When the valet stepped cautiously away from the table, a look of misgiving on his face, Fitzgerald told the boy, “I'll give ye a pound for an afternoon's work. That's money you won't have to share with anyone else—provided you keep it hidden.”
Davey raised his eyes from his empty plate and studied Fitzgerald narrowly. “You're the toff what came with the lady,” he said. “When Lizzie was sick. Afore she died. But you're not a swell no more. I reckon you ain't got a pound between you, you and the other cove what calls you
Fitzgerald drew the note from his pocket and held it in front of Davey's face. “I don't keep my wallet in my coat, so don't get any ideas. This is yours—provided you earn it.”
“Wot's yer lay?” Davey demanded.
“Justice,” Fitzgerald said softly. “For your sister Lizzie. And the lady who tried to save her.”
A shadow passed over the boy's face and his eyes slid away. For perhaps thirty seconds, he weighed Fitzgerald's words. Then, without warning, he darted out of his seat and shot like lightning for the public-house door.
St. Giles Street, where Lizzie had died, fell under the Bow Street magistrate's jurisdiction. Georgiana had spent a restless night in one of the old magistracy's cells, attempting to learn what she could of the charges against her. She gathered that Button Nance had informed Bow Street of her daughter's death at the hands of an abortionist, and had named Georgiana as the party responsible. But Button Nance had disappeared. The man who had caused Georgie's arrest was a complete stranger to her.
A half-hour before she was to appear in front of the magistrate, an ancient with a face like a sun-dried orange materialised at the door of her cell. His fingers were stained yellow with tobacco and a trail of snuff dusted his waistcoat; he wore a grey peruke on his bald scalp. He peered at her distastefully through the bars.
“You are Georgiana Armistead?”
“I am. But I have not the pleasure—”
“I am your solicitor, madam.” The old man's voice was dry as paper. “Unless there is another you would prefer to act for you?”
Georgie stared at him.
“You are accused of committing abortion. That is a crime under section fifty-eight of the Offences Against the Person Act, 1861, passed into law by act of Parliament, 24 & 25 Victoria. It is punishable by death. Or possibly transportation, should you wring the hearts of the jury. Our purpose today is merely to hear the charges read against you. Your trial, should you be committed to trial, will occur at the next Assizes, by which time you will, of course, have retained a barrister. Have you any money?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“
“Of course,” Georgiana stammered. “I can give you a draft on my bank.”
“My fee is five pounds. Have you anything you wish to say?”
“I should like to know your name, sir.”
He closed his eyes in a gesture of long suffering. “I hardly think that is necessary. Until, of course, we come to the matter of payment. You will protest your innocence, Miss Armistead. It is the only possible defence available to you.”
She had hoped, in her heart of hearts, to see Fitzgerald in the room that served as Bow Street's court. But there was no one present except a small knot of the Accused, awaiting their fate before the magistrate, and the solicitors who had agreed to act for them. Such men were the scavengers of the legal world—they hung about the magistracy in search of clients, hoping to collect a fee for their casual representation.
At the rear of the room stood a barrel-chested man with overlong arms and a simian aspect; Georgie felt his gaze follow her as she was led forward by a constable. She was trembling, the exhaustion of recent days overwhelming her, the words
“You are one Georgiana Armistead, spinster, of Number 113, Russell Square . . . that you did willfully and knowingly commit the dreadful act of abortion on the night of fifteenth December last, on the person of Elizabeth Tyler, age fourteen, of this parish, who subsequently died of injuries of your infliction . . . Who brings these charges?”
“I do, Yer Honour.”
Georgiana glanced over her shoulder; the simian man at the back of the room, leering at her.
“Miss Armistead,” the magistrate repeated, “I asked whether you have anything to say in answer to these claims.”
She looked at him: a lined face, bleak eyes, no expectation of innocence. “Your Honour, I am a doctor certified by the Medical College of Edinburgh. The child's mother called me to Lizzie's bedside on the fifteenth of December, when fever and generalised infection had already weakened the girl's frame. I examined her and found that an abortion had been done some days previous, by a hand unknown to me. I administered chloroform and removed the child's uterus, which was gangrenous. I learned later that evening that the child had died. I deeply regret the fact of her death—but regard myself as in no way responsible for it. I am innocent of these charges.”
The magistrate regarded her steadily. “I am astonished, Miss Armistead, that you would add insult to the injuries already committed, by claiming to be a
“I am, Your Honour,” replied the ancient wearily. “Perhaps we shall discover that she is mad.”
From the rear of the room came a stifled guffaw.
It was over, and Patrick had not come.
Dazed, Georgiana allowed herself to be led from the front of the room once more, the hand of the same constable beneath her elbow, the simian face leering from the shadows.
“Gibbon,” she said aloud, as her eyes met those of the valet standing in the doorway.
His gaze flicked over her; he gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. With both hands he held the upper arms of a young boy, his head hanging, who appeared to have been dragged through the doorway. With a quickening of her heart she recognised Davey.
“Mr. Troy? Where is Mr. Troy?” Gibbon called clearly. “I've evidence as he'll wish to hear.”
“I am Mr. Troy.” Georgie's ancient sighed. “If you must needs speak, perhaps we might adjourn to the Bear—?”
“No,” Davey burst out. “I've come to see justice done. Mr. Magistrate, sir—” he raised his hand and pointed at the barrel-chested man with the leer—“the lady didn't hurt my sister Lizzie.
Chapter Fifty-One
When he received Odaline DuFief's card that Wednesday, the eighth of January, von Stühlen held it in his palm for several seconds, debating whether to deny his presence.
He had returned to London only hours before, well aware of the risk he ran. But his signature at the base of a damning confession meant he had only two choices: to live out his days in poverty in Hesse—where the family's mortgaged estates held nothing for him—or to hunt Patrick Fitzgerald down, and kill him. So much was within his grasp: a comfortable income. An English title. His hand in Victoria's purse as a condition of his lifelong silence. He
