Black Gold (28 page)

Woodhouse sat silent for a while, then spoke carefully. “None of his choices are good, but life as a fugitive is better than going back to Jamaica or killing himself.” He paused to allow Sarah to recover and for Anne to return to her seat. “Weeks ago, I began to study escape routes for him. They all lead to London. I have associates there who can hide him—big as he is. Sir Harry's wrath will slacken. He'll find something better to do with his money than chase after a poor black man. A powerful patron may appear. Then…well, we'll see.”

Preparations for Jeffery's escape would require five days, the printer said. It should take place no later than Thursday morning before dawn, April 12, since on that day, probably in the evening, Sir Harry would try to subdue Jeffery.

Woodhouse glanced at Anne. “We'll need a reliable person at Combe Park to inform Jeffery of our plans and to remain in contact with him.”

“I'll do what I can, but Mr. Critchley and his young spy, William, watch me closely. I'll ask my friend Georges Charpentier to help. He often works as a servant and has better access to Jeffery than I do.”

Anne glanced sideways. Sarah Smith was sitting stiffly, biting on her lower lip. She seemed to be clinging to a slender, vanishing hope.

***

It was evening at Combe Park. Inside the dining room, the steward Mr. Cope looked hurriedly left and right. Everything seemed ready. Georges heard voices echoing in the hallway, then a stir outside the door. He brushed lint from his crimson livery and touched his powdered wig. The steward signaled to Jeffery. He opened the door and the guests streamed in. Their silver and gold embroidered garments glittered in the candlelight. Georges came to attention by a sideboard, ready to help serve the supper.

An hour ago, Anne had called him aside, told him about her meeting with Sarah and the Quaker. Georges was to pass the information on to Jeffery. And not a word of it to anyone else. If it were to get back to Sir Harry, things would go very badly for Jeffery. Anne had seemed so earnest and concerned. Georges had promised to do his best.

Resplendent in a dark green suit richly embroidered in gold, Sir Harry chatted loudly. But his affability seemed exaggerated, forced. As he approached the table, his face came into the light from several sconces on the wall. Thin lines of worry fanned out from the corners of his mouth. His hands trembled slightly. He operated a fleet of ships without sweat, Georges thought, but he couldn't manage his own household, much less his private life.

At the other end of the table, Lady Margaret nervously smoothed her russet silk gown embroidered in silver. She beckoned Captain Fitzroy to her side, her green eyes defiant. Scanning the guests, she cast a gracious smile to a French marquis, a wealthy tennis enthusiast. Since his English was hesitant, she had invited Anne and placed him next to her. He gazed with delight at Anne in a fetching lightly patterned yellow gown. From the opposite side of the table, Colonel Saint-Martin glared at him.

During the meal, Georges found it impossible to have a word with Jeff. Too many people in the room. Too much to do. Several wealthy men of affairs and their wives had joined Lady Margaret and Sir Harry at the table.

After the meal and the clean-up, when servants were supposed to have free time, Mr. Cope ordered Jeff to the stable to polish brass on Sir Harry's coach. It fell to one of the older grooms to watch him.

“My bad luck,” the man muttered to Georges, “to watch a black man polish brass when I could be enjoying the company of a lively wench on Avon Street.”

Georges saw an opportunity. “I have some work to do in the stable this evening. Saddles to clean.” He cocked his head toward Jeff, who was standing close by, expressionless. “I could keep an eye on him for you.”

With a sigh of relief, the groom glanced at the black man, then thanked Georges profusely and hurried away.

The Frenchman beckoned to Jeff and they set off for the stable. Georges closed the door behind them, got Jeff started on the brass lantern of the coach, then searched the stable to make sure they were alone. He lifted a saddle on to a bench near the coach and began to clean it, just in case someone walked in unexpectedly.

In a low voice Georges explained Sir Harry's plan to Jeff. Drugged and bound, he would be stowed on a ship sailing to Jamaica. But Mr. Woodhouse and his companions had begun to prepare for his escape before dawn next Thursday and to arrange a hiding place in London. Miss Cartier and Georges himself were to keep him informed.

Throughout this explanation, Jeff continued to rub methodically on the lantern. When Georges finished, the black man looked up. “And Sarah?” he asked, without breaking the rhythm of his work.

“She'll remain in Bath, at least for the time being.”

Jeff was silent for a minute. “She must come with me.”

“Why?”

“When I'm in hiding, the only way Sir Harry can hurt me is to hurt Sarah, and he'll find a way to do it.”

Georges agreed inwardly, Jeff had a point. Sarah would need protection. It might be wise to move her also. And, Sarah's mother? Would she leave her shop? Would Sarah leave without her? Sir Harry had surely paid someone to spy on them. It would be difficult for the two women to leave unnoticed. Jeff's escape threatened to become complicated and unwieldy.

The two men worked silently at their tasks for several minutes. Over the past week, Georges had spoken to Jeff many times, served side by side with him, eaten with him in the servants' hall. Jeff also had seen him with Miss Cartier and realized that she and Georges were friends. A friend of a friend is a friend. Jeff had nowhere else to turn.

Finally, Jeff broke the silence. He laid down his polishing rag and began to confide in Georges about his love for Sarah. How hard it would be for him to live as a fugitive in London without her.

Georges countered gently with the question, what kind of life would she have there? Without work. Hiding from the police. A man shouldn't ask a woman to make such a sacrifice.

Jeff frowned, then shook his head. “No one is going to drug me. I'll go down battling.”

“Let Sarah make her own choice,” Georges said, leaving the bench, drawing closer to Jeff. “She's old enough and strong enough.” He added, with more confidence than he felt, “Don't despair. I see prospects of hope. Hiding in London will only be temporary. When the Prince of Wales and other sportsmen realize Sir Harry is trying to send the country's best boxer to cut sugar cane in Jamaica, they'll scream. Sir Harry will be forced to call off his dogs.”

A drowning man will reach for a straw. Jeff nodded tentatively, then picked up his rag and began polishing again. Georges went back to work on the saddle. Minutes passed. Finally, Jeff drew a deep breath, turned, and met Georges' eye. “Next Thursday. Before dawn.”

Chapter 24

A Tissue of Lies

Saturday, April 7

In the second story classroom off the portico, Charlie laid down his quill and stretched. He had just finished his morning lesson in penmanship with Mr. Critchley, who sat facing him. The tutor was leaning forward, left elbow on his desk, chin in hand. Lines of worry creased his forehead. He was staring down at a sheet of paper on which he idly scribbled with a pencil.

Charlie lowered his eyes just as Critchley seemed to sense his pupil was no longer writing. The tutor looked up, his mouth fixed in a scowl. With an impatient sigh he beckoned Charlie to the desk, sent him back for his book, then pointed out the next lesson he expected the boy to prepare. Critchley didn't say a word, as if he thought the effort would be wasted. He turned his attention again to his scribbling.

Charlie picked up his pen without complaint, dipped in the inkwell, and began to write. He had reconciled himself weeks ago to Mr. Critchley's indifference. The tutor was supposed to teach him writing—
and
reading, arithmetic, Latin, French, and English, but he didn't try very hard. Charlie had trouble grasping the lessons until Miss Cartier began to help him on the side. Now he was doing much better. Even Mr. Critchley had noticed—and complained she was meddling in his business.

Suddenly, the door to the hallway flew open. William rushed in shouting, his eyes wide with fright. Immediately alert, Charlie closely watched the young man's lips and guessed the Bow Street officer was here with questions. William frantically threw up his hands.

Critchley grimaced. With a jerk of his head he sent William to the far side of the room by the window. As he rose from his desk, he cast a glance at Charlie, who had bent over his book just in time. William stood glowering, his back to the wall. Critchley walked up to him and the two men began a conversation.

Miss Cartier had asked Charlie to keep watch on his tutor. He could help protect his mother. Unfortunately, Mr. Critchley now had his back to Charlie. Still, the boy could glean something from his gestures. And he could see William's face clearly.

The young man shook with anger, his eyes bulging, his lips quivering. “Where's…package?”

Critchley's back stiffened. He said something.

William looked doubtful. “Roach…no money…Pay later.”

Critchley nodded.

William drew close to Critchley. “You…package or money.”

The tutor shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hands, palms up.

William shouted, “You're lying!”

Critchley slapped the young man's face.

William stepped back, glaring at his tutor, then stalked across the classroom and out the door.

Charlie quickly lowered his eyes and resumed his lettering exercise.

Critchley swung around, his face pinched and wrathful. He strode past Charlie without giving him a glance and left the room. On the tutor's desk lay the paper with his scribbling. Charlie hesitated for only a moment, then snatched the paper and dashed out the door.

***

Anne was at her table, puzzling out a note from Georges. For safety's sake, he had written in cryptic French. Jeffery, she learned, would be ready Thursday at dawn. She was to tell the Quaker. A spasm of anxiety tightened her chest. The plan was set and would work, God willing.

A loud, sharp knock on her door made her jump. She dropped the note onto glowing embers in the hearth. When it had burned, she opened the door. Charlie rushed in, clutching his book, his face flushed with pride.

“What do you have to tell me?” she asked, pleased by his trust.

“I watched Mr. Critchley and William in the classroom. I think they talked about a package Mr. Critchley stole from my mother and tried to sell to Mr. Roach.” The boy carefully enunciated each word. From his book he took out a paper with phrases he had jotted down and described the gestures he had observed. He also handed over the paper Critchley had scribbled on. As the boy told his story, he grew distressed. “Is my mother in trouble?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Anne replied gently. “But we'll do what we can to help her.”

When Charlie had returned to his room, Anne took up his report and constructed a semblance of the dialogue between Critchley and William. It suggested to her that Critchley had secretly met Roach at the tennis hall Wednesday evening to negotiate a sale of the stolen item. William believed the sale had taken place and had protested he was wrongly denied a share of the money.

Critchley's hasty scribblings were more difficult to decipher. Thick strokes of his pencil had crossed out the initials JR referring to Roach. Beneath the initials HR, referring to Sir Harry, were numbers ranging from 1,000 to 20,000. He had crossed out all but the highest number. It seemed he was demanding a sum of money equivalent to what Sir Harry had won in Wednesday's boxing match. A small fortune.

Critchley had also written a list of cities, underlining London and Paris, circling Naples. Anne groaned. The man dreamed of escaping to a life of luxury in Italy. How pathetic! He was more likely to end his days hanged in front of Newgate Prison for the murder of Mary Campbell—and perhaps Jack Roach as well.

Anne recalled Mr. Burton was interrogating the household staff in the parlor downstairs. He wanted to talk to her. But she felt reluctant. For Charlie's sake. The stolen package surely contained matter damaging to his mother, perhaps a secret diary. Anne didn't want to expose her unless an innocent person would otherwise be harmed. Still, Burton already knew the stolen object was embarrassing. Lady Margaret was hopelessly involved in the case.

Anne leaned back in her chair and went on debating whether to step forward or not. Finally, she decided Charlie's report and the scribblings might implicate Critchley in Roach's death. That was evidence Burton needed to have. She gathered the papers and walked to the door.

***

William Rogers slouched at the table, his head tilted at a cocky angle, his arms folded on his chest. Only his furtive eyes betrayed his apprehension. Georges studied the young man. Like his uncle—tall, broad frame, square face, ruddy complexion. But the nephew's jaw hung slack; his lips were sensual and self-indulgent, his eyes sly and mean. He lacked entirely Sir Harry's rugged charm, his vigorous resourceful nature.

Across from the young man, Dick Burton settled into his chair, then asked Georges, whom he had engaged as a clerk, “Are you ready, Mr. Charpentier?”

Pen in hand, Georges nodded. He was prepared to observe as well as to take notes. He had also informed Burton of the letter William had received from Twycross. The young man was deep in debt and in danger of being exposed as a fraud. He could have killed Roach in a failed attempt to rob him of the stolen package.

The parlor was still, a quiet broken only by the occasional pop of glowing embers in the fireplace. Burton stared silently at the young man until he began to shift nervously in his seat. He had some explaining to do, Georges thought. On the table lay the young man's statement from the day before. He had offered an alibi for his tutor and claimed to know nothing relevant to Roach's death. Next to the statement lay little Charlie's report which Miss Cartier had just brought down to the parlor. She had cautioned Burton and Georges to avoid mentioning Charlie by name. Critchley and William might retaliate against him.

“I understand Mr. Critchley employed you to spy on Lady Margaret,” Burton began quietly. With a start William sat up, surprised and annoyed, suspecting that someone had snitched on him. He appeared to quickly reckon who that person might be. Burton broke into his calculations. “I have that information from several sources—nearly everyone at Combe Park. No need to guess whom.”

Burton leaned forward, thrust out his jaw. “Where was Mr. Critchley Wednesday night between eleven and eleven-thirty?”

The young man tried to evade Burton's gaze but failed. “We were in the dining room,” he stammered. “About twenty minutes before eleven, Mr. Critchley said he was tired of the party. We went to his room and played cards.”

Burton raised an eyebrow. “That's what you told me yesterday. But it isn't true, is it?”

William hesitated, apparently sensing Burton was about to catch him in a lie. His resentment against Critchley won out. “No, it's not. I followed him through the house to the basement. When he thought no one was watching, he sneaked out the side door and went to the tennis hall.”

“Why did you spy on him?”

“I didn't trust him. He cheats everyone. Why wouldn't he cheat me?”

“Cheat you out of what?”

The young man was caught. Burton forced him to admit that Mr. Critchley had stolen Lady Roger's package and was supposed to sell it to Jack Roach Wednesday night. Critchley had agreed to share the money with William. The sale took place and Roach promised to pay for it later. Or so Critchley claimed.

“When did you see Mr. Critchley again?”

“Thursday at noon. He said we had to get our stories to match and not mention the package. He looked worried.”

“You have just admitted your previous statement was a lie.” Burton tapped the sheet in front of him. “How can I believe you now?”

“Yesterday,” he hissed, “I covered up for him. But not any more. He didn't treat me right.”

“How did you know that Mr. Critchley walked toward the tennis hall after he sneaked out of the house? You must have followed him. How far?”

William lowered his head for a second, sensing a trap. He looked up, his eyes uneasy. “To the tennis hall. Then I came back to the house and went to my room.”

Burton gazed at him silently for a moment, then signaled Georges, who indicated he'd soon be ready. “Sign your statement, William,” said Burton, “and you're free to go, but I may want to speak with you again.”

As William was leaving the room, Burton called out to him. “By the way, William, I just read in Jack Roach's journal that Mr. Critchley killed Mary Campbell. Roach was very angry. Called Critchley a cretin.” The young man stopped in mid-stride, nearly stumbled. “How do you suppose Roach found out? Critchley would have been afraid to tell him.”

William slowly turned around, a desperate expression on his face. His mouth opened, but only a gagging sound came forth.

“You told Roach, didn't you.”

Still no word from William, as if his mind were paralyzed by fear and confusion.

“But how did you know her death was murder rather than an accident?”

“I saw Mr. Critchley standing by her body. He told me…” William searched for words. “He had found her dead at the foot of the stairs. Didn't want anyone to think he had pushed her or was even in the house. They had quarreled. Told me to say nothing. But I hate him so I lied to Jack Roach to get him in trouble.”

“Why didn't you tell the magistrate instead?”

“I was afraid. Roach said not to tell anyone else. He still needed Critchley.”

Burton stared at the young man for a minute, then waved him out of the room. When the door closed, Burton turned to Georges. “The problem with liars is that you never know when they just
might
be telling the truth. I believe William saw more than he's willing to admit.”

“He has cast doubt on the credibility of Roach's journal. Its reference to Critchley may be based on a lie by William.”

Burton sighed with exasperation. “Let's return to Roach's murder. Shall we keep William on our list of suspects?”

“I think so,” Georges replied. “He might have done it for the money. Caught Roach off guard and killed him.” As Georges laid down his pen, he reflected darkly on William. A spiteful lad as well as a suspect of murder. The young man had serious reasons to hate Charlie and do him harm. Miss Cartier's concerns were well taken; she must be warned.

***

“Mr. Critchley's next,” said Georges. “He's a major suspect now.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Burton, “if we can believe William's latest story.” He sighed with the weariness of a man who had spent too much of his life cutting through falsehood.

“Look at this.” He handed Georges the statement Critchley had written yesterday. He claimed he had left the dining room before eleven and had gone to his room with William. He also insisted he had no reason to kill Roach. They had a congenial relationship.

“A web of lies!” Burton exclaimed. He rose from his chair and stood by the fireplace. A few seconds later, the hallway door opened and Critchley entered the parlor.

Georges took his clerk's post and studied the man walking toward him. Sir Harry hadn't hired him for his good looks or his sweet nature. In the subdued light of the room, the man's tall thin figure, sallow complexion, deep-set eyes, long arms, and long lank hair gave the impression of a living, breathing specter. Georges examined once more the statement in his hands. Beautifully rounded letters, polished phrases. The man
could
write.

“You wish to see me?” Critchley asked Burton, as he took a seat. His speech was precisely articulated; his voice, slightly nasal. He had a way of looking down his nose as if doing Burton a favor by speaking to him.

Burton remained standing, leaning forward on his cane. “Mr. Critchley,” he began, “You need to explain certain factual errors in the statement you gave me yesterday.” Georges handed it to the tutor.

He refused it with a wave of his hand. “I know what I wrote.”

“Mr. William Rogers now denies seeing you in your room,” Burton continued. “Instead, he claims you sneaked out of the house shortly before eleven and walked toward the tennis hall. That leads me to believe that you were with Mr. Roach at the time of his death.”

Critchley remarked coolly, “William has chosen this way to show that he resents his tutor's efforts to make a gentleman of him.”

“I'm inclined to think William may now be telling the truth. In your room I found a pair of boots that fit prints found behind the tennis hall.”