tribes, and the wealthy City merchants despised the occupants of Mayfair in a mutual balance that worked well until they were threatened from the outside.
The less salubrious elements, fresh out of the gutters in the lawless rookeries were scattered about, not all as obvious as the urchins darting from one to another, begging for pennies before, and cutting purses behind.
Outside the Magistrate’s Court, the crowd seemed even more agitated than usual, as if a sensational case was about to be brought. What had happened since the boy had brought him his list earlier that morning? Something had, that was for sure.
Ash had to work his way through a press of people to get inside. Even here, pickpockets were about, but when a small hand reached for his coat pocket, he slapped it away without looking.
Inside, the official by the door touched his fingers to his forehead and let him pass, but stopped him when he would have entered the court. “Mr. Fielding wants a word, Sir Edmund.”
Ash nodded and changed direction. Fielding’s office was the other way.
There were two Fieldings at Bow Street, but the current magistrate was Mr. Henry Fielding, a man of many talents and many careers. His current profession had proved his most successful so far, and he had instituted reforms that affected the law at the deepest level. For one thing, he had, if not eliminated corruption in his district, reduced it to a vanishing point. His brother John proved an able partner in this enterprise, and the press was reveling in the blind beak and his author brother.
Fielding, a square-jawed and firm-shouldered man in his fifties, sat behind his scarred desk surrounded by law texts, papers and worn leather folders like the one he carried. He glanced at the gossip sheet in Ash’s hand. “Have you looked at that thing yet?”
Ash shrugged. “The usual society gossip.”
Fielding shoved a sheet of paper across the desk. “Read this one. It came out an hour after the one you have.” He waved to a seat before the desk.
Ash perched his backside on the hard chair and rested his folder on the desk. He glanced at the sheet. The Daily Ransom, an up and coming journal, but these things rose and fell like the tides on the Thames.
He spotted something, and paid it more attention. Fielding passed him a magnifying glass, but his eyesight was good enough to read the blurred print.
“‘A horrible crime was committed in the dead of night, and an upstanding member of society murdered in his bed—by his wife!
“‘Lady Juliana Christianson, the only daughter of the Earl of Hawskworth, has been a stalwart member of society for some time. Her status as an heiress prevented her sinking into spinsterhood, and she was reputed to be an obedient woman of modest demeanor.’”
Perfect wife material, Ash imagined. Except for him. When he married, it would be to a woman of spirit and intelligence, not a woman described as obedient and modest. He continued to read.
“‘Yesterday she married the second son of the Marquess of Urmston, to general rejoicing. After a lavish wedding breakfast, the married couple retired to their chamber to celebrate their nuptials in the usual way.
“‘This morning Lady Juliana was discovered covered in blood, stark naked, lying next to her husband. She had driven a dagger through his heart. The man was stone dead. She had spent the night by his side, no doubt gloating over her crime.
“‘As yet, no motive has been given for this terrible act—if such a dreadful crime can even claim to have a motive attached to it. We expect matters to be made clearer, but we owe our readers the information.
“‘The lady was heretofore quiet, her manner modest, but who knows what evil lies beneath her genteel surface?’”
He scanned the rest of the piece. The article went on, but what followed was sensational speculation and an invitation to buy the next edition, where they would set out the reasons for the lady’s actions. There were no interesting facts listed. Ash thrived on facts. Paying close attention to what had actually happened, instead of making instant suppositions always paid dividends.
He scanned the account, lurid imagery and all, and then read it again. The only thing that distinguished this case was the status of the participants. The woman had likely taken umbrage at something her husband had said, and stabbed him. He tossed the paper aside.
“Surely the lady has been arrested? Isn’t this a clear-cut case of murder, and a society scandal? What does it have to do with me?”
Fielding cleared his throat and folded his hands over his waistcoat, which was green if one didn’t count the snuff stains. “The lady is the daughter and sole heir of the Earl of Hawksworth. It’s common knowledge that whoever marries her will in all likelihood be awarded her father’s title after his demise.”
That part was vaguely interesting. “You mean the title descends through the female?” That was almost unheard of.
Fielding shook his head, his bob wig catching on a button on his coat. Impatiently, he tweaked it free and resettled the offending object on his head. “No, sir, it does not. There is no male heir to the title. But the current earl has petitioned the Crown to allow the earldom to be bestowed on his daughter’s husband after his own death as a new creation. In short, he has greased the palms of a number of officials at the Crown Office and at court. Naturally, they must approve of the candidate, but they’d award the title to a monkey if the money was good enough.”
A little more interesting, Ash had to admit. “So whoever married the lady had the promise of the earldom, too. She is not only a considerable heiress, but has a title in her grasp.” He frowned. “And the woman stabbed her new husband, who will not, it appears, receive the title. Is she a spoiled, rich aristocrat? Or did she have another reason for killing him?” He tapped the gossip sheet where it lay draped across two neat piles of documents.
Fielding raised a graying, sandy brow and shifted in his chair. It creaked under his considerable weight. “I have no idea, sir.” He harrumphed, then flourished a handkerchief and coughed into it. “Lord knows I have enough to do without a society murder. This new ruffian has increased my work considerably.”
“Which ruffian?” Ash asked. “Lord knows there are any number of them in London.”
“The Raven.”
“Ah.” That one. The Raven—nobody knew his real name, if he had one—had risen from the mud of the rookeries. Every now and again someone rose up, had a few glittering, notorious years of control, and then met his end ingloriously, either from his compatriots or at Tyburn Tree on hanging day.
“His sense of the dramatic does not obscure the damage he is doing to the good citizens of London. He’s binding separate gangs in the underworld into a dangerous threat. And he has the audacity to send his castoffs to me. Of course I have to deal with them.”
“Ah, yes, a regular thief taker.” This was not the first time London had seen someone style himself king of the underworld. Usually their attempts ended in abject failure, but this one was wily and careful, two things rarely found in a notorious criminal. His little squiggle of a bird and a scattering of black feathers were appearing all over the city.
At least the Raven would not be involved in the killing of a marquess’s son. That seemed to be a straightforward case, but Ash would help Fielding to straighten out the details. The woman would face the screaming crowd at Tyburn in a month.
Fielding continued. “Her father will be desperate to keep her away from a trial and conviction.”
“Has the lady been arrested?”
“She will be. At present, she is in her father’s house, but I have sent some likely men to ensure she is not spirited away from under our noses.”
That was a distinct possibility. If her father sent her abroad, she could elude justice. “So this case could include a prominent scandal and a lawbreaking attempt?”
The case was growing slightly more interesting.
“She is reported to be deeply distressed, but her father will allow her to speak to no one. I sent a man to question her, but he would not let him in the house.”
“Who told you she was distressed?” Ash shot back.
“Servants,” Fielding answered. “They are not particularly loyal to the earl and countess. My man had no problem persuading them to gossip. But the earl sent him away from the front door.” His flat grin turned wry. “He wishes for a man of his sort, as he puts it, to undertake the investigation. I immediately thought of you.”
“I am hardly of his sort,” Ash protested with a grin. “I’m gentry at best. I’m a baronet, which is not an aristocratic rank. We’re commoners through and through.”
