Kingslayer's Daughter Page 11

  “The place is packed,” Munro said with dismay.

  “Such a charge tends to draw a crowd,” Grove replied, leading the way to two vacant seats in the front row.

  Everyone stopped talking and came to their feet when the black-robed magistrate appeared and called for the first case.

  A bewigged barrister bowed to the judge and shuffled papers. “Giles Raincourt, M’lud. Charged with attempted murder.”

  “Bring forth the prisoner,” the magistrate drawled, leaving Munro with the impression the man was already bored with the proceedings.

  His gut tightened when an ashen-faced Giles was led out of the cells and manhandled into the dock. Even on tiptoe, he had trouble peering over the railing. His eyes widened when he looked up at the gallery.

  Munro smiled.

  Giles never stopped staring at him while the barrister droned on with the details of the dastardly poisoning of the headmaster and the boy’s confession. He gestured to the nodding Beadle. “This man is the Beadle of the Apothecary Guild. He will confirm what is alleged.”

  Men scowled, women tutted.

  “They’ve decided he’s guilty already,” Grove whispered.

  The magistrate looked down his nose at Giles. “Is there no one to speak for the lad?”

  Munro leapt to his feet. “I’ll speak for him, my lord.”

  Every head in the gallery swiveled to see who had volunteered so boldly.

  The barrister scowled.

  Clerks gawked.

  A hint of color returned to Giles’ face.

  “And who might you be, sir?”

  “Munro Pendray, son of the Earl of Glenheath.”

  As he’d hoped, his father’s standing carried weight.

  “State your case, milord.”

  Munro gripped the railing. “I speak on behalf of Mrs. Sarah North, the apothecary to whom Giles was recently apprenticed.”

  The barrister spluttered. “I object, M’lud. Why is the woman not here if she knows the facts of the matter?”

  “Mrs. North is keeping vigil at her dying mother’s bedside,” Munro explained. “Otherwise she would have come, and will corroborate what I am about to tell ye when she is able.”

  “Overruled,” the magistrate declared.

  Encouraged, Munro proceeded to outline the events of the morning, stressing that Battersby himself broke the seal and handed the remedy to another senior boy.

  The magistrate leaned forward. “What was this remedy for?”

  Munro shook his head. “I dinna ken.”

  “Raincourt?”

  Giles blushed and whispered, “Flatlance, M’lud.”

  “Louder.”

  Giles looked at Munro. “Farting, sir.”

  Lips pursed, the magistrate banged his gavel when folk in the crowd tittered. “This is no laughing matter. What is the name of the other boy?”

  “Justin Addison,” Giles replied loudly. “He’s Head Boy.”

  There was a communal intake of breath.

  “Oh dear,” Grove said. “He’s from a wealthy family. His father controls several major iron foundries.”

  Munro thought of his mother’s steadfast courage in the face of the Parliamentary army’s might. He couldn’t allow an orphan to take the blame for a crime perpetrated by another. “My lord,” he began, “Giles Raincourt recently suffered a tremendous loss when his parents died in a fire. Despite that, he embraced the new opportunity of an apprenticeship offered by Mrs. North, herself lately widowed.”

  “Objection,” the barrister bellowed. “What does this have to do with the crime?”

  Munro took a chance. “I’d wager many in this very room can attest to Mrs. North’s meticulous attention to detail and to the effectiveness of her remedies.”

  Heads nodded.

  “Including me,” the magistrate replied. “Overruled.”

  Munro appealed to the gallery. “Surely, ’tis in the interest of justice to at least investigate further. Can a constable nay be sent to the school? Mayhap the Beadle can add his considerable expertise to the search for the truth?”

  As Munro hoped, the Guild’s officer rose to the bait. “If it please M’lud, I’d be willing.”

  “I myself will accompany the expedition,” the magistrate declared, bringing the gavel down hard. “Adjourned.”

  Munro regained his seat and took a deep breath.

  Grove slapped him on the back. “I was confident you’d come around once you got over the shock. Sarah needs a man of principle like you.”

  “Let’s hope we catch the real culprit at the school.”

  * * *

  As Sarah leafed through more than a hundred letters, it soon became clear that most of them had been written during her father’s incarceration in the Tower. There he’d spent months awaiting the king’s decision regarding punishment of the kingslayers. Mary’s replies were easy to identify, her script neat, the wit astonishing.

  She read and re-read one of Marten’s lengthier letters. It was a well-reasoned diatribe explaining the motivation for his actions and refuting the notion that he had murdered King Charles.

  It was clear from the convoluted language and the many Latin citations that Henry Marten was a lawyer by profession. Despite her knowledge of the dead language, she had to admit most of it was Greek to her. However, though she disagreed with the execution of the monarch, she began to get an inkling of why her father had deemed it the right course of action. One admission in particular caught her eye. She had always assumed he and Cromwell were birds of a feather, but it seemed her mother was right—Henry Marten had become disenchanted with the Protector’s self-aggrandizement during the republic.

  Had I suspected that the axe which took off the late king’s head, should have been made a stirrup for our first false general, I should sooner have consented to my own death than his.

  It appeared imprisonment in the Tower was relatively comfortable. Her father was able to receive visitors, and send and receive luxuries. There were at least a hundred references to his brats. The depth of his love for his three illegitimate daughters shone through on almost every page.

  I sent thee a barrel of oysters yesterday, which I hope the brats have not guttled away.

  Here are a few pennies and a bottle of good claret. Blessings upon all my pretty brats, and upon their mother.

  I have given the bearer money to buy thee nine pound of soap, two pound of candles, and a sixpenny loaf. I am glad to hear thou and my brats are well.

  Next, I am to have an account how my dear does, and my brats, though I can scarce believe a word thou sayest, when thou tellest me they are all well; God be with my poor heart, and all the little pieces thereof.

  After Sarah and her sisters suffered a bout of chickenpox, he asked after his pocky rogues.

  I dispatch this bearer to thee, as to learn how my brats do, especially the little one.

  “Little one,” she whispered. “You thought of me, Papa.” Indeed, her father mentioned her by name more than once, sometimes using his nickname for her—Poppet.

  She tried to imagine the deep-seated fear lodged in his gut as he waited for news of his fate. Yet, his letters were full of concern for Mary and his children.

  I have set another friend of mine to work about lodgings for thee.

  Thou toldst me that thy two bigger brats received my tokens, but that was, I suppose, my lesser tokens, the 2 pence and the penny, but I sent Sarah a sixpence.

  A vague memory tugged. She did remember her mother giving her that sixpence.

  He asked more than once if any of his daughters took after him.

  Look upon my little brats, and see if thy dear be not among them; has not one of them his face, another his brains, another his mirth? That is just the best thing in this world, and a thing that could not be taken from me.

  She wiped her face with a kerchief and got up to peer into the mirror. “Do I look like you?” she asked. Mayhap she had inherited his brains. Not every woman became a successful
apothecary. She’d never considered Henry Marten a man of mirth, but he evidently saw himself in such a light—and so had her mother. There hadn’t been much mirth in Sarah’s life, but she suspected Munro Pendray would quickly remedy that lack—if she gave him a chance.

  She chuckled at Marten’s teasing of her mother:

  My duty to the brats, and not a bit of love to thee, for thou hast got it all already, greedy-gut.

  The one constant in all the letters was Marten’s abiding love for Mary. He called her his sweet dove, and told her she was his last and only love, though I were sure to live an hundred years longer, and thou not half so many hours.

  The love they shared sustained him.

  Well, in spite of them all, thou and I will see one another if we can, and (if we cannot) love one another better then any of them is able to love himself.

  She swallowed hard when she read, My sweet dear, brave gallant soul, now stand thy ground. I am to be tried with the other signatories. Pluck up thy strength, my good heart.

  But the words she repeated over and over until she feared her heart might break were

  Buss my little brats for my heart, their Daddy, H.M.

  “Daddy,” she whispered as she folded the letters and returned them to the satchel.

  Snuff

  Munro, Grove, the Beadle and the pompous barrister were offered seats in the magistrate’s carriage. Munro opted to walk with the two constables escorting Giles to the school, but encouraged the cleric to accept the offer. “The barrister will be less inclined to plead his case if you go with them.”

  “I’ll ask you to keep yer distance from the prisoner, sir,” one of the constables admonished after the carriage left.

  Munro was tempted to retort that it was ludicrous to think he intended to free the boy, but decided to hold his peace.

  “My thanks, Mr. Pendray,” Giles said as they marched off. “You didn’t have to help me.”

  “Ye didna have to confess to a crime ye didna commit,” Munro replied.

  The pitiful sight of the lad manacled and dragging leg irons nigh on had him convinced he should try to free him. He itched to brandish a fist at the gawkers.

  Grove met them at the school’s entry doors, another man at his side. “This gentleman is Mr. Drummond, Deputy Headmaster.”

  The academic adjusted his black robe and looked down his nose at Giles. “Raincourt,” he hissed. “There’s no purpose to this charade. Why not simply admit…”

  Munro stepped between him and Giles. “This boy is innocent until ye prove otherwise, Mr. Drummond. I’m Viscount Munro Pendray and I intend to see justice wins the day.”

  Drummond’s eyes widened at the mention of Munro’s title, but Grove intervened before the schoolmaster could reply. “Now, gentlemen, we’re to adjourn to the Headmaster’s study. Addison has been summoned there, and a search undertaken of his room.”

  “Waste of time,” Drummond muttered. “However, if you’ll follow me.”

  They encountered few pupils in the long, eerily silent corridors. “The whole school is dreadfully worried about our dear headmaster,” Drummond explained.

  Giles snorted.

  Munro assumed the lanky, pimple-faced boy standing ramrod straight beside the magistrate and the barrister was Addison. The prefect sneered at Giles’ chains, but, to his credit, the orphan met his gaze with defiance.

  “The Beadle has gone to search Addison’s room,” the barrister explained, “though I fail to see the purpose.”

  Munro realized this was the second time Addison’s room had been referred to. He hadn’t paid attention before, but…

  “’Tis a privilege to have yer own room,” he said to the boy.

  “Yes, well, Justin is entitled as Head Boy,” Drummond replied.

  Addison said nothing, but Munro hadn’t missed the momentary flicker of panic in his eyes. “Aye, ye must enjoy the privacy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Addison conceded.

  “Ye must be well thought of to be appointed Head Boy?”

  “Only because his father’s well off,” Giles said, earning a slap on the back of his head from the constable.

  “What do ye think happened to the Headmaster?” Munro asked Addison.

  Again, the boy’s eyes betrayed his unease, but he shrugged and said, “He was poisoned, sir.”

  “And ye think the poison was in the remedy?”

  “I suppose so, sir.”

  “Did ye notice anything odd about the contents o’ the wrapper when ye had it in yer possession?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So the seal was broken when it was handed to ye? When ye peeked inside, what did ye see?”

  “Powder, sir.”

  The barrister frowned, apparently realizing the boy had just admitted having access to the contents. “Who broke the seal?”

  The color drained from the Head Boy’s face as quickly as it had risen. “Mr. Battersby, sir.”

  “Was Giles Raincourt present when that took place?” Munro asked.

  Addison clenched his jaw. “No, sir.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Mr. Battersby told me to escort the visitors off the premises.”

  “And did ye take the remedy with ye?”

  He studied his socks. “Yes, sir.”

  “And did the headmaster pay Mrs. North for the remedy?”

  “Er, yes, sir. He gave her sixpence.”

  “From his pocket or from the drawer?”

  Addison hesitated.

  Drummond opened a drawer of the desk. “I fail to see the relevance of all this. Battersby keeps a quantity of coin in…it’s not here. Did you steal it, Raincourt?”

  Munro shook his head. “Addison has already told us Giles wasna in the study.”

  “Too right,” Giles confirmed.

  The magistrate stroked his beard. “Let me see if I have this correct. The Headmaster broke the seal. Did he look inside, or inhale? That’s the first thing I’d do.”

  Munro was beginning to warm to the magistrate.

  By now, Addison had the look of a fox brought to ground by the hounds. “He said he detected peppermint.”

  “So he apparently noticed naught amiss with the contents,” the magistrate concluded.

  Chains jingled as Giles pointed an accusing finger. “Hogg escorted us out too. They’re in it together.”

  The Beadle’s abrupt entry into the study surprised everyone. “Found this,” he declared, brandishing a kerchief tied to make a small pouch.

  “It was all Hogg’s idea,” Addison blurted out, looking close to tears. “He said the remedy was probably for flatulence and we should add something to make Old Battersby fart more. We took mushrooms from the scullery. We didn’t know they were poisonous and never meant for the headmaster to get sick. Then, later, Hogg said we should take the coin and no one would be any the wiser.”

  The Beadle frowned as he untied the pouch. “I’m not sure what you thought I found, boy. We uncovered your stash of snuff. I assumed you’d filched it from your father.”

  Addison’s eyes darted to the door, but the constables took up a position either side of him.

  The barrister gaped.

  Drummond clenched his jaw.

  “Find this Hogg boy,” the magistrate ordered one of the constables, “and get those chains on the true culprit before you go.”

  Addison stared at the manacles as they were clamped on his wrists. Munro feared the lad might burst into tears when Drummond ordered him to remove his prefect’s socks before the leg irons were fastened. “I’m tempted to feel sorry for ye,” he admitted, “but then I remind myself ye were willing to stand by and watch a hard-working woman and an innocent boy go to the gallows.”

  “But it was Hogg’s fault,” Addison whined. “My father will soon have me out of these chains. You’ll see.”

  “That may be true, but I doot Hogg will take all the blame and let ye go scot-free.”

  Grove and the magistrate chuckled at the double-e
ntendre, but Drummond, the Beadle and the barrister seemed to miss the humor.

  Giles threw his arms around Munro’s waist and hugged him as Addison was escorted from the study by the constables.

  Alleluia

  Drummond offered the use of Battersby’s carriage to transport Munro, Giles and Grove back to Edgbaston Street.

  “I suppose he feels remorse,” Munro suggested as the carriage lurched into motion.

  “More like he wants us to see the school in a more favorable light,” Grove countered. “They’ll protect their reputation at all costs.”

  “I never want to go back there again,” Giles said, still clinging to Munro’s arm.

  “And I see nay reason why ye should,” Munro reassured him with a smile.

  The lad was still chattering away when they arrived back at the shop. The sign indicated the establishment was closed, but the door was unlocked. There could be only one explanation. Sarah was still preoccupied upstairs with her mother.

  “It will take Sarah a long while to gain back trust,” Grove said sadly. “Even after the truth is known. Folk are superstitious.”

  “I’ll help,” Giles replied.

  Munro barely paid attention, itching to rush up to the apartment, but afraid to intrude. He still wasn’t sure of Sarah’s true feelings about her mother. However, he’d promised to accept responsibility for everything concerning Sarah. If Mary had passed, it was for him to offer comfort.

  “Can I ask ye to bide a wee, Reverend?” he asked.

  Grove nodded, his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Make us some tea, Giles.”

  The two disappeared into the workroom.

  As Munro slowly climbed the stairs, he reminded himself it was imperative not to reveal he knew Sarah’s secret. He hoped she would trust him enough to tell him sooner or later.

  The poignant scene that greeted him touched his heart. Sarah had laid her mother out in her new frock. She sat in the chair beside the bed, clutching Mary’s battered satchel to her breast. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy.

  Heartbreaking as it was, Mary’s death had evidently stirred Sarah’s emotions and he took that as a good omen. Still, he dithered over what to say, what comfort to offer. He’d barely known the old woman, yet he, too, felt a sense of loss.