Troubled Waters

away on the summer Assizes tour, some few remain in London to dispense justice… so much crime these days, so many trials to be held. 'Tis the war, I expect, which so unsettles our society; that, and the remnants of the Spithead and Nore mutinies, the lawless examples of the American, and the French, revolutions, and…'

'Ahem?' Lewrie grumpily reminded him, impatiently shifting upon his chair. 'Some Lord Justices who preside at King's Bench are impatient, rash sorts, who give the accused short shrift,' Twigg said, lips thin in asperity to be pressed to the point before he had ended his philosophical ramblings. 'Perhaps they're paid by their number of convictions and executions? They do not wish to involve themselves with any complex cases. Mister MacDougall, though, has managed to have you appear before Lord Justice Oglethorpe, a most cautious, and deliberative, man. A member of one of my clubs, in point of fact, Lewrie…' Damme, is it already rigged, I wonder? he thought.

'… bit of a pedant, really, and a dead, ruminative bore, do you meet him in person,' Twigg continued, 'so much so that he requires nigh an hour choosing from a chop-house menu! But, Oglethorpe's your man when it comes to reading, glooming, and meditating over every jot and tittle. Should have been appointed to Chancery Court, where just crossing all the T's and dotting all the I's could take five years or better, and cases stretch out a young lawyer's entire lifetime.

'Once MacDougall presents the transcript of your trial in absentia on Jamaica… no lover of rude colonial concepts of justice is Oglethorpe… and sees the flaws in it, you stand a very good chance of being carried forward to Hilary Term, next January.'

Oh, joy I Lewrie thought with a groan; six more months of agony an 'fret/ Six more months for you, Twigg, t 'shout abolition in papers and tracts. Hmmm, though… 'Six months o' Hugh Beauman stuck in London, bleedin' pounds sterling out his arse. Lovely!

'Our ambush, too,' Lewrie further mused aloud. 'Word o' that'd put him out o' sorts, too, I'd expect.'

'Word of that, right alongside the announcement of your appearance at King's Bench this morning, will hit the streets in the early editions,' Twigg smugly told him. 'Mister MacDougall was appalled at the news of it… but, also delighted. Pleased as punch, he said in his note, that the Beaumans, or some other interest closely involved with slavery, could have been so infernally stupid and arrogant as to attempt such a clumsy and brutal murder, in broad daylight. Trust to the tract printers, as well, Lewrie, who have been toiling away this night, running off express numbers which condemn the attempt in exclamations of the most florid sort… the Kingston magistrate's written conclusions, and eyewitness accounts from among our party, your father and Major Chiswick, principally… forgive me if I prefer that my part in the affair remains unmentioned… will be quite the sensation, so much so that even an impartial Lord Justice may not be immune.'

'Well…' Lewrie dithered, bottle resting on one knee, and his limbs sprawled in contemplation. 'You won't be there, then?'

'Oh, yes, I shall be,' Twigg informed him, frowning as the fire in the upper bowl of his hubble-bubble pipe went out. 'Though, not in close proximity to! you in the dock, nor with the first rows of attendees. Will that be all, Lewrie? Are you more settled of mind? Drunk enough for sleep at last, pray God? For I still have several more letters that must be distributed about the city just after dawn.'

'Aye, I s'pose,' Lewrie decided, corking the bottle and rising to stretch and force a yawn, which always helped put his body in touch with his mind and fool it into rest. 'With any luck at all, perhaps my trial may get postponed 'til after Easter. Hah! More time for Hugh Beauman t'stew and twiddle his thumbs, away from his precious plantations… spendin' money like a drunken sailor.'

'He has brought quite the entourage, as the French call such a large retinue… his witnesses and Jamaican attorney, and… his new wife.' Twigg sniggered. 'A classic young and beautiful 'batter pudding'… so I am informed. And, their personal Black servants.'

'That won't make 'em popular in London,' Lewrie scoffed. 'Anne died? I'm sorry t'hear that. She was the one redeemin' member of the whole damned clan. Damned shame,' he said more soberly.

'They have not been in London a fortnight,' Twigg continued in a somewhat merry taking, 'and I doubt there's a single fashionable shop she has not set foot in, as my 'Irregulars' report. Hugh Beauman dotes on her like the most foolish 'colt's tooth' cully. I doubt that they shall much enjoy their enforced stay. Not if your father and I have anything to say about the matter. The Mob indeed, hmm hmm.'

'I'll wish you goodnight, then, Mister Twigg. See you at seven.' 'Ajit Roy will wake you at six. Achchhaa raat, Lewrie,' Twigg coolly bade him. 'Now go, shoo… bugger off and let me work!'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

'Another little matter,' Lewrie dared say to the taciturn Twigg at breakfast, for he had learned through wretched previous experience that Zachariah Twigg was not a man to speak to before his fourth cup of coffee. 'You recall our talk last year, at your country estate in Hampstead…'

'I know where I reside, sir!' Twigg snapped as if vexed beyond all temperance. 'Must you?'

'About those anonymous letters to my wife?' Lewrie dared essay.

'Hmmph! What of them?' Twigg said with a stern warning glare.

'I have two of 'em with me, Mister Twigg,' Lewrie said, pulling the two most recent letters from the breast pocket of his best uniform coat, left there and forgotten 'til he had dressed that morning; and, a tad trepidatious, slid them over towards Twigg's breakfast plate. 'If ye haven't actually seen one, before, well… don't think my father had an example t'show ye, either. You said ye might be able t'smoak out who it was sendin' 'em, so…'

'Ah,' Twigg said with a put-upon sniff. 'Those. Which you once suspected that /sent, just to plague you? Those damning and anonymous letters, Lewrie?'

'Aye' was Lewrie's daunted reply.

'Well, damme…,' Twigg said, issuing forth the sort of sigh that usually preceded a death-sentence from a judge. He laid aside his fork and knife, though, swivelled sideways, and crossed his legs, his coffee cup in one hand, and the first letter in the other. 'An expensive bond paper… most-like sold in two dozen of the better stationers' shops in the larger cities, besides London. A rather fair, copper-plate hand as well… the letters smaller and finer than those done with a quill pen, so I might deduce that your anonymous tormentor owns a fine-point steel-nib pen. Flourishes and un-necessary serifs here and there, so I doubt the writer is a military man. Almost… prissy, hmm. At one time, I recall that you also suspected one Commander Fillebrowne? Yet, have you run into him since your service in the Adriatic? '

'Neither hide nor hair, sir,' Lewrie answered, emboldened by the man's curiosity, which was now piqued.

'And, during your brief association with Fillebrowne, did you gather any impression of… fussiness?'

'Idle… languid, vain, and arrogant, aye, but not fussy,' Lewrie told him before returning his attention to his toast, butter, and jam. After a bite, chew, and swallow, he added, 'Came of a rich family, they all did their Grand Tours of the Continent. Art collectors, all that? Thinks damned well of himself. I can't recall we ever corresponded by letter, so I wouldn't know his writing style.'

'I shall ask of him at Admiralty, and compare his hand to this,' Twigg promised. 'Though I very much doubt…' Twigg shuffled pages, scowling at what he read. 'Did any of this bawdiness occur, Lewrie?'

'Absolutely not' Lewrie could say, and with some heat, too. 'I swear on my sacred word of honour! Not with Sophie, nor Eudoxia, either!'

'Odd,' Twigg said with a smirk; evidently he was now fully awake and back to his usual top-lofty asperity. 'No mention is here made of your bastard son, Desmond McGilliveray. Peel wrote me on that head,' Twigg said with a sunnily sarcastic smile. 'Indeed, a British frigate captain meeting his by-blow, a Midshipman in the United States Navy, in the West Indies… offspring of a temporary marriage to a Cherokee Indian wench, well! Your reputation, and sobriquet of the 'Ram-Cat,' is now widespread