witness, a footman, who was awake very late that night. A footman who looked out the window in time to see you walk past Lord Barbury then turn around and shoot him in the head. You dragged his lordship to his own front doorstep then ran off fast as you could. You put the pistol in his hand to make it seem as though he'd shot himself.'
'I do not believe you,' Gower said again, though his bravado was flagging. 'If this footman had seen someone shoot Lord Barbury, he would have run at once for the watch.'
'But this particular footman, though he'd been a respectable servant for fifteen years, once had been transported for the crime of theft. A transported man returning to England usually means his death. He'd come back to take care of his family, reformed his ways, and took honest employment. Didn't much want the magistrates to recognize him, so he kept quiet, until our diligent Mr. Pomeroy got the story out of him. I've promised to help him, if he stands up as a witness.'
'A convicted thief?' Gower asked incredulously. 'One who escaped his punishment? What sort of a witness is that?'
'Oh, I agree that the jury might take his character against him when they listen to his evidence. But he saw you. And it is on that evidence that I am arresting you, Mr. Gower, for the murder of Lord Barbury. A peer of the realm, no less.' He clucked his tongue. 'What the devil were you thinking?'
Predictably, Gower tried to run. Thompson caught him at once. The Thames policeman might be thin, but he was wiry and strong. He and Sir Montague walked Mr. Gower back between them to the hackney, and I remained behind to stare at the river while they took him to Bow Street.
Chapter Twenty
Mr. Gower had believed Peaches had told Lord Barbury all about Gower's blackmailing. That is what Sir Montague told me later, and I related all to Grenville the next afternoon over ale and beef in a tavern in Pall Mall. Gower knew that if his schemes came out, Sir Montague said, the lad would lose his position as Chapman's pupil, and no other barrister would take him on. He'd never become a barrister, a silk, a high court judge.
Gower confirmed this at his trial the next week, at the Old Bailey, he on the wrong side of the dock. The trial was swift. Gower was convicted of the murder of Lord Barbury and sentenced to hang.
I left the courtroom, my melancholia stirring. Gower had tried to brave it out until the last, but he'd been no match for the prosecutor, a prominent man from Lincoln's Inn. Lord Barbury's family had paid for the best. Gower's family, likewise, was there, respectable middle-class people, stunned at this aberration in their lives.
Such a needless one. If Gower had not panicked and shot Lord Barbury, he would have been convicted of nothing. Peaches had died by accident, and there was no evidence to prove a case of blackmail.
In this mood, I returned home to Grimpen Lane to finish my packing. I would leave on the morrow for Berkshire.
I met Bartholomew coming down the stairs. 'Just nipping to the Gull, sir,' he said, naming the tavern from which he usually fetched supper. 'Was Mr. Gower convicted?'
I nodded and told him what happened. Bartholomew looked interested, but also in a hurry. He barely waited for me to finish before he hastened past me and into the darkened street.
I made my way upstairs, my feelings mixed. I had found my villain, and Peaches was avenged.
But I also still blamed Chapman and Lord Barbury for her death. Each of them could have paid more attention to her, could have cherished her and protected her, kept her safe. Instead, they'd gone on with their lives, assuming that Peaches would be there whenever they wanted her.
Just as, God help me, I had done with my own wife. They had not understood-they'd not known what a hole you faced when you turned around, and the one you'd thought would always be there was gone.
With these dismal thoughts, I opened the door to my rooms. I heard the rustle of silk and smelled lemony perfume, and with that, my melancholia eased.
Louisa stretched out her hands to me. I took them, and she squeezed mine, smiling at me like the Louisa of old.
'Gabriel,' she said. 'You look dreadful.'
'It's pouring rain and all over mud and I've been to a dreary trial,' I answered, releasing her. 'Was it you who sent Bartholomew racing away for dinner?'
'I told him to hurry, so it might be hot for you when you returned.'
'I would be pleased to share it with you,' I said. 'Although it will be barely edible in your eyes.'
Our words were light, unimportant, but I felt the strain of them.
'I will not stay,' she said. 'I am dining with Lady Aline this evening.' Her eyes went quiet. 'You are leaving tomorrow.'
'Yes.'
I'd written her and Brandon again this week, telling them when I was to leave and how to write me at Sudbury.
'I am quite angry with you,' Louisa continued.
'I know. You have told me.'
'This is for an entirely new reason. I spoke to Mr. Grenville yesterday evening. He seemed quite astonished that I had not heard of your adventures of last Sunday week. And I was astonished also. Why the devil did you not tell me?'
I shrugged. 'There was little to tell. I survived, as you can see.'
'Do not be flippant, Gabriel.' Louisa's tone softened. 'I could have lost you, my friend. And the last thing we had done before that was quarrel.'
'I did not hold that against you.' I smiled.
'Stop.' Louisa held up her hands. 'Stop being noble. You are dear to me, you know that. Why do you insist on making me so angry?'
'It is what dear friends do, Louisa. Quarrel and forgive over very stupid things. Were we strangers, we would not care.'
Louisa gave me a deprecating look. 'You have turned philosopher. Very well, I will put things simply. If, while you are in Berkshire, you find that you need help, you will ask me, and put your pride aside.'
'Of course,' I said, relaxing. She was still angry at me, but Louisa was acknowledging that she did not want me out of her life entirely.
'And if you escape from death by a hair's breadth again, you will at least have the courtesy to tell me,' she said sternly.
'You will be the first to hear the tale.'
She gave me a severe look, then she shook her head. 'We have been friends too long for this, Gabriel. Please know that I still think you are too stubborn for words. I will not stand by while you needle my husband, but I am not ready to lose you, yet.'
'And I will never be ready to lose you.'
We studied each other, her gray eyes clear in the candlelight.
'Do not think I have forgiven you,' Louisa said. 'I still believe you are in the wrong about Aloysius.'
'I know.'
I would capitulate to Brandon if she wanted me to, as bitter as the words would taste. I valued her enough that I could at least cease hurting her.
We returned to watching each other in silence. We did not always have to speak; we had said plenty over the years.
I heard Bartholomew bang back inside, and then the odor of overcooked beef wafted up the stairwell. Bartholomew entered the room without looking at either of us, deposited a tray on the writing table, and bustled around for the cutlery.
I smiled at Louisa, and she smiled at me.
'I might forgive you not telling me of your adventures,' Louisa said, 'if you sit down and tell me everything, now, from beginning to end. Leaving out no detail, however small. I told Lady Aline that I might be late.'
