A grub street writer - a journalistic hack

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose

 

Keziah swallowed as Lady Margaret’s piercing green eyes settled on her. In her hand, she held The Bath Herald and Register.

“Have you seen this?” she demanded, waving the paper in Keziah’s face. “Our family’s name, dragged through the dirt, gossip and scandal at our door, and it’s all your fault!”

Keziah blanched, knowing there was enough truth to the words to make guilt a weight in her chest. She’d brought Ash nothing but trouble when he deserved so much more, but she’d done it for the best.

“I know,” she said, blinking back tears and wishing she could go back and change things. “But I … I never meant to, I was trying to help him, to save him,” she said, wishing that the woman could at least understand what they’d gone through.

“Save him from what?” the dowager duchess demanded with obvious scorn. “As far as I can see, you are the only thing he needs saving from. No one would have convicted him of your wretched father’s murder, the very idea’s preposterous,” she added with a snort. “But you are involved in this.” The words were hard and certain and Keziah feared what she might do to protect her family. “I fear you’ll drag him down into the mire, and the rest of us with him.”

“I had to warn him though,” Keziah objected, holding out her hands and begging the woman to understand. “If I’d have done nothing, my father would have murdered him.”

“What?”

Keziah paused as the older woman stared at her in alarm.

“Lord Todd meant to kill him?” Lady Margaret whispered, her face growing white as the idea sank in.

Keziah nodded, and went to sit down beside her, taking her hand. “It’s the only reason I got involved,” she said, praying that the woman believe her. “My father was a wicked and hateful man, your grace. He planned to marry your daughter and then kill Ash to get control of the family fortune.” Lady Margaret blinked, staring at her anew. “He’s done it before,” she added, hearing her voice tremble a little. “He killed my mother, you see, but … but I couldn’t let him hurt Ash.”

“And you stopped him?” she asked, her voice low.

Keziah shook her head. “I warned Ash,” she said, staring at the floor. “And I took him to Smallcombe woods to teach him to shoot. My father intended to kill him and make it look like a hunting accident when he was invited to stay at Chartley. I told Ash that he must strike first, only …”

“Only?” Lady Margaret pressed, her expression intense as she clutched at Keziah’s hand.

“Only my father must have been watching me, or had his valet, Martin, watching me, as somehow he knew I was betraying him. He … he attacked Molly to find out what we were doing and then … then me,” she said, remembering again the terror she’d felt as her father’s fist raised towards her, and took a breath to steady her nerves. “So I ran here, and … and w-when Ash discovered what he’d done, he … he went and h-he shot him.”

Keziah looked up to see how this information had been taken. Lady Margaret was perfectly still, the only sign of her distress the fact that her skin was marble white.

“I didn’t believe him. He told me he’d gone that night, but I was sure he must be making it up as … well, he’s always been such a … a …”

“Disappointment?” Keziah said, the accusation in her voice as clear as the anger on her husband’s behalf. But the dowager shook her head, giving a crooked smile.

“A peacemaker,” she amended. “The sweet-natured kind of man who tends to get walked over by those stronger and braver, you see, and … and I never really believed he had it in him to do something so … decisive,” she murmured before looking back at Keziah. “He must truly love you.”

Guilt weighed heavier still in Keziah’s chest, the burden of it making it hard to breathe. “Yes,” she admitted. “I think he does, and believe me, I know I do not deserve it. Not any of it.”

Lady Margaret frowned, then, staring at her with an expression Keziah could not read.

“I suppose that remains to be seen,” she replied, that rather formidable tone returning to her voice and making Keziah quail a little.

They jumped in shock as a faint knock sounded on the bedroom door. Molly, who had been watching proceedings in terrified silence, now stirred herself to open it as they stood. A footman waited at the door, bearing a silver tray which he offered to Lady Margaret.

“Apologies for the interruption, your grace,” he said as Lady Margaret took the sealed note from the tray. “Only, Lord Ashwicke was insistent that this be given into your hand at precisely four PM.”

The dowager frowned and closed the door in the footman’s face as she tore at the seal bearing the Chartley crest. With a sense of dread creeping up upon her like a heavy black storm on the horizon, Keziah watched as the dowager looked up again, her eyes glittering with fury.

“The bloody fool,” she cursed. “Your heroic and bottle-headed husband has just given himself up to inspector Formby, for the murder of your father and Martin Snyder.”

“W-what?” Keziah stammered as fear clutched at her heart, a cold, sickening feeling that was a pain in her chest. “B-but why … why would he …?”

“To protect you, of course!” the dowager snapped, crumpling the letter into a ball. “He knows you were out the night that blasted valet died as well as our tenacious Mr Formby does, and he knew the wretched fellow was going to prove it.”

Keziah jolted as though she’d been slapped. How could she know that? She stared at Molly, who shook her head, silent but obviously sincere.

“I think,” Lady Margaret said with the tone of a woman who can and will make the world and those in it to bend at her dictate. “I rather think that this has gone on long enough.”

And with that, she swept out of the room.

Keziah stood still, vaguely aware that she was trembling, as Molly took her hand and guided her back to the bed.

“She’s right,” she whispered, looking up at Molly with horror. The idea that Ash would get himself dragged through the dirt and quite possibly even hanged, was something that she could not allow to happen. “This can’t go any further, Molly. We must go … now.”

***

Ash comforted himself with the knowledge that he had, at least, rather taken the wind out of the inspector’s sails.

He stood now, in the man’s rather shabby office and looking every inch a pink of the ton after having dressed with the greatest of care. After all, if one was going to go down in history as the murdering duke, one should at least look one’s best. He took a moment to study his reflection in the glass of a large bookcase, pausing to give his cravat the slightest tweak, before turning back to see Mr Formby still gaping at him in shock.

The fellow’s face darkened as he folded his elbows on the desk in front of him and leaned forward. To be fair, he’d stood when Ash had come in, had even bowed, though it was a perfunctory affair, but he’d sat down in a hurry once Ash had revealed his purpose.

“Now, let me get this straight,” the man said, closing his eyes and holding up one hand to stop Ash from saying anything further. “You are confessing to the murders of Lord Todd and his valet, Martin Snyder?”

Ash nodded and took a moment to regard his fingernails. He was doing his level best to channel the manner of his grandfather, who had been a cold-blooded devil, and the more he acted, the more he felt it unlikely the inspector would see that he was actually quaking in his boots. Every instinct told him to deny everything and run. He didn’t want to hang, after all, and a confession to two acts of murder would be hard for even the most determined jury to dismiss. But the idea that Keziah might hang in his place, when everything she had done, she’d done to protect him … he couldn’t do it, could not live with that. He loved her, loved her enough to give up everything to keep her safe. But regret was a burden that sat upon his heart, making him long to return to her, a least for a while. He wished with everything he had that he could have had a little more time, even just one more night with her, but wishes were for fools, and he refused to play one any longer. It was time to be a man, the only way he knew how.

“Well, I’m buggered,” the inspector muttered, sitting back in his chair and staring at Ash like he’d just grown a second head.

Ash gave an imperious lift of one eyebrow that would have done his grandmother proud. “Well, inspector? You’ve been dogging my steps for days and getting under my feet, and now I’ve given you what you want, so you’d best get on and arrest me. Or do I have to do that, too?” he said, sounding utterly bored.

Mr Formby scowled and got to his feet, stalking to the door of his office and wrenching it open. “Greenly!” he yelled, so loud that Ash winced as his ears rang.

The young man that Ash had seen accompanying the inspector hurried forward.

“Find his grace a cell,” the inspector barked. “I’m arresting him for the murder of Lord Todd and Martin Snyder.” Greenly’s eyes grew wide and round, but he didn’t budge an inch. “Well?” Formby bellowed, dragging a hand through the sparse remains of his hair. “What the devil are you waiting for? Take him away!”

So Ash followed constable Greenly to the cells and heard the unmistakable sound of Mr Formby slamming his office door with some force as he went.

***

Constable Greenly regarded his superior with misgiving. He felt rather like a fat mouse sitting in the shadow of a hungry tomcat. Those claws could lash out at any moment. He knew damn well that the inspector was in a rage, and he also knew that whatever question he asked or answer he returned … he’d be wrong. There was no winning when the guv’nor was in this mood, so he may as well accept the fact he was likely to get a trimming and stop cowering in the corner.

It was perplexing, though. Formby had been muttering since this affair began that Lord Ashwicke was up to his cravat in it, but now that he had him locked up nice and snug, was he happy?

Was he buggery.

Greenly scowled as he considered the conundrum. Perhaps it was because the old fellow hadn’t worked it out for himself. Devilish good at a puzzle, he was, got a reputation as one of the best detectives around, to be fair. In fact, Greenly had been proud as punch to be working with him, even knowing he was considered a rather odd character with uncertain moods. Something Greenly now had experience of first hand. Likely that was it, the constable decided after turning it from all angles. Just like Mr Formby had been furious that Lord Todd had been murdered because he’d wanted to get him to the gallows fair and square, he’d felt he’d been cheated. This must be the same. He’d wanted to work out how Lord Ashwicke had done it and get the conviction, and the fellow just handing himself in had spoiled his fun.

Thinking that he’d be doing the fellow a favour by allowing him to show off his detective skills, Greenly asked with the nonchalance air of an adult offering a child a flavoured ice, “Well, then, sir, how did he manage to kill Lord Todd and Martin Snyder?”

For a moment, there was a rather taut silence, and then Formby turned and gave his constable a look of such deep irritation that Greenly heartily wished he’d kept his blasted gob shut.

“Find me the boy,” Formby growled, banging his fist down on his desk with such fury that the peppermint tea the constable had just brought in to ease his superior’s unsettled guts jumped from its cup and slopped onto the desk. “I want that boy in here before sunset or I’ll have someone’s bloody neck for it … Yours!” he raged as Greenly took his chance and escaped as fast as he could.

***

Keziah huddled into the threadbare cloak that Molly had found to disguise her, and shivered. Any signs of spring seemed absent today, the wind funnelling down the streets of Bath with a wolf-like howl, tugging at skirts and bonnets and keeping anyone with any sense indoors. The skies were growing dark fast, too, though it was barely half-four as storm clouds boiled overhead. Molly glanced over her shoulder for at least the tenth time since they’d evaded the guard watching the house. Keziah echoed the movement, seeing no one but those who had no choice walking behind them, heads bent to the wind as they hurried on towards the Quay on the river Avon at the south side of the city. The streets were older and meaner here, a far cry from the open grandeur of Royal Crescent and the Circus. Dilapidated buildings, dark with dirt and lack of repair, leaned into each other like drunks at a bar.

“Keep ye hand on ye ha’penny, miss,” Molly said, looking anxious and pale, her voice almost snatched away by the wind as it tore past them. “T’ain’t the sort a place the likes of you oughta be.”

“Nor you, Molly,” Keziah replied, hanging onto her maid’s arm as they walked faster. Cold, fat drops of rain began to patter down, slow and forbidding as they turned into Curtis Street. Keziah shuddered as the wind caught at her bonnet, and an icy drop slid down the back of her neck.

“’Ere it is,” Molly said, tugging on her arm and dragging her towards an especially grim lodging house. A toothless woman with bare arms sat on the steps unheeding of rain or wind, hugging an empty bottle of gin to her breast and muttering to herself as Molly hurried Keziah past and inside.

The stench inside was far worse than out, which was bad enough with the foul odours from the quayside drifting down the narrow streets. Keziah followed, breathing through her mouth and praying there were no foul diseases lingering on the filthy air. They picked their way through with care in the almost pitch black until a door was reached, and Molly knocked twice, paused, and then knocked once more.

A moment later, and scurrying could be heard on the other side, then a bolt was drawn back and the door opened an inch to see the frightened eyes of a boy way out of his depth.

“Hello, Frankie,” Keziah said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “We’ve come to visit you.”