“I didn’t do it,” said Wells. “None of it.”
Frederick stood up, then. The room went silent, in anticipation, and as if to prolong this sense he slowly poured a glass of water for himself. Then he offered to pour some for Wells, with a gesture, but the prisoner declined.
“I knew your father well,” said Frederick, still standing. “He was a good man.”
“Oh?”
“And you have a son, do you not?”
“You know I do,” said Wells.
“Is he — what, sixteen?”
“Yes.”
Frederick shook his head. “Sad. Very sad.”
Wells looked uncertain for the first time. “What?”
“Your father kept the shop in his name and yours, in case he should die, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“Have you done the same for your son?”
“What of it?”
“A life sentence in prison, for a boy that age.”
The terrible truth seemed to come alive in Well’s eyes as they widened. “No!” he said. “The boy had no idea about the dimmicking — had no — Mr. Ponsonby, play it fair with me!”
Frederick shook his head. “Justice demands that the owners of the store that held that machine come to trial, Mr. Wells. You and your son, both of you.”
Oates, his face unhappy, said, “Weren’t as if you gave Weston a chance to have much longer than sixteen years, either.”
Lenox weighed in now. “But Freddie, if Mr. Wells confessed to the murder — you’re a magistrate, you might have a word with them.”
Frederick took this in, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Yes, that’s true,” he said. “Mr. Wells? What do you think of buying your son’s freedom back?”
There was a brief thrust of defiance in Wells’s face, but as he looked at the four men surrounding him — all of them free to return to their hearths now, their happy families, their own children — something gave way.
“Yes, then,” he said. “If you’re willing to drag a sixteen-year-old boy to prison for it, you can have my confession. I was there when Weston died.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
You stabbed him?” said Oates. “No,” said Wells. “That was an Irishman named McCutcheon. He came to collect payment from me. We usually met in Taunton on Market Day, but he was to return my clock to me, too, and apologize, because I was back on schedule. I hadn’t fallen behind, only tried to pay them with some of the dimmicks. I tried to warn Mr. — I tried to tell my friend in Bath that his people should never come to Plumbley again, after the vandalisms, but McCutcheon showed up unannounced.”
“Who was McCutcheon’s boss?” asked Archer, keenly interested.
“It’s worth more than my life to tell.”
“Your son, Mr. Wells,” said Frederick.
Yet here Wells was adamant. Both he and his son — all his extended family — would be at risk, should he divulge that particular identity.
Archer seemed nevertheless to have some idea of who it might be, testing out a few names on Wells. None of them drew a reaction.
“And Weston confronted you?” Frederick asked, when this exchange had finished.
“Go back for a moment,” said Lenox. “How did McCutcheon arrive in town, if not by horse?”
“He took the train to Forstall”—this was one town over—“and then walked here. He was the one who spotted Weston, watching us.”
“Was it his idea to put the horses in the clearing?”
Wells shook his head. “I sent round word to my groom to take the two horses to the clearing, and a few beer bottles, after McCutcheon was so hell-bent on killing the witness. I liked Weston, for myself.”
“Liar,” spat Oates, full of rage.
“I did.”
“You weren’t worried that your groom would give you in?” asked Lenox.
“He’s loyal,” said Wells, shortly.
Frederick elaborated. “Simple is more like it. Joseph Thatcher, he had his head stoved in by his father when he was a lad, and hasn’t been the same since.”
“I knew Carmody or some-such would find the horses,” said Wells.
Archer was taking notes. “And you’ll testify against McCutcheon? If it saves you the rope?”
“Why not? But the other one — no, not the boss. My skin wouldn’t be worth a counterfeit groat if I did.”
This was one of the coins that Wells’s machine had produced, worth four pence, along with a shilling — that was worth twelve pence, the most valuable coin he could manufacture — and a ha’pence. These were the most easily replicable, apparently. A sovereign, a pound coin, worth twenty shillings, was too valuable to counterfeit, according to Archer. The penny itself had been counterfeited so often that it had been redesigned, and was more difficult to copy now.
It was now past one in the afternoon, and Wells, looking haggard, asked if he might have some food, or even a word with his wife.
The men all looked at Lenox, who consented to the first request, but not the second. “I will not have her destroying evidence,” he said.
“She knows nothing about it,” said Wells.
“Oh?” Something in Wells’s voice persuaded Lenox that she was not a conspirator. Later he would have to question her.
For now he sent a small boy hanging outside of the station — part of the undiminishing crowd — to the King’s Arms, to fetch hot food and beer. Lenox handed him a few coins as payment for the favor, and realized he had almost passed off one of the false ha’pennies. How easy it was!
They ate in one room, Wells in another, and then they returned to interrogate him again, but in truth there was little more to discover. Teams of men from London and Bath had been sent for already, and were no doubt steaming along the rails toward Plumbley, desperate to analyze the contents of the grain merchant’s cellar: For both police forces counterfeiting was of primary importance.
The murder was simple, terribly simple. Wells had approached Weston, while McCutcheon waited in the shadows for the young man to turn his back. A cowardly killing, in that regard.
Lenox went on probing, however. “Why did you clear out his pockets? You could not have imagined that he would go unrecognized, if you took his identification.”
Wells shrugged. “Greed.”
It was Oates who said something — Lenox would have waited until they searched Wells’s house — about the weapon that killed his cousin. “What about the knife? What did you do with it?”
“McCutcheon took it,” said Wells. “At least as far as I can recall. Certainly I never handled it myself.”
Oates and Lenox exchanged looks, each wondering, perhaps, to what purpose the knife in the slop bucket had been used — and where Captain Musgrave, late of the Tenth Regiment of Foot, might be. Wells couldn’t help them, however.
At half past two none of the men had any questions. Archer, the constable from Bath, wanted to take Wells right away, but Wells wanted to stay in Plumbley.
Frederick agreed in principle, but demurred. “I scarcely feel comfortable leaving Mr. Wells with Oates, whose cousin has been murdered by this prisoner.”
Oates shook his head slightly. “I respect the system of justice, sir,” he said with some self-mastery. “He shall
