The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

blood smeared on the doorknob of the door to the back stairs?”

Jacko blinked again. He obviously hadn’t rehearsed this question. “Um. I don’t think so. I can’t be sure. Don’t remember. I was quite, you know, in a state.”

“But you remember distinctly the blood on the doorknob in the sitting room. You were quite poetic about it.”

More titters. Jacko looked flustered.

What the devil was Mr. McBride doing? Bertie frowned. He was supposed to be proving Ruthie did it, not that Jacko had lied. Which Jacko had, of course, but how did Mr. McBride know that? Besides, it wasn’t his job to expose Jacko. Bertie knew from experience that there were procedures. It was as if Mr. McBride had stepped onstage and started playing the wrong part.

“Was there blood on the doorknob to the back-stairs door?” Mr. McBride repeated, his deep voice growing stern.

“Um. Yeah. Yeah, now that I recall it, there was. Another big smudge, like in the sitting room. I had to touch it to open it. It were awful.”

“Except there wasn’t,” Mr. McBride said.

“Eh?” Jacko started. “Whatcha mean?”

“The door to the back stairs, or the green baize door as it is also known, had a broken panel. It had been taken away, since it was a quiet day, to be mended. There was no door that day, not for you to open, nor for the maid to smear blood on.”

“Oh.” Jacko opened and closed his mouth. “Well, I don’t really remember, do I? I was, watcha call it . . . agitated.”

“Though you remember in exact detail the placement of everything and every bloodstain in the sitting room. The accused says she didn’t see you at all that day, and never knew about her employer’s death until the police arrived. I’m going to suggest that you went nowhere near the kitchen and never saw the accused. I suggest you left the sitting room and the house entirely, returned later, found the police there, saw them taking away the accused and her bloody apron, and came up with the story about seeing her.”

Jacko looked worried now. “Yeah? And why’d I come back, if I’d killed the old bitch?”

The judge looked pained. Mr. McBride’s eyes took on a hard light. “You knew that if you’d disappeared entirely, you’d be screaming your guilt. I suggest that you left to dispose of the silver and returned as though you’d been gone all day. And never did I suggest, Mr. Small, that you committed the murder.”

Rustling and muttering filled the courtroom. The judge finally bestirred himself. “Mr. McBride, do I have to remind you that the witness is not on trial?”

“He’s not,” Mr. McBride agreed. “Not yet.”

Another round of laughter. Jacko’s face was shiny with sweat, though it was nippy in here.

“I am finished with the witness, your lordship. In my summing up, I will be putting the case that what we have here is not a conniving young woman who killed her employer, smeared blood all over the room, and then remained quietly in the kitchen with an apron covered with the same blood—and, I might add, no time to dispose of the missing silver. I am going to instead put forth my belief that another person had much better opportunity, and, I might add, strength, to commit the crime, and that we are coming dangerously close to a miscarriage of justice. Perhaps your lordship would like to retire briefly and prepare for my outrageous statements?”

The judge growled. “Mr. McBride, I have warned you about your behavior in my courtroom before. This is not the theatre.”

Oh, but it was, Bertie thought. Only the play was real, and the curtain, final. Mr. McBride knew that too, she sensed, despite his jokes.

“You are, however, correct that I would like to recess briefly to gather my thoughts,” the judge said. “Bailiff, please see that Mr. Small does not leave.”

The judge rose, and everyone scrambled to their feet. The judge disappeared through the door into his inner sanctum, the journalists rushed away, and the rest of the watchers filed out, talking excitedly.

Bertie looked over the railing at Mr. McBride, who’d sat down, pushing his wig askew as he rubbed wheat- colored hair beneath. The animation went out of his body as the courtroom emptied around him, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

He glanced around and up, but not at Bertie. He looked at no one and nothing.

Bertie was struck with how empty his face was. His eyes were a strange shade of gray, like a stormy morning. As Bertie watched, those eyes filled with a vast sadness, the likes of which Bertie had never seen. His mouth moved a little, as though he whispered something, but Bertie couldn’t hear what he said.

Bertie remained fixed in place instead of nipping off for some ale, her hand on the gallery’s wooden railing. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man below, who’d changed so incredibly the moment his performance had ended.

He never left his bench until the judge returned, and the courtroom started up again. As Mr. McBride got to his feet, the life flowed back into his body, and he again became the eloquent, arrogant man with the beautiful voice.

He put his case so charmingly that all hung on his words. The jury went out and returned very quickly with their verdict about Ruthie, Not guilty.

Ruthie was free. Bertie had hoped for a miracle, and Mr. McBride had provided one.

After much hugging, Ruthie left Bertie and went home with her mum. Bertie found her dad and Jeffrey waiting for her outside the pub across the street. They were furious. Jacko was Jeffrey’s best friend, and Jacko had just been arrested for the murder and taken away by the police.

“’E’s to blame,” Jeffrey said darkly, jerking his chin at Mr. McBride, who was walking out of the Old Bailey, dressed now in a normal suit and coat. Once again, Bertie noted how Mr. McBride had changed from a man who commanded a room to a man who looked tired of life.

The day was cold, darkening with the coming winter night. Bertie rubbed her hands together in her too-thin gloves and suggested her dad and Jeffrey take her into the pub and buy her a half.

“Not yet,” Bertie’s dad said. “Just teach ’im a lesson, Bertie. Go on now, girl.”

Girl, when she was twenty-six years old. “Leave him alone,” she said. “He saved Ruthie.”

“But got Jacko arrested,” Jeffrey growled. “Whose side are you on?”

“Jacko killed the woman,” Bertie said. “He’s a villain. He always was. I say good on Ruthie.”

Jeffrey grabbed Bertie by the shoulder and pushed her into the shadows of the passage beside the pub. He wouldn’t beat her in public—he’d take her somewhere unseen to do that—but his hand clamped down hard. “Jacko is my best friend,” Jeffrey said, his breath already heavy with gin. “You get over to that fiend of a Scottish barrister and fetch us a souvenir. We deserve it. The traitorous bastard was supposed to be on Jacko’s side.”

Jeffrey’s grip hurt. Bertie knew that if she protested too much, both Jeffrey and her dad would let her have it. But she couldn’t do this.

“That fiend of a Scottish barrister is very smart,” she pointed out. “He’ll catch me, then I’ll be in the cell with Jacko, waiting to go before the magistrate.”

Bertie’s dad leaned in, his breath already reeking as well. “You just do it, Roberta. You’re like a ghost—he’ll never know. And if he does see you, you know what to do. Now get out there, before I take my hand to you.”

Blast. They weren’t going to drop it. In their minds, Mr. McBride was the villain and deserved to be punished. If Bertie refused, her dad would drag her away and thrash her until she gave in. If Mr. McBride went home while Bertie was taking her beating, her dad would make her wait here every day until Mr. McBride returned for another case.

Either way, Bertie was doing this. One way would just be less painful than the other.

Bertie jerked free of Jeffrey’s hold. “All right,” she growled. “I’ll do it. But you’d better be ready. He’s no fool.”

“Like I said, he’ll never see ya,” her dad said. “You’ve got the touch, Bertie-girl. Go on with you.”

Bertie stumbled when her dad pushed her between the shoulder blades, but she righted herself and squared