would work. If Sir Owen was dead, I should certainly be charged with manslaughter, if not murder—no bribe could hope to convince him to alter his ruling if it was a clear attack against a man of Sir Owen’s breeding. But if the baronet was only injured, I flattered myself that I might hope to escape a trial.
I called for the turnkey and told him I wished to procure of him some paper and a pen, and then I wished to send a message. I was not certain I would have enough silver upon me for the exorbitantly priced goods, but as it turned out the prices mattered little. “I can sell you paper and pen,” the short, greasy-skinned fellow told me as he tried to keep his stringy hair from his eyes, “but I can’t have nothing delivered for you.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, still in something of a stupor. “For what reason?”
“Orders,” he explained, as if that one word clarified everything.
“Whose orders?” I had never heard of a prison refusing to allow its inmate to send messages. I had never heard of a turnkey refusing to earn a little silver by doing so.
“I can’t say,” he replied stoically. He began to pick at some loose skin about his neck.
I believe my voice betrayed my inability to believe what I heard. “Does this apply to all the men you hold here?”
He laughed. “Oh, no. The other gentlemen are free to send such messages as they like. How else could I buy my bread? This is only for you, Mr. Weaver. We can’t let
“I should like to speak to the master of the prison,” I told him in a stern voice.
“Certainly.” He continued to pick away. “He’ll be in sometime tomorrow afternoon. I don’t think you’ll still be here, but if you are, you can speak with him then.”
I considered my options for a moment. Breaking this fellow’s neck struck me as a pleasant enough method to get what I wanted, but not a very wise one. I thought on a less violent plan. “I shall make your arranging for a message to be delivered well worth your while.”
He only smiled. “It’s already been made worth my while to see otherwise. Shall I fetch you that paper and pen?”
“Who has paid you to prevent me from sending messages?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “I can’t tell you that, sir.”
He hardly needed to, for I had my suspicions. “Do you really wish to commit yourself to dealing with a man such as Wild?” I asked the guard.
He merely smiled. “Well, I reckon that in certain kinds of trade, one cannot but deal with Mr. Wild, don’t you think?”
I thought on my uncle’s words:
He showed me a rotted grin. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? I’m almost sorry I tangled with you, sir, but that Wild’s a mite cleverer, I suppose.”
I sent the impudent blackguard away. I could not believe my illfortune. My lines of communication had surely been severed in order to make it impossible to send precisely the sort of message I wished to send. If I should be prevented from reaching my uncle, it was almost certain that whoever plotted against me would also see to it that I stood trial. I could not imagine the South Sea Company would relish such a thing—indeed, if I were bound over for trial I should consider my life at risk at every moment, for the South Sea Company had much to lose from a trial. The Bank of England had a great deal to gain, however, and I could only assume that Bloathwait was behind this plot to isolate me.
I slept not at all that night, but neither did I think much on what had happened to me nor of what I had seen. I sat in my uncomfortable, broken wooden chair and tried to banish it all from my mind. But I could not quite dismiss the sight of pretty Sarah Decker. If she
THE NEXT MORNING I was brought to the magistrate. Justice Duncombe faced me in his house on Great Hart Street. “I am astonished,” he said, and clearly he was so. “Mr. Weaver, once again, and a matter of murder, once again. Really, sir, I see I must lock you up forthwith before you depopulate the entire metropolis.”
I swallowed hard at the word
“No,” Duncombe explained. “The physician has explained that Sir Owen’s wounds are superficial and that he is expected to make a full recovery. There is the matter of this other fellow, the footman, Dudley Roach, who is indeed quite dead. Tell me, Mr. Weaver, are you pleased or displeased about the expectation of Sir Owen’s recovery?”
“I must confess I am of mixed emotions,” I said boldly, “but in truth I should prefer him to be alive that he might be forced to confess of his crimes. I hope he will be well guarded that he might not escape.”
“It is your crimes that we are here to discuss,” the magistrate sneered, “not those of a baronet.”
I held myself straight and spoke with confidence. “I am convinced the witnesses of the event will testify that Sir Owen fired a gun at me and attacked me. It was he who shot this footman, who was but an unfortunate witness to Sir Owen’s rampage. I wished only to defend myself and to apprehend a man whose crimes should be notorious. That I injured him was an accident—no more.”
“From what I hear of the constables,” he replied, “that is not the case. It appears you attacked Sir Owen, and if he was zealous in his defense, the outcome of the conflict may justify his concern. If you incited him with an attack, and he felt the need to defend himself, the charge of manslaughter must be brought against you, not Sir Owen. Do you not agree?”
I did not agree, and I told him as much.
Duncombe asked me an endless series of questions about what had happened, and I answered as best I could without revealing anything of the forged South Sea issues. I said only that I had come to learn that Martin Rochester had committed several murders and that Sir Owen was indeed Martin Rochester. As it had the night before in the theatre, this information elicited no small surprise. Duncombe stared at me with astonishment, while the crowd in the courtroom erupted in a loud murmur. The magistrate banged his gavel and restored a respectful quiet.
“If you knew this man to be what you say,” he asked me, “why did you not seek a warrant for his arrest?”
This question surprised me, and I had no answer. I feared Duncombe believed my confusion a sign that he had caught me in a lie.
He questioned me for what felt like hours, though I believe it was not nearly so long. Duncombe then began the task of questioning the witnesses. I shall not ask my reader to endure what I endured, listening to the endless details of my conflict with Sir Owen. It is enough to say that more than a dozen witnesses offered testimony, and none of them sought to exonerate me.
Faced with the arbitrary nature of our legal system, I had cause to worry, for if someone in power wished me bound over for trial, then I could see no way to avoid that fate. And it was not without some self-condemnation that I considered the death of this innocent footman. While he had fallen victim of Sir Owen’s somewhat changeable humor, it was a humor I had provoked, and I now knew that I had provoked Sir Owen based on a deception. Someone had gone to a great deal of difficulty to make certain that I believed Sir Owen had lied to me. Someone had arranged for an impersonator to expose me to lies that could only make me believe Sir Owen a rascal. I no longer knew what to believe.
Duncombe’s questioning of the witnesses lasted more than four hours, and I was too exhausted by its conclusion even to guess how the judge would rule. I could see no reason why he would not bind me over for trial, and this prospect terrified me. At last, having heard all the witnesses, the judge announced that he was ready to make his decision.
I sought for signs in the way he held himself, wishing to know my fate before he could pronounce it, but I could divine nothing from the judge’s stern and unflinching countenance.
“Mr. Weaver, you are without doubt a dangerous and excitable man, and you clearly agitated Sir Owen, but you never obligated him to produce a weapon nor to discharge it so recklessly. I suspect you may give me cause to wish, in future times, that Sir Owen had been a better aim, but that is not our concern here today. I find no reason to charge you with manslaughter. If Sir Owen wishes to prosecute you for assault, then I fear I shall see you before
