Brandon said nothing. His eyes glittered with stubborn fury.
I wondered what the devil was the matter with him. He behaved as though he did not want to be proved innocent.
Perhaps he was throwing himself to the wolves, knowing that Mrs. Harper had killed Turner. But why on earth should he feel so compelled to go to the gallows for her? Brandon was, all in all, a selfish man. Why he'd suddenly become heroic for another person was a mystery to me.
Sir Nathaniel straightened his papers. 'Very well, I have made my decision. Colonel Brandon, I am committing you to trial for the murder of Mr. Henry Turner on the night of the fifth of April. The evidence against you is stronger than the evidence for your innocence. You will go to Newgate prison and remain there until your trial. Thank you, Mr. Pomeroy. Please have Colonel Brandon escorted to the prison.'
Pomeroy looked slightly taken aback. I imagined he'd regarded arresting his former colonel as a good joke, assuming I'd quickly get him off. But Sir Nathaniel looked severe, in his understated way.
Pomeroy rose. Grenville and I stood up with him.
'Sir Nathaniel,' I said. 'Must he stay in the prison? It will be a blow to a man of his standing.'
'I am sorry, Captain Lacey, but there are laws. Colonel Brandon will live in Newgate until he stands in the dock. The wait will not be long, and he will have a private room. He will not live in the common cells with the rabble.'
No, Brandon was wealthy enough to afford a room with furnishings and good meals. His physical comfort would not be impaired, but he'd be a ruined man.
'Colonel,' Pomeroy said reluctantly.
The only one who did not argue was Brandon. He rose, his face set, and let Pomeroy lead him from the room.
Newgate prison stood at the intersection of Newgate Street and Old Bailey, north of Ludgate Hill and not far from Saint Paul's Cathedral. The dome of the cathedral hung against the leaden sky as Grenville stopped his phaeton in the crowds of Ludgate Hill at my request.
'I can drive you all the way,' Grenville offered.
I declined. 'Your high-stepping horses and polished rig are for Hyde Park, not the gallows yard at Newgate.'
Grenville nodded his understanding. He'd certainly draw attention if he went down to the prison. He held the horses steady while the tiger hopped from his perch on the back and assisted me to the ground.
'I am sorry for all this, Lacey,' Grenville said. 'I was not much help, was I?'
'You told what you saw. Not your fault that Brandon is so damned stubborn.' I adjusted my hat. 'Will you take a message to Mrs. Brandon? Tell her what happened at the examination, and that I am here to settle Brandon's needs. Tell her I will come as soon as I can.'
Grenville regarded me a moment, as though he wanted to say something more. But already people were taking notice of him and the elegant phaeton. Grenville took the hint, tipped his hat, then signaled his horses to move on. I walked the rest of the way to the prison.
Newgate prison itself was a depressing building of gray block stones. Windows, barred and forbidding, lined its walls. In the open area outside the gate was the gallows, empty today. Hangings took place on Monday for the public; those waiting their turn inside could watch. Today was Sunday. The condemned would attend chapel and emerge tomorrow to their dooms.
When I'd been a lad, the hangings had taken place at Tyburn near the end of what was now Park Lane. Once when I'd come to London with my father, I'd sneaked away to witness a hanging there. I still remembered the fevered press of bodies, the excitement and dismay radiating from the crowd, the buildup of frenzy as the prisoner rolled past in his cart, ready to face the gallows.
Thinking back, the hanged man must have been less than twenty years old, though he'd seemed older to me at the time. He'd stood straight in the cart, nodding to the crowd like an actor pleased by his audience. The guards with him had led him up the steps to the scaffold, where he'd stood and addressed us all.
'Friends, today I die for the crime of being honest. I honestly stole those clothes from me master's shop.'
The crowd had laughed. He'd grinned along with them. 'Do not cry for me, I go to a better place.' He'd looked around. 'Any place is better than Newgate in the damp.'
Again, they'd laughed. The hangman had cut off his words by jamming a hood over his head and a noose around his neck.
I'd crept to the very edge of the scaffold while he'd joked with the crowd. I'd seen the young man's face before the hood had gone down. He'd been gray, his lips trembling. He might have made light of his punishment to others, but he was terrified.
When they hauled him from his feet, he gave a startled cry, which was cut off in mid-breath. I watched in fascinated horror as he kicked and struggled mightily to live, then just to breathe, while the crowed cheered or mocked him.
They'd cut him down, stone dead, and sold his clothes to the people there.
I'd run back to the townhouse my father had rented and was sick all night.
I'd witnessed hangings since then, in the army, in India, and deaths more terrible, but the hanging I'd seen as a child of six had seemed the worst terror I could have faced. I'd dreamed for weeks that I was that man, having my vision cut abruptly off by the hood, feeling the burn of the rope about my neck, hearing the crowd laughing and cheering.
Passing the gallows now, I felt a qualm of that old dread, the ghost of the noose that had killed the young thief.
Pomeroy and Brandon had already arrived. I caught up to them as they passed beneath the gate, following them into a courtyard that smelled of urine.
Pomeroy went to the keeper's room, a square office with a bench and a table and a window giving onto the courtyard. The keeper was alone with another turnkey, the two men portly from beef and ale.
Pomeroy released Brandon officially, then said, 'He's a posh gent. He'll want the finest rooms you have.'
'Oh?' the keeper guffawed. 'A duke, is 'e?'
'He's a colonel and a gentleman,' Pomeroy said severely. 'He's to be treated fine, or I'll hear of it.'
The keeper seemed a bit in awe of Pomeroy, probably with good reason. Pomeroy was a powerful and strong man, not shy about using his fists when necessary. In addition, he was a Bow Street Runner, and keeping on the friendly side of a Runner was always wise.
The keeper told Brandon, in a slightly more respectful tone, 'Aye, if you pay me well, sir, you'll have no troubles here. Send for one or two of your own servants, and you'll live as well as you would at home. A gentleman is always welcome.'
Brandon looked from the keeper to Pomeroy in fury. 'Do you mean, Sergeant, that you wish me to bribe this man?'
'You have to pay for room and board, sir,' Pomeroy said in a patient tone. 'And buy your bedding and fuel and things. Stands to reason. The more you pay, the better you live.'
'For God's sake,' Brandon began. 'I do not even have much money with me.'
'I will settle his affairs,' I broke in as the keeper took on a belligerent expression.
'No you will not,' Brandon retorted.
'I do not believe they will let you visit your man of business on the moment,' I answered impatiently. 'I will visit on your behalf. Or would you rather bed down on hay with a flea-ridden street girl?'
Brandon blanched. Street girls made him nervous in any case. 'I take your point, Lacey. I only wish to God I had someone else to help me.'
I knew he did. The turnkey grinned at me and led us into the bowels of the building.
Chapter Five
