I became aware that every person in the vicinity turned to watch us. "He must be examined, first," I said.
"Oh, aye, him and the witnesses. I called in Lord Gillis and Mr. Grenville. Lord Gillis because it was his house and he'd likely know what went on in it, and Mr. Grenville because he makes a decent witness. And he was first on the spot when it happened. I wanted to call Mrs. Harper, but the magistrate said wait until she's a bit less distressed." He shrugged. "He's the magistrate."
I wanted very much to meet Mrs. Harper myself, but I agreed that traveling to Bow Street and enduring the scrutiny of last night's crop of prostitutes might be beyond her. "Lord Gillis is coming?" I asked.
"Not the thing for an earl to come to the magistrate, Sir Nathaniel says," Pomeroy said, naming Bow Street's chief magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant. "Sir Nathaniel will go to him later today. But Mr. Grenville should be arriving at any time."
Grenville liked to be in the thick of things. I knew he would not mind walking among the muck of Bow Street in his perfectly shined boots if he could indulge his curiosity. I would be happy to see him, though. He'd been on the spot, and he was quite good at noticing things out of the ordinary. A decent witness, as Pomeroy had called him.
Grenville arrived as Pomeroy and I started for the stairs. His fine phaeton stopping in the street caused some commotion as those inside craned to look out windows at the most elegant horses and rig in town. Grenville leapt down and handed the reins to his tiger, a young man whose sole purpose in life was to look after Grenville's horses when he was not driving them.
Grenville swept inside, removing his hat, and was instantly bombarded by a mass of humanity.
"A farthing in me palm, milord. Wouldn't say no," an elderly man with few teeth breathed at him. "Spare a penny for an old man?"
"Yer a fine one. Remember sweet Jane when she's done with the magistrate, won't you?"
Grenville blushed but he sprinkled pennies among the others until Pomeroy lumbered forward and shouted, "Clear off. Let him through."
"Good morning, Lacey," Grenville said with his usual politeness. We might be meeting at his club. "Mr. Pomeroy."
Grenville looked as though he'd not slept much the night before. His face was impeccably shaved, but his cheeks were pasty white and dark smudges stained the hollows beneath his eyes.
We did not speak further as Pomeroy took us up the stairs and to the room where the chief magistrate waited.
Sir Nathaniel Conant, an elderly gentleman who'd presided over the Bow Street court for the last four years, sat behind a table upon which waited a sheaf of paper and a pen and ink. The room felt damp and smelled faintly of unwashed clothes, an inauspicious place to decide a man's fate.
Colonel Brandon sat near Sir Nathaniel, but he got abruptly to his feet when he saw me.
Brandon looked terrible. His usually crisp black hair was disheveled, although he'd made some attempt to smooth it. His chin was covered in black stubble, and his dark and elegant suit was rumpled and stained. He gazed at me with blue eyes that resembled cold winter skies and were just about as friendly.
"Good, Pomeroy," Sir Nathaniel said. "We can begin. These are your witnesses?"
"Mr. Grenville is." Pomeroy introduced him. "He was at the ball when the murder took place. This is Captain Lacey."
Sir Nathaniel peered at me, his watery eyes taking more interest. "I have heard Sir Montague Harris speak of you. He regards you as intelligent. Why have you come? Are you also a witness?"
"I was not at Lord Gillis's ball, no," I said. "But I know Colonel Brandon. He was my commander in the army."
"Ah, a character witness. Sit down, if you please."
"Sir Nathaniel," Brandon said stiffly. "I do not want Captain Lacey here."
Sir Nathaniel looked surprised. "Do not be foolish, sir. At this point, you need all the friends you have. Sit."
He pointed his pen at the chair Brandon had vacated. With another belligerent glare at me, Brandon resumed his seat.
Colonel Aloysius Brandon was a handsome man. At forty-six, he had black hair with little gray, a square, handsome face, and an athletic physique that had not run to fat. I had often wondered why he seemed oblivious to the attentions women wished to bestow on him, although, as evidenced with this business, perhaps he was not so oblivious after all.
I took a straight-backed chair next to Grenville. Pomeroy sprawled across a bench, and we waited for the procedure to begin.
At least, I thought, as Sir Nathaniel scratched a few words on his papers, Brandon did not have to suffer the indignity of standing in the dock before the sitting magistrate downstairs, with thieves and prostitutes and other poor unfortunates awaiting their turn. Sir Nathaniel had obviously kept Colonel Brandon's standing in mind, as well as the fact that murder was a bit more serious than pickpocketing or laundry stealing.
"Colonel Brandon," Sir Nathaniel began. "This is an examination, not a trial, in which I will determine whether you should be held in custody for trial for murder. Do you understand?"
Silently, with an angry glint in his eye, Brandon nodded.
"Excellent. Now, Mr. Pomeroy, please present the evidence that made you bring in this man for the murder of Mr. Henry Turner."
Pomeroy climbed to his feet and plodded forward. He took from his pocket a wad of cloth, and unwrapped the dagger that had killed Turner. He clunked the knife to the table.
"This was plunged into the chest of Mr. Henry Turner, coroner says near to midnight last night," Pomeroy said. "The body was found at twelve o'clock, and witnesses saw the deceased alive and well at half past eleven, so there's not much doubt about the time of death. When I arrived, I asked who the knife belonged to. Colonel Brandon told me that the knife was his. His wife, Mrs. Brandon, said that she could not remember whether the colonel had such a knife, but he was pretty certain."
"It is mine," Brandon said, tight-lipped. "I never denied that."
Sir Nathaniel gave him a sharp glance then made a note. "Any other evidence?"
"No, sir. I examined Colonel Brandon's gloves and found that they were clean. The colonel denied having killed Mr. Turner, and denied having gone into the anteroom where he was found at all. But a few witnesses, Mr. Grenville included, saw Mr. Turner and Colonel Brandon enter the room together at eleven o'clock. However, they emerged after about five minutes and went their separate ways. No one I can find remembers either Mr. Turner or Colonel Brandon entering the room after that, but Mr. Turner must have done, because there he was, dead, an hour later."
"I must ask you, Colonel," Sir Nathaniel said, "why you lied to Mr. Pomeroy about entering the anteroom at all?"
Brandon looked uncomfortable. "Because it was none of his affair. And it had nothing to do with Turner being killed."
"That remains to be seen," Sir Nathaniel said. "Please tell me the nature of your conversation with Mr. Turner in the anteroom."
Brandon sat up straighter. "I do not wish to."
Sir Nathaniel raised his gray brows. "Colonel Brandon, you might well be tried for murder. Were I in your place, I would try my best to establish that my business with Mr. Turner had nothing to do with his death. Now, what did you discuss?"
Brandon's neck went red. "I called him out."
"Called him out. Do you mean that you challenged him to a duel?"
Brandon nodded.
Sir Nathaniel made another note. Even the scratching of his pen sounded disapproving. "Dueling is against the law, Colonel."
"I know that. But Mr. Turner was being offensive to Mrs. Harper. He needed speaking to. In any event, it is a moot point now."
I stifled my dismay. Brandon might as well build the scaffold and tie the noose around his own neck.
"Indeed, it is," Sir Nathaniel said. "And you were annoyed with Mr. Turner's behavior, because Mrs. Harper is your mistress?"
Brandon hesitated. I saw his eyes swivel to the paper, above which Sir Nathaniel's pen poised. It was one thing to say the words to Pomeroy, quite another to have them written down in black ink.
"Yes," he said slowly.
This was nonsense. It had to be. And yet, what had Brandon to gain from protecting Mrs. Harper?
"Very well." Sir Nathaniel's pen moved. "After you and Mr. Turner made an appointment to meet, what did you do next?"
"We never made the appointment," Brandon said. "He refused me. I told him he was a coward and left him."
Grenville glanced sideways at me, and I gave him a grim look in return. If Brandon could convince the magistrate that he'd planned to meet Turner honorably, he might have a chance to prove he'd never kill him dis honorably. But Brandon's words put paid to that defense.
"I see." Sir Nathaniel redipped his pen. "Well, then, Colonel, please go on. Tell me what you did from the time you left Mr. Turner until his body was discovered."
"I've told Mr. Pomeroy," Brandon said in a hard voice.
Sir Nathaniel looked at him with deceptively mild eyes. "Now tell me."
Brandon's shoulders sagged the slightest bit. "I walked out of the anteroom, as I told you. I went back to find Mrs. Harper, and we adjourned into an alcove so that I could speak privately with her. I told her what Mr. Turner had said. She was naturally upset that I had challenged him, and it took some time to calm her down. She asked that I find her some sherry, and I went in search. I could not find a footman with a tray-never about when you need one, footmen-so I was obliged to leave the ballroom. I searched the supper room and found all the decanters empty, so I went out to the hall to find a servant. I had no success and was about to tramp down to the kitchens myself, when I heard Mrs. Harper screaming. I pushed my way through the crowd and saw her standing outside the anteroom, and Turner dead inside."
Sir Nathaniel scribbled away. Presently he asked, "Did you see anyone in the supper room or the hall outside who can be a witness that you were there?"
"No," Brandon growled. "As I said, I found no sherry and no servants. God knows where they all were. When I came back inside, everyone was watching Mrs. Harper. I do not think anyone noticed me."
I broke in. "That does corroborate what Lady Aline Carrington told me. She said that Colonel Brandon came from behind her."
Sir Nathaniel made a note without thanking me. "Even better," he said, "would be a witness who saw you in the alcove with Mrs. Harper between the time you left Mr. Turner and twelve o'clock."
Brandon shook his head.
"Mr. Pomeroy?" Sir Nathaniel asked. "Have you found any witnesses to swear where Colonel Brandon was at the time?"
"No, sir," Pomeroy said. "Most unhelpful, that."
"Indeed," Sir Nathaniel said. "Now then, Mr. Grenville, what can you add or subtract from Colonel Brandon's statement?"
Grenville cleared his throat. "I did see Colonel Brandon and Mrs. Harper enter the alcove after Mr. Turner emerged from the anteroom. I cannot say when they departed it. I was dancing after that, giving all my attention to my partners. I was very near the anteroom, however, when Mrs. Harper entered it. I saw her go in. After a minute or two, she rushed out, screaming at the top of her lungs. I looked inside and saw Mr. Turner slumped against the table. I settled Mrs. Harper on a chair and made her swallow some brandy, then I entered the room with Lord Gillis. Lord Gillis pulled Mr. Turner upright. I saw the knife in Mr. Turner's chest and knew that he was dead."
Sir Nathaniel wrote. The quiet scratch of his pen made a strange contrast to the violence Grenville described.
"Did you see Colonel Brandon come back into the ballroom?" Sir Nathaniel asked when he'd finished.
Grenville shook his head. "I did not see him, no."
"Well, he wouldn't, would he?" Brandon broke in. "He was looking at Turner, not searching the ballroom for me."
Sir Nathaniel gave him another sharp look. "Quite so, Colonel. Captain Lacey. What evidence do you have to add?"
Brandon glowered at me. He did not want me to speak, did not want me there at all. I wondered at his resistance. He might not like me, but he ought to at least realize that I could help him.
"I served under Colonel Brandon from the time I was twenty years old until the time I was thirty-eight," I said. "The fact that Colonel Brandon stands accused of this crime surprises me very much indeed."
"Not accused," Sir Nathaniel said quickly. "This is a preliminary examination, as I said."
"I am astonished that he is under suspicion at all. Colonel Brandon has always acted with the utmost honor." At least, he'd acted with honor except where I was concerned.
"You were in the wars together," Sir Nathaniel said. "A man learns to kill during a war. Otherwise, he'd make a poor soldier."
"Fighting a battle and cold-blooded murder are two different things," I said.
"I concede that." Sir Nathaniel nodded. "I know some officers who are the gentlest of men. That does not mean your colonel has not done murder. Though I commend your loyalty."
Brandon's face had gone a bright, cherry red. The last person he wanted to stand up for him was me.
But if I could save the wretch for Louisa, I would. I still had difficulty believing he'd stabbed Turner. Brandon was guilty of something here, but of what, I was not yet certain.
Presently, Sir Nathaniel ceased writing. "I would like to speak with the ladies who were present. Mrs. Harper and Mrs. Brandon."
"No," Brandon said at once. "I do not want my wife involved in this."
"My dear sir, this is murder. Did you believe it was a private matter?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Brandon said stiffly. "This is not France, where the police survey our every action. Our committees call for police reform. We shall all be scrutinized whenever we leave our houses, if that happens."
His speech did not please Sir Nathaniel, whose nostrils pinched. "That's as may be, Colonel. At present, I need to investigate a murder and determine whether or not you should be tried for it. Your wife, in fact, may be able to produce evidence that you did not do it. You would like me to find that, would you not?"
Brandon said nothing. His eyes glittered with stubborn fury.
I wondered what the devil was the matter with him. He behaved as though he did not want to be proved innocent.
Perhaps he was throwing himself to the wolves, knowing that Mrs. Harper had killed Turner. But why on earth should he feel so compelled to go to the gallows for her? Brandon was, all in all, a selfish man. Why he'd suddenly become heroic for another person was a mystery to me.
Sir Nathaniel straightened his papers. "Very well, I have made my decision. Colonel Brandon, I am committing you to trial for the murder of Mr. Henry Turner on the night of the fifth of April. The evidence against you is stronger than the evidence for your innocence. You will go to Newgate prison and remain there until your trial. Thank you, Mr. Pomeroy. Please have Colonel Brandon escorted to the prison."
Pomeroy looked slightly taken aback. I imagined he'd regarded arresting his former colonel as a good joke, assuming I'd quickly get him off. But Sir Nathaniel looked severe, in his understated way.
Pomeroy rose. Grenville and I stood up with him.
"Sir Nathaniel," I said. "Must he stay in the prison? It will be a blow to a man of his standing."
"I am sorry, Captain Lacey, but there are laws. Colonel Brandon will live in Newgate until he stands in the dock. The wait will not be long, and he will have a private room. He will not live in the common cells with the rabble."
No, Brandon was wealthy enough to afford a room with furnishings and good meals. His physical comfort would not be impaired, but he'd be a ruined man.
"Colonel," Pomeroy said reluctantly.
The only one who did not argue was Brandon. He rose, his face set, and let Pomeroy lead him from the room.
Newgate prison stood at the intersection of Newgate Street and Old Bailey, north of Ludgate Hill and not far from Saint Paul's Cathedral. The dome of the cathedral hung against the leaden sky as Grenville stopped his phaeton in the crowds of Ludgate Hill at my request.
"I can drive you all the way," Grenville offered.
I declined. "Your high-stepping horses and polished rig are for Hyde Park, not the gallows yard at Newgate."
Grenville nodded his understanding. He'd certainly draw attention if he went down to the prison. He held the horses steady while the tiger hopped from his perch on the back and assisted me to the ground.
"I am sorry for all this, Lacey," Grenville said. "I was not much help, was I?"
"You told what you saw. Not your fault that Brandon is so damned stubborn." I adjusted my hat. "Will you take a message to Mrs. Brandon? Tell her what happened at the examination, and that I am here to settle Brandon's needs. Tell her I will come as soon as I can."
Grenville regarded me a moment, as though he wanted to say something more. But already people were taking notice of him and the elegant phaeton. Grenville took the hint, tipped his hat, then signaled his horses to move on. I walked the rest of the way to the prison.
Newgate prison itself was a depressing building of gray block stones. Windows, barred and forbidding, lined its walls. In the open area outside the gate was the gallows, empty today. Hangings took place on Monday for the public; those waiting their turn inside could watch. Today was Sunday. The condemned would attend chapel and emerge tomorrow to their dooms.
When I'd been a lad, the hangings had taken place at Tyburn near the end of what was now Park Lane. Once when I'd come to London with my father, I'd sneaked away to witness a hanging there. I still remembered the fevered press of bodies, the excitement and dismay radiating from the crowd, the buildup of frenzy as the prisoner rolled past in his cart, ready to face the gallows.
Thinking back, the hanged man must have been less than twenty years old, though he'd seemed older to me at the time. He'd stood straight in the cart, nodding to the crowd like an actor pleased by his audience. The guards with him had led him up the steps to the scaffold, where he'd stood and addressed us all.
"Friends, today I die for the crime of being honest. I honestly stole those clothes from me master's shop."
The crowd had laughed. He'd grinned along with them. "Do not cry for me, I go to a better place." He'd looked around. "Any place is better than Newgate in the damp."
Again, they'd laughed. The hangman had cut off his words by jamming a hood over his head and a noose around his neck.
I'd crept to the very edge of the scaffold while he'd joked with the crowd. I'd seen the young man's face before the hood had gone down. He'd been gray, his lips trembling. He might have made light of his punishment to others, but he was terrified.
When they hauled him from his feet, he gave a startled cry, which was cut off in mid-breath. I watched in fascinated horror as he kicked and struggled mightily to live, then just to breathe, while the crowed cheered or mocked him.
They'd cut him down, stone dead, and sold his clothes to the people there.
I'd run back to the townhouse my father had rented and was sick all night.
I'd witnessed hangings since then, in the army, in India, and deaths more terrible, but the hanging I'd seen as a child of six had seemed the worst terror I could have faced. I'd dreamed for weeks that I was that man, having my vision cut abruptly off by the hood, feeling the burn of the rope about my neck, hearing the crowd laughing and cheering.
Passing the gallows now, I felt a qualm of that old dread, the ghost of the noose that had killed the young thief.
Pomeroy and Brandon had already arrived. I caught up to them as they passed beneath the gate, following them into a courtyard that smelled of urine.
Pomeroy went to the keeper's room, a square office with a bench and a table and a window giving onto the courtyard. The keeper was alone with another turnkey, the two men portly from beef and ale.
Pomeroy released Brandon officially, then said, "He's a posh gent. He'll want the finest rooms you have."
"Oh?" the keeper guffawed. "A duke, is 'e?"
"He's a colonel and a gentleman," Pomeroy said severely. "He's to be treated fine, or I'll hear of it."
The keeper seemed a bit in awe of Pomeroy, probably with good reason. Pomeroy was a powerful and strong man, not shy about using his fists when necessary. In addition, he was a Bow Street Runner, and keeping on the friendly side of a Runner was always wise.
The keeper told Brandon, in a slightly more respectful tone, "Aye, if you pay me well, sir, you'll have no troubles here. Send for one or two of your own servants, and you'll live as well as you would at home. A gentleman is always welcome."
Brandon looked from the keeper to Pomeroy in fury. "Do you mean, Sergeant, that you wish me to bribe this man?"
"You have to pay for room and board, sir," Pomeroy said in a patient tone. "And buy your bedding and fuel and things. Stands to reason. The more you pay, the better you live."
"For God's sake," Brandon began. "I do not even have much money with me."
"I will settle his affairs," I broke in as the keeper took on a belligerent expression.
"No you will not," Brandon retorted.
"I do not believe they will let you visit your man of business on the moment," I answered impatiently. "I will visit on your behalf. Or would you rather bed down on hay with a flea-ridden street girl?"
Brandon blanched. Street girls made him nervous in any case. "I take your point, Lacey. I only wish to God I had someone else to help me."
I knew he did. The turnkey grinned at me and led us into the bowels of the building.