Chapter 15

Fleet Prison

" W hat do you mean the prisoners were released?" Victor demanded of the warden the following morning.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, but an anonymous gentleman paid their bond, and they were taken into his custody."

"Why? They are my prisoners. One of them tried to kill me! None should be released before going before the Old Bailey! A crime was committed last night. It is not for any rich gentleman to waltz in here and release them before they have been questioned properly."

The warden shrugged his shoulders, though he appeared rather flustered, no doubt realizing he had been duped. "The gentleman said it was all a misunderstanding, and being that I am only newly appointed, I assumed the paperwork to be genuine."

By this time, Officer Maxwell had arrived. "This is a forgery. These are not legitimate release forms."

Victor paced the length of the office, his fury evident in every step. A murder attempt had been made upon his life, and the warden had let the culprits go because some rich gentleman had paid a handsome sum for their release.

"Well, who is this gentleman, then?" Victor demanded.

The warden's face flushed crimson.

Maxwell said, "Pray tell me you followed the correct protocol and at least obtained a name?"

The look upon the warden's countenance spoke volumes.

"Good Lord above! What is the matter with you? You have let felons loose without following proper procedure!" Maxwell thundered.

Victor moved with such swiftness across the room then he had the warden by his collar in an instant. "How much did he bribe you for the privilege?"

"Nothing, nothing, I swear it! He claimed he was above the law."

"You speak falsehoods. No man is above the law," Victor replied, releasing the warden.

"I apologize most profusely, sir. I am new to my position. I knew not what they were imprisoned for, and he paid the full bond we typically require for release."

Maxwell said, "You are dismissed for the evening. I shall be writing a complaint to your superiors. If you cannot follow simple protocol, then you have not the competence required for this position."

The warden cast Maxwell a most venomous look before storming from the room.

"Imbecile!" Maxwell muttered once he had gone.

"Now I have no notion of who attempted to end my life."

"I shall make further inquiries. In the interim, you must remain vigilant and exercise great care wherever you venture."

Victor nodded, thanked Maxwell for his time, then took his leave.

The Foreign Office, Downing Street

JOSEPH PLANTA, THE Permanent Undersecretary, stood by the window, gazing out at the London streets. Victor, seated in a high-backed leather armchair, swirled a glass of brandy, the amber liquid catching the firelight.

Joseph asked, "So, any news of this X fellow who has the ton in such a tizzy? I was accosted by no less than three dowagers at several engagements last week, all demanding answers."

Victor frowned. “All leads have come to a dead end. The young lad associated with him seems to have disappeared and despite my inquiries at various of the fellow’s known haunts, no one will talk. However, there is another searching for the lad as well. A large gentleman with a red moustache and pock marked skin. He also shot at me in a dark alley way.”

Joseph immediately turned to face Victor and said, “That seems rather odd. Why would he try to harm you?”

“I am at a loss. But this is the second time someone tried to shoot me.”

“The second time? What happened?”

“The first was this red whiskered chap, the second was last night whilst I was escorting a young lady and her chaperone home.”

“Good gods man, was anyone hurt? Did you apprehend the culprits?”

“No one was harmed and the assailants, two of them were caught. However, a wealthy, anonymous benefactor had them released from prison this morning without my knowledge or consent.”

Joseph frowned and looked rather concerned.

“What do you make of this?” Joseph asked.

Victor replied, “With regard to the men from last night, I have runners searching for them. As for the red whiskered chap, I sent a man to follow him, and it seems he is some kind of dangerous revolutionary.”

Victor saw Joseph’s expression flash with concern before he disguised it. “You had him followed?” Joseph asked.

“Yes, of course. Why not?”

“May I suggest you call off your lap dogs in this instance?”

Victor stiffened and asked, “Why? He could be key to my investigation.”

“I assure you. He is not. I am not asking; I am telling you, call off your men and leave him be.”

“Why? He shot at me! Who is he and why are you protecting him?” Victor asked agitated as he put down his brandy, stood and faced Joseph.”

Joseph sighed. “You are far too astute for your own good.” He walked over to the decanter and poured himself a drink then sat down in a large armchair opposite Victor. He gestured for Victor to sit back down.

When they were both seated, Joseph took a large sip of his drink then said, “The man you described is known as Oliver the Spy . He works directly for the Prince Regent. He poses as a revolutionary in order to root out Luddite sympathizers. No doubt you’ve heard of the Pentrich Uprising at Derbyshire and the Blanketeers demonstrations in Manchester early this year.”

Victor simply nodded.

“Well, the reason the outcome was not as disastrous is because of Oliver’s interference. I do not want your men impeding his work in anyway lest it jeopardize our relations with the Crown. In fact, given this new information, I suggest you withdraw from investigating Agent X and this young lad altogether until we know more.”

“Pardon?” Victor replied in outrage. “There are jewels and artifacts going missing all about London, not to mention dead bodies piling up. Surely you cannot mean to leave it be?”

“Calm down. I’m merely suggesting you make very discreet enquiry but if Oliver is involved, then you can rest assured, Agent X will hang in no time.”

Pall Mall, London

AN HOUR LATER AND FEELING somewhat frustrated and despondent after his meeting at the Foreign Office, Victor decided to call upon Briana and hopefully gain some clarity on her movements. He got this way when there were scenarios that did not add up. He needed answers only she could provide.

He was greeted by Renwick at the door. "I apologize, my lord. Miss Walsh is not at home today. She has gone to church."

Something in Renwick’s manner alerted Victor to the fact, Renwick was lying. Victor immediately changed tack. "Come now, Renwick. You and I both know she is not at church. Why do you not tell me where she truly is, so that she and I might enjoy a lovely picnic luncheon my cook has prepared?"

Renwick eyed Victor with careful consideration, seeming to weigh his options. "I am a loyal servant of Miss Walsh, and regrettably, I can tell you nothing more than that."

Victor attempted a different approach. "Well, 'tis a pity then. I merely wished to ensure her safety, as I have tried to warn her against visiting the prison. They are notoriously dangerous places for a lady. But she will not heed my counsel. And let us not speak of the rookeries she frequents at nights. Not to mention the coaching inn."

"You know of the coaching inn?" Renwick asked, his eyes widening.

"Indeed, I do."

"Well, she is not alone. I am usually trailing her to ensure her safety," Renwick replied somewhat defensively.

"Then pray tell, why are you here today?"

"Because Mr. Mason is guarding the mistress today."

"You know, it would not go amiss having a second man guard her as well. I would consider it an honorable duty to take on such a role. While I commend her work, I do not care for her crusade against the... wardens."

Renwick became animated then and replied, "Lord above, sir, you speak true! I have told that stubborn woman time and again to steer clear, for they are a cruel lot."

"Well, I commend her courage in standing against the establishment."

Renwick snorted. "She is far too brave for her own good, and now she consorts with those Quakers. Heaven knows ladies have no business being in Newgate Prison on a Sunday, attempting to convert the inmates. They are likely to get their throats cut the moment they close their eyes in prayer. But does the mistress heed my counsel? Nay, she does not."

Victor's back stiffened. He could scarce believe that Briana was inside Newgate Prison with some well-meaning Quakers. Instead, he remained calm and replied, "Indeed. Well, I shall take my leave. You are the most loyal of servants, Renwick."

Renwick swelled with pride, then frowned as he realized he had, in fact, just divulged her whereabouts. "Wait but a moment, sir! Come back here. You have deceived me!" Renwick shouted as he made his way down the steps after Victor, but he was not fast enough.

Victor was already in his carriage, driving away. He stuck his head out the window and called out, "Your secret is safe with me, Renwick. I vow to bring her home safely!"

Renwick scowled, his hands upon his hips. He could scarce believe Lord Cambridge had outwitted him, and he was frustrated because he could not leave the house unattended. "Renwick, you are a bloody fool!" he muttered to himself as he returned indoors.

Newgate Prison, Newgate, London

NEWGATE PRISON STOOD as a grim fortress of misery and despair in the heart of London. The massive stone structure, blackened by soot, loomed over the narrow, squalid streets that surrounded it. Its towering, walls were topped with jagged shards of glass and rusting iron spikes—a deterrent to any thoughts of escape. The entrance, a heavy wooden gate reinforced with iron bands, groaned as it opened to admit the condemned.

Inside, the air hung thick with a suffocating stench—a nauseating mixture of unwashed bodies, human waste, and the persistent odour of damp, rotting straw. The narrow corridors were dimly lit by flickering torches, casting eerie shadows upon the rough stone walls, which were cold to the touch and slick with moss. The occasional distant scream echoed through the halls, heightening the sense of danger.

The cells were small, crammed and claustrophobic spaces. The stone floors lay hard and unyielding, with only thin, straw mats for bedding.

Among the inmates, despair was palpable. Gaunt faces with hollow, sunken eyes stared vacantly. The men, women, and even children who languished in the cells wore tattered, filthy clothing. The stronger prisoners often preyed upon the weaker ones, and violent skirmishes broke out, fuelled by hunger, frustration, and scarcity of food.

Into this pit of despair ventured Victor, searching for the Quakers. He pressed his kerchief firmly against his nose, for he could scarcely breathe through the stench. He had bribed the guards a substantial sum not to alert the wardens of his presence, wishing merely to observe what Miss Briana Walsh and her fellow Quakers were about.

As he rounded a corner towards a large meeting area, he found himself accosted by several women in various states of undress, clearly offering their services in the middle of the corridor.

"'Ere, mister, are ye looking for a good tupping? I'll do ya for 'alf a penny," one called out.

"Sir, might you have some bread to spare? I shall make it worth your while. I can be a lady or a whore, whichever you prefer," offered another.

"Don't listen to them, my lord. I'm the finest there is—no complaints thus far."

Victor cast them a sideways glance, noting their dishevelled and dirty appearance. He also observed men with shrewd eyes lurking in the background. Good Lord, he thought to himself—they were soliciting in front of their own husbands. He merely shook his head and moved past them, making his way toward the meeting room.

"Typical, 'e's one of them religious sorts. More's the pity," he heard one woman remark. He presumed they had deduced his destination was their version of a church.

Victor stepped quietly through the open door so as not to disturb the proceedings, and he encountered a scene he should never have imagined amidst the chaos outside. There, inside a large and remarkably clean room, sat a most regal-looking woman in Quaker garb at a grand table at the front, reading from the Bible to a gathering of women and children. Some of the women listened intently while sewing garments, as several other Quaker ladies hovered nearby, appearing to instruct them in their needlework. Still others held small children in their laps, encouraging quiet play.

In the midst of it all moved Briana Walsh, carrying a large tray laden with fresh fruit, bread, and cheese, distributing them to eager recipients. She wore a plain grey gown with an apron, her cheeks flushed from exertion, and several strands of hair had escaped her bun to fall across her neck. Though surrounded by society's most downtrodden, she offered quiet smiles as she provided succour to the needy. When a small child tugged at her garment asking for bread, she crouched down to hand him a piece. The child, his face begrimed and clothes filthy, embraced her, and Briana did not so much as flinch when he left dirty handprints upon her clean apron. Instead, she handed the tray to another, then took a clean wet cloth and wiped his face and hands. She smiled as though he were the most precious being on earth. The effect was illuminating, not merely for the little boy who seemed mesmerized, but for Victor himself.

Though her hair was falling from its arrangement, and she wore a plain grey dress, in that moment Victor thought the contrary Miss Briana Walsh the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld.

Victor felt something shift in the vicinity of his chest and realized it was his heart, beating, pounding loudly as if awakening from its cold slumber for the first time. So caught up was he in the sensation that he had not noticed the Quaker at the front had ceased reading and now regarded him with curiosity. Indeed, the entire assembly stared at him, including Briana.

"Sir, might we be of assistance?" the woman at the front enquired.

"Pray pardon the intrusion, madam, but I am here to see Miss Walsh. I had hoped to escort her home, though I see she is rather occupied at present."

"You are most welcome, sir, but perhaps it would be more fitting if you and Miss Walsh conversed outside whilst we continue our work among the womenfolk?"

Briana's cheeks blazed crimson, and she appeared quite frozen until another Quaker lady relieved her of the cloth and ushered her toward Victor.

"Of course, I thank you, Lady—?" Victor replied with a slight bow.

"I am Mrs Elizabeth Fry. We meet here weekly with these dear women and their children."