“I have reached the limit of my endurance! Begone, sir! You shall have your monies when I receive funds from my son-in-law Mr. Shelley!”
“And when might this miracle occur, Mr. Godwin?”
“He is at present in Italy. Your rapacity, sir, your unconscionable greed, in seeking to extract monies—
“For eighteen months’ worth of unpaid rent, Mr. Godwin!”
“I could condemn you, sir, for the blackguard you are, but I feel only pity, as your diabolical heartlessness in conspiring to eject my wife and our two little boys into the street, to deprive us even of the means of conducting our livelihood, must be, as it ought to be, felt by you as a grievous reproach upon your conscience, a black stain upon your soul! Good DAY, sir!”
There followed the sound of footsteps coming heavily down a staircase, a door flew open, a man attired in sober black burst through, looked over to the sales counter, said, “Good day to you, Mrs. Godwin,” and departed, slamming the shop door behind him. The entire building shook and Mrs. Godwin made herself very busy behind the counter with some stacks of papers as though nothing of what had just passed had anything to do with her.
John’s mouth set in a firm line. Prudence watched, surprised, as he took up the copy of Tales from Shakespeare and dropped some money on the counter. Without another word, he snatched Prudence’s arm and pulled her out of the shop.
“That,” he said, as they regained the street, “was the sound of my childhood. Except for the Italy part. And father swore rather more and did not use the larger words. But in essentials, that was my childhood—always hiding from our creditors, always expecting to be thrown out on the street and disgraced in front of our neighbours. If I ever have children, I will never, ever, suffer them to endure the same.”
“Oh, John!” cried Prudence. She had never seen him so moved before, so distressed. “No, indeed they will not. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
* * * * * * *
Mr. Orme usually chose to walk to his chambers, it being the only mode of exercise available to him during the week, as his practise was a busy one. On a wet morning in October, he was passing along Essex Street when a miserable-looking man in shabby clothes accosted him. Orme paused, expecting a tragic tale and a solicitation for monies, but the man said: “I beg your pardon sir, are you a man of the law?”
“I am. What business do you want with me?” returned Mr. Orme, looking with some distaste at the man’s unkempt appearance. One of his eyes looked off at a different angle than the other, and Mr. Orme was perplexed as to which eye he should be looking at.
“I need an attorney, sir, for to help me collect some monies that are owing to me, a very great sum indeed sir, fully two thousand pounds, so that I should be pleased to share whatever you might think is right, if you could assist me.”
Orme did not want to bring the fellow into his office—he smelled foul, for one thing, and his claim to be the rightful owner of such a large sum also strained credulity.
“Step over here. I shall give you three minutes of my time for you to explain yourself. What is your name?
“My name is Benjamin Walker, sir.”
“And you are from the North, I perceive.”
“Yes, sir. I was a witness at a great trial in York, sir, that no doubt you will recollect, for the murder of Mr. Horsfall, sir, the mill-owner, what was shot down.”
“Yes, I recall that trial. And you say you were a witness? For the Crown?”
“That is, to my shame, I was there when they killed Mr. Horsfall—but it were George Mellor who done it and he forced the rest of us to go along— but I was the only one who came forward and confessed. And I got pardoned, sir.”
“Well then, you were very fortunate to have escaped the noose,” Orme rejoined, looking at him with undisguised distaste. The man did not have the appearance of one who had subsequently engaged in penitential and benevolent acts of atonement. He looked like a man who drank every penny he was given and slept in ditches.
“The thing is, sir, they offered a reward for them as could provide the information for to solve the murder, and I gave the evidence, but afterwards, they just turned me out of jail and I have been distressed for work ever since, I can’t live at home no more, everybody hates me and wishes me dead, and I have no education and cannot make my own case. So I need an attorney, you see.”
“So did you come forward for the reward, or because of a guilty conscience?”
“I never asked for nowt, sir. I never knew about no reward,” Walker protested. “But they took me up and kept me in jail and they kept telling me, ‘we know that you did it, but speak out, and you shall have two thousand pounds,’ that’s what they said to me, sir, and then they took up my old mother, sir, and put her in jail, and I thought I had better confess.”
“But now? What do they tell you now?”
“They tell me I can’t have no money, sir. But, everyone knows it was on my word that my comrades were hung and that’s why I can’t go home.”
Orme frowned. With the utmost reluctance, he said, “I shall look into this matter for you.”
“Oh, thank you sir!”
“It may take some time. My name is Orme. You may call upon my office in one
