Chapter 7

“How is Mr. Stackpoole this morning?” James asked Mr. Price the next morning when he descended the stairs. He and Cecilia had agreed that she would break her fast in their room to perpetuate her impression of delicate health.

“Still sickly. Miss Hammond says it looks like stomach influenza. She said she would be back later this morning to check on him. He’s not to eat. He’s to rest his stomach, she said. We’re to give him plenty to drink. Mrs. Price has made up a big pot of her special tisane as he is partial to it.”

“That is a trifle worrisome as we spent all day yesterday in a closed carriage with him,” James said. “My wife has a delicate constitution,” he explained, unabashedly lying.

Typically, Cecilia was quite hardy, for all her dissimulation of illness. However, she had been frighteningly ill with influenza, and he did not know if she had yet regained all her strength. He would not take chances with her health. While he did not like Cecilia’s idea of becoming a patient at Camden House, if she were to come down with Mr. Stackpoole’s illness, it would be the best place for her to be.

“How far is it to Stamford?” he asked.

“Five miles.”

“And to the gaol?”

“The gaol!” Mr. Price exclaimed.

“Yes,” James said, not offering any other information.

Mr. Price frowned. “Not more than another mile.”

“Thank you.” James turned to go back upstairs.

“Should you like some breakfast, sir?” Mr. Price asked.

“Yes. In the private parlor in, say, thirty minutes?”

“Yes, sir. And the missus?”

“No, Lady Branstoke will break her fast in our room.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And please let me know if Miss Hammond returns while I am still here.”

“Yes, sir.”

James nodded and turned to go back up the stairs.

He returned to their room to find Cecilia sitting up in bed reading a novel. She set it aside as he entered.

“You should read this novel,” she said. “It’s the new one by Anonymous from the Merriman publisher.”

“Is that the new gothic one touted in the papers?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “I am not a gothic reader.”

“This one is different. You should at least try it.”

He snorted. “Perhaps.”

“Oh you, that means you won’t,” she accused.

He laughed. “No,” he contradicted, “it means perhaps.”

She frowned at him, then laughed. “All right. So, what have you learned of Mr. Stackpoole?”

“Mr. Price says he is still sick, and Miss Hammond believes it to be a stomach influenza.”

She wrinkled her nose. “And we spent all yesterday in his company.”

“Yes, which is why I’d like you to rest here this morning while I visit Soothcoor. We will go to Camden House on my return.”

“But I wanted to see the earl!” she complained. “I have so much to ask him!”

“That wouldn’t be in keeping with the ruse you intend to play.”

She made a face at him. “No, you are correct. Though sometimes it doesn’t feel like a ruse with this plaguey cough.”

He touched her head. “I know. Do you not trust me to question Soothcoor adequately?”

“Of course I do. Probably better than I should. It’s just…” she trailed off.

The corner of James’s lips kicked up in a faint smile. “Consider you will be conversing with people at the sanatorium when I am not present to hear. We shall have to trust each other.”

She laughed and nuzzled his hand as he slid it down the side of her face. “And we do,” she said.

“Yes, we do. I have requested breakfast for myself in the private parlor after which I will be on my way to the gaol. Mr. Price says it is about six miles away. I shall see about renting a horse so I may ride. It will be quicker and easier. He will see that food is sent here for you.”

She nodded. “I shall be ready to go to the sanatorium on your return.”

“Excellent,” he said. He leaned over to give her a quick kiss. She pulled his head down for a deeper kiss.

“Be careful, my love,” she said when he stood again.

“Always.”

The Stamford BoroughGaol was a four-story, free-standing stone building at the back of the town hall. James rode up to the gatehouse and asked to enter.

“Visitors on’y on Saturdays,” the turnkey declared. He looked askance at James. “What dealin’s would you be havin’ with the likes of these people? We gets the scum here,” he shook his head, his lips compressed tightly.

“I should like to see the Earl of Soothcoor,” James told him, his voice measured and quiet, but with a honed edge of steel he’d developed in his military days.

“Oh, he’s not in the bridewell proper. He ain’t been tried and him being a peer and all—at least until the trial.”

“Then where is he?” James asked.

“He’s in a room in the warden’s house. Normally, that’s where we put the debtors, but we don’t have any now, and he being a peer and all…,” he repeated and trailed off.

James nodded. “I need to speak with him about the charges against him.”

“He kilt that man! What’s to know?”

“Has the trial occurred yet?”

“No. Be ’nother three weeks ’afore the next assizes, I’m thinkin’.”

“Then he is not guilty yet,” James said evenly.

The turnkey scowled and scratched his head. “I guess.”

“Where might I find the warden?”

“In his office.”

“And where might that be?” James continued patiently.

The man’s expression cleared. “Oh, that door over there,” he said pointing to the left.

“I shall speak to him then. Thank you,” James said, walking past the turnkey.

The turnkey frowned but didn’t stop him.

James knocked on the heavy oak door. There was an opening covered with iron bars over a small door set eye height on the larger door. When the small door opened, all James could see were pudgy, filmy gray eyes peering through the opening.

“Visitin’ hours t’aint till Saturday. Didn’t that foolheaded turnkey tell ye that?”

“I am here to see the Earl of Soothcoor,” James said evenly. He didn’t say anything more and passively stared at the gaol warden.

The man behind the door squinted his eyes. “And who be you?”

“Sir James Branstoke.”

He harrumphed, stepped back and closed the little door. James heard a key scrap against metal, then the door opened.

A large man with rolls of fat beneath his chin filled the door frame. He frowned. It looked habitual. Fuzzy hair came to a forward V shape on his forehead, the edges receding steeply at the sides of his head, the skin polished pink. His full cheeks resembled a squirrel’s cheeks after discovering a hoard of nuts.

“Sir James,” he said.

“Yes.”

The man’s nose scrunched up. “Battle honor?”

James allowed a smile to ghost his lips. “Peninsular battles,” James said.

The man nodded. “Name’s Harvey. Henry Harvey. I’m the warden here. Come in,” Warden Harvey said, stepping away from the door. He waddled to a desk in the middle of the room and stood by the large chair behind it. He waved his hand, indicating James should take a seat, then sat as well.

“Me older brother were a Chosen Man with the 95th Rifles,” the warden said, pride in his tone.

James knew the 95th Rifles was a regiment organized in 1800. The rifles regiment took the best and brightest men from different regiments to form a radically different corps of men, trained to be sharpshooters using the new Baker rifle; men who could think for themselves and be skirmishers instead of line and square fighters. They even had different uniforms: dark green with black leather trim to provide camouflage.

“Congratulations,” James said. If talking about the Peninsular War and this man’s brother would get him to talk to Soothcoor, it was worth the time. He relaxed back in his chair.

“My main experience with the 95th was during the Siege of Badajoz,” he told the warden. “They did a fine job of eliminating the French artillery crews there.”

The man compressed his lips and nodded. “He told us about that battle.” Then he shook his head. “Unfortunately, he got injured durin’ The Battle of Tarbes, so he missed Waterloo.”

“He was discharged?” James said.

“Aye. Injured his shootin’ arm, couldn’t hold a rifle fer a long while.” He laughed. “Got it good now, though. Gamekeeper on the Marquis of Keirsmyth’s estate.”

Then his expression dropped, and he rested his head on his chins as he looked at James.

He leaned forward. “So why do you want to visit a murderer?”

“I don’t believe it is possible for Alastair Sedgewick, the Earl of Soothcoor, to kill a man.”

The warden’s eyes narrowed. “Any man can kill another. Been the same forever. We’s taught that in the Bible when Cain kills Abel.”

“I do not argue with you. But not Soothcoor.”

The Warden snorted. “Ya think the man’s a saint?”

James shook his head. “No. Then again, I have never met a saint, so I don’t know what one would do or not do.”

The Warden smiled at that. “I like that. So, tell me about my prisoner.”

“The Earl of Soothcoor is well known. His holdings are in Northumberland; however, he spends most of his days in London. In society they refer him to as ‘The Dour Earl’ for he rarely smiles. He has never been married. He is well-liked and invited everywhere. He is also a private person. Few in society know that his hobby is building and fixing musical automatons or that his passion is helping women and children from the worst parts of London, like Seven Dials, get chances to rise above their circumstances.”

The warden nodded. “He is a quiet man. Paid fer things he’s asked fer, but he don’t ask fer much. Only thing he’s asked fer is books to read, and blankets fer all prisoners.”

James laughed. “That sounds like Soothcoor.”

The Warden reached up to scratch his ear. “Me and the wife were away that night he were brought in.” He grunted. “Left the Turnkey in charge,” he said, shaking his head. “The magistrate had the earl sent to the general prison first night they brung him here. The turnkey on duty didn’t know he were sum titled bloke so didn’t think to question the magistrate, not that he would have even if he had two thoughts in his brain, which he don’t. Magistrate jus’ gave ’is given name when ’e brought him in.”

“And the earl noticed the state of the blankets right away,” James suggested, “because the one given to him was thin and moth-eaten.”

The warden nodded. “Aye. When I got back the next day and found out where ’e’d put the earl, I wasted no time in getting him to a proper cell. Put ’im in an empty debtor’s room attached to my ’ouse. My wife sees to him. ’e’s always soft-spoken and nice ’cept when he brought up the matter of the blankets. Demanded I get new ones immediately. He pulls a yella boy outta ’is waistcoat pocket and slaps it down in front of me. Said that should cover it, and it did. Quite passionate ’e got about them blankets.”

“I believe you,” James said. “He is accused of murdering Malcolm Montgomery.”

The Warden nodded.

“Who accused him? How did it come about?”

“The magistrate says I don’t need to know,” he said, sneering.

James frowned. “I would consider that suspicious.”

The Warden nodded, his lips still flicking upward at the corner.

“How did Mr. Montgomery die?”

“Drowned.”

“Drowned? Where? And didn’t something else like that happen there a year or so ago?”

With lips compressed, the Warden nodded and pointed his finger at James for being right.

James’s frown turned to a deep scowl.

“How?”

The Warden shook his head. “No one is sayin’, which is jus’ not normal fer a murder.”

“You don’t think Soothcoor killed Mr. Montgomery, do you?”

The warden shifted his bulk in his chair, the chair’s wood joints groaning. “Not fer me to say.” He inhaled deeply. “But someone wants him to ’ang.”

“May I speak with him?”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to him about his meeting with Mr. Montgomery. Soothcoor is not a murderer. I’d like to find out who is.”

The Warden nodded, then turned to pull a ring of keys off an iron hook embedded in the wall beside him. “Let’s go,” he said, rising to his feet. He lumbered to the door.

The warden led James out of the gaol and around to the back of the building to a brick house, separated from the prison by a narrow road. The house had two doors. The door on the right had a small plot of herbs growing on either side. The one on the left did not. The warden led him to the door on the left and selected a key from his ring to unlock the door. It swung open without a screech, indicating it was well maintained, unlike what he’d seen in the prison. They stepped into a narrow hall. Before them were two more doors, each with small openings covered with iron bars, a little larger than the warden’s office door and without the ability to close off the rooms beyond from view.

The warden peered into one of the rooms. “My lord, I brung ya a visitor,” he said. He turned the ring of keys around until he found the one for the cell, unlocked it, and pushed open the door.

Soothcoor had been sitting on a low bed, leaning against the wall, reading. He slowly stood when the door opened. His clothing appeared dirty and torn, his hair, a lanky tangle of gray-and-black strands. He hadn’t shaved in a week. His features appeared sharper than normal.

“Visitor,” the warden declared. He looked about the room, nodded, then moved out of James’s way so he could enter.

“James!” Soothcoor exclaimed, limping toward him. They grasped their arms. “I am delighted to see you! Thank you, Mr. Harvey, for allowing James to visit,” he said, in typical polite Soothcoor fashion. He put a hand down on the table then hobbled around it to sit back on the bed. “Please sit down,” he said, waving his hand at the only chair in the room tucked under the table.

“Why are you limping?” James frowned, looking from Soothcoor to the warden and back.

Soothcoor waved his hand dismissively. “A slight misunderstanding.”

The warden harrumphed. “Right of passage in the prison. ’e wouldn’t defend ’isself. Got a chair whacked across ’is leg.”

“Has a doctor seen to it?” James asked the warden.

“No funds fer a doctor,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest.

James scowled at the warden, then turned his head to look at his friend. “You used the money you had on you to purchase blankets, didn’t you?”

Soothcoor shrugged.

James shook his head dolefully at his selfless friend. “Mr. Harvey,” he said, turning back to the warden. “Have a doctor see to Soothcoor and send the bill to me at The New Bell Inn—At the least he could do with a crutch to keep weight off the leg.” He looked back at Soothcoor. “Did it bleed?”

Soothcoor nodded silently.

James stared at him, wanting more.

“A little,” Soothcoor finally said. “I used my cravat to wrap around it to stop the bleeding.”

“Which hasn’t been changed in the week you’ve been here, has it?” James said, leaning across the table.

Soothcoor looked down at his hands, but not before James caught the faint smile pulling on his friend’s lips.

“Yes, I’m taking charge,” James said, fighting against an answering smile for he knew what caused Soothcoor’s humor. James maintained a phlegmatic manner in society, unless his friends or family were in distress or danger, then the commanding Peninsular War army colonel returned.

The warden walked back to the door. “I be breakin’ me own rules as it is to ’ave you here. I’ll give you one ’our,” he said. He closed the door behind him.

James heard the key turning in the lock, securing him inside. He wouldn’t be able to leave until the warden returned.