CHAPTER SIX
How very curious, thought Verity. Something she had said had stopped Charles mid-stride, and that was not a thing that often happened. Something about Lilith. She tucked the circumstance away to think about later, and instead looked around her with curiosity as they walked. There was a good deal of busyness about this part of London, with gentlemen of many professions hurrying to and fro as well as the street children who seemed to be everywhere.
In Bow Street itself, Charles had a word with the impressive personage behind the desk, then returned to her.
“I have to go to the cells to talk to my gentleman. The sessions are in progress, so you must wait for a break before you can enter. I do not like to leave you without an escort, but if you sit on this bench here, where you are in sight of the clerk, you will be quite safe. Another time, we must bring your maid or a footman with us. I will be as quick as I can.”
“Dear Charles, I think we are both learning as we go along today. Do not hurry back if haste means you cannot help your client properly. I shall be most prudent, I assure you.”
“That,” said Charles, “would be a miracle I am not sure I deserve.”
He disappeared though a passage leading to the rear of the building. Verity chuckled, exchanged a smile with the clerk at the desk and prepared to be amused. An enormous variety of people seemed to proceed through the entrance hall, some blustery with importance, some timid, some loud and some simply weary.
Verity watched as a skinny clerk was brought in by his employer and charged with fraud. Next, several urchins were dragged through the door by the scruff of their necks having been cried as thieves, a stout, painted matron with a great many bracelets was accused of running a brothel and a very elegant gentleman supervised the deposit of a couple of ruffians, both of who had their hands efficiently tied and were in the care of the gentleman’s groom. All the charges were written down and the parties directed to either a waiting area or the cells. All apart from the elegant gentleman who got a respectful murmur of “Thank you, Sir Philip,” and an assurance that a messenger would be sent when it was his turn to give evidence.
The next gentleman to march up to the desk was one Verity took an instant dislike to. He strode in pulling a comely woman by her wrist.
“Theft,” he said in a loud, important voice. “I’ve come to report outright theft.”
The woman twisted out of his grasp and plumped herself down on the bench next to Verity. “It is not theft,” she called forcefully, rubbing her wrist. “I’ll sit here while you say your piece, then I’ll stand up like a Christian and say mine.”
“Are you quite well?” asked Verity with concern. “Your wrist seems very sore.”
“It’s been better, that’s for sure.” The woman adjusted a shawl which wasn’t doing much to cover her generous décolletage, and glanced at her in a frank, friendly fashion. “Here to watch the proceedings, are you? I’ve done that in my time. Near as good as the theatre. Warm, dry and entertaining, and without the shilling you pay on the Sans Pareil door. Not so many laughs though. Molly Turner’s my name. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Verity shook the proffered hand. “Verity Bowman. Why has that gentleman brought you here?”
Molly snorted. “Gentleman? He’s no gentleman. He stops me in the street and offers me a shilling to eat with him. Said he likes to have company. Well, some of them are like that and who am I to turn down a free meal? So we eat, he puts a shilling on table, I picks it up, he cries thief.”
“No, that’s despicable,” said Verity, feeling her eyes grow wide.
“True as I’m sitting here, and so I shall tell the magistrate. He then says if I’m nice to him, he won’t press charges. Nice. Ha, I know what that means. His sort like the power, see? Well, I’m not having that. Not that I’m above it, you understand, but as a proper business transaction, not a threat, and for more’n a shilling too. Oh, I could jump in the river for being so taken in. Now I have to defend myself against theft.”
“This is shocking. Will the judge believe you?”
“Pray he does. If I’m sent for trial and convicted, it’s transportation.” She gave a harsh laugh. “And if I’m acquitted, I’ll no doubt face a charge of prostitution and then I’m for the Bridewell. What will Ma and the kiddies do then? Pity I don’t talk nice like you. Then the magistrate would think I was respectable all right.”
Verity’s sense of justice was stung by the story. She gave Molly a candid inspection. Her clothes were not propitious, but... “I wonder, could you sit more upright, perhaps? I have noticed that the straighter one’s back is, the less people are inclined to believe you may be plotting mischief. And - oh, I know - I cannot give you my pelisse for respectability, but if you can shield me for a moment...”
Molly obligingly angled her body around, saying, “Here, miss, you’ve a smut on your brow. Let me wipe it off for you.”
“Splendid,” said Verity breathlessly, having wrestled her lawn fichu off inside her clothing. “Now, tuck this around your neck inside your bodice, pull the ribbon around your neckline tighter, and wear your shawl higher on your shoulders. There. I hope it helps.”
“You’re a treasure and no mistake.” Molly swiftly effected the transformation, then went to the desk to give her version of events to the clerk while a different official escorted Verity to a bench inside the courthouse to watch the cases and to wait for Charles.
The proceedings were fast and bewildering, the magistrate seeming to listen to the charge, absorb the statements and decide whether or not to send the accused person for trial almost in the same breath. Verity’s head was spinning by the time Molly and her accuser were brought in.
A flicker of recognition crossed the magistrate’s features. After listening to the gentleman repeating his confident charge of theft, he said, “My dear sir, you seem sadly unlucky in your choice of eating companions. I believe this to be the third time in five weeks you have brought a similar charge. Mrs Turner is plainly a respectable woman. The case is dismissed.”
Verity smiled with relief and was startled when Charles tapped her on the shoulder.
“Have you seen enough? Are you ready to leave now?”
“Yes, but it is bewildering. You must explain it properly to me. What does commit for trial mean?”
“That the victim and the accused must repeat the charge and the defence in front of judge and jury at the Old Bailey. They may also call witnesses to their character, or to the theft or whatever crime the victim claims has been committed.”
“I see. How does the magistrate decide so fast what to do?”
“He has many years experience. Certain crimes are considered minor, such as breaking the peace, others are more serious and must go for trial. Theft, murder, fraud, treason, arson... There are many more.”
They had reached the door and were descending the steps to the street, when a boy ran up to Charles and pulled on his sleeve.
“Thomas? What is it?”
“It’s Pa.”
Charles muttered under his breath. “Already? Where and when?”
“Old Bailey, sir. Now.”
Charles cursed and looked down the street to wave energetically at a hackney carriage. “Very well. Find Jenkins and bring him, if you can. I beg your pardon, Verity, but your education is about to take a further turn. In you get. To the Old Bailey, if you please.”
Verity found herself bundled inside without ceremony. The boy had disappeared, but she thought she saw a pair of heels vanish in the throng and a slight figure weave towards an alleyway. “Charles?”
Charles was staring out of the grimy window. He looked back at her, troubled but decisive. “I could wish you in Grosvenor Street, but as you are not I must tell you certain things which, while they are not in any way secret, I would prefer not to be the subject of drawing room discussion.”
Verity nodded.
“Very well. I do not always deal with settlements and wills and land contracts. There are many people who through lack of education, or illiteracy, or feeble-mindedness are accused, or taken up by the authorities, and are not able to fashion themselves a defence. Some of these people I try to help, by ascertaining facts that the accuser - the supposed victim - has suppressed. The boy who came to find me just now is the son of a coal merchant who has been accused of theft by one of his customers. The customer says he paid for coal, but only half of it was delivered. The coal merchant knows he delivered the whole order. I found a groom who saw the delivery, saw it inspected, saw the coalman paid, saw him drive away. I have taken a statement from the groom, but the man himself would lend more weight.”
Questions rose to Verity’s lips, but they had arrived at the Old Bailey and she was being hurried inside. Charles had a word with a gentleman in a brown coat, and then they were passed through into some sort of gallery.
To Verity’s swimming senses, the proceedings seemed to take very little more time than they had in the Bow Street courthouse. Beside her, Charles was so intent on the scene that she didn’t like to disturb him, so it was a few minutes before she could sort out who was speaking and what their function was.
There was a flurry of movement, everyone seemed to breathe and the noise level rose, then a clerk was banging with some sort of hammer and a charge was read out.
Verity heard the words ‘...wilfully stealing a handkerchief from ...’ and then lost the rest. A stout man repeated the charge, pointed over to a bench, another man nodded and agreed that he’d witnessed the theft. There were more voices, then a juryman said ‘Guilty’ and the judge perfunctorily pronounced the accused to be sentenced to death.
Verity felt a shocked jolt run through her, even more so when a small girl was led away, her face white and pinched. She turned to Charles, appalled. “I cannot believe it. That child is to die for stealing a handkerchief? A handkerchief?”
Charles’s face twisted. “I am sorry, I knew I should not have brought you here. I am every kind of fool and I apologize profoundly. Verity, theft of all property worth a shilling or more attracts the death sentence, but it is rarely carried out. The cost of the handkerchief will be valued at less than a shilling and the sentence commuted.”
Verity’s distress eased a little. “Oh. Oh, well that is better. Commuted to what?”
Charles hesitated, looking wretched. “Transportation. Hard labour. But very often the accused are not taken to the ships at all.”
Transportation. Away from family and friends and everything they have known. Verity swallowed. “But some are?”
He gave a reluctant nod.
“Why? Why do they steal when the consequences are so final?”
“For food. For clothing. In the country, a family may just about scratch enough food for themselves out of the soil, but here in the city it must be bought. A penny from a stolen handkerchief goes frighteningly far in a desperate household.”
“Can nothing be done?”
“Who is to do it? It is impossible to employ all the poor people in London. Hush now, this is my man. I must be ready to go down.”
Verity had never felt so cold. She sat in a frozen numbness through the charge and the depositions. She watched as Charles handed in the statement and was glad when the jury found the coal merchant not guilty. She stirred only when Charles reappeared beside her and put his hand on her arm.
“Come, I will take you home,” he said in a gentle voice.
She managed to wait until they were out in the hallway before she turned blindly to him and hid her face in his coat.
His arms were comfortable around her, strong and firm. “I know,” he murmured. “I know, Verity. This is why I do what I can.”
Fool. Imbecile. Idiot. Charles castigated himself over and over as he summoned a hackney carriage and helped Verity inside. However stubborn she was being, insisting on going about with him for the day, he should never have taken her to the Old Bailey sessions. A sheltered country upbringing was little preparation for the desperate wave of humanity to be found in the cells, waiting their turn for justice, if justice could ever be found in an unequal society.
She sat close to him in the carriage, but quiet, leaving him to wrestle with a second problem. He needed to get a message urgently to Fitz. The man he had seen at Bow Street had let slip the information that a slave trader was in London from Liverpool, and was looking for investors. Slave trading was illegal, so if they could obtain evidence against the man leading to a successful prosecution, that would be one more foul outlet shut down.
Alex Rothwell moved in the right circles but he was well known as an abolitionist and a reformer, so would never be accepted by the trader. Fitz, on the other hand, had money and position. The rogue merchant would believe him out of sheer greed. The question was, how to get word to him without suspicion? As a rule the members of the Pool kept as far apart as possible. Slave trading was nothing to do with their current investigations, but as they suspected the shadow master they were after was someone high up, Fitz especially had to stay clear of the rest of them. Charles was loathe to use a street boy to carry a note that could be easily discovered and both ends then traced to make a connection. The same went for a public messenger.
Verity stirred. “I beg your pardon for being such poor company. I will not be so overset another time. I am glad you help these people, Charles.”
He felt an unexpected glow at her praise. “It is little enough I do, but it is a start.”
“I see now why you are always working. What do you do this evening? Julia and I are going to a soiree at Lady Fitzgilbert’s house. The music will be indifferent, but our main purpose is to support Lilith in the face of her stepmama’s guests and discuss a programme of rational occupation for me.” She gave a small, unhappy laugh. “I hardly feel I need it after today. That child’s face. I cannot believe I will ever be frivolous again.”
Charles straightened up so fast his head nearly hit the roof of the carriage. Lady Fitzgilbert. Well now, see where virtue got you. He could hardly believe his good fortune. Even if Fitz was not at home, he could ask a footman to take a note to his study. “I agree, it is difficult to be cheerful in the face of the misery at the Old Bailey, but I would be sad never to hear you laugh again. Does my mother go tonight, or shall I accompany you and Julia? Would that please you?”
She looked at him, astonishment writ so plain on her face that he felt a twinge of guilt at dissembling. “Very much, but it will please Godmama more. She says she has given up on you visiting with the fashionable set in the evenings and behaving like a gentleman. I do not think she quite understands the value of an income and how much more pleasant it is to have money than not to have it, nor how hard you work to achieve an equable state.”
He laughed, amused. “Finances have never been my mother’s strong suit. At what time is the soiree?”
“I do not know. Timing means very little to Julia. You had best dine in Grosvenor Street. Charles, you do understand the soiree is being given by Lady Fitzgilbert? She has the best of intentions, but an ear for music is not generally counted to be amongst the most plentiful of her gifts.”
“I feel I should make amends to you for taking you to the Old Bailey this afternoon.”
“Fudge. You have another purpose in mind. Oh, of course, how silly of me. I should advise you that it is by no means certain Lieutenant Crisp will be present.”
Charles sat back, content to leave that idea in Verity’s head. “I will endeavour to bear the disappointment.”