Beginning, Previous Section, Section III, Next Section

Chapter 6

Posted on Friday, 18 February 2000

Tim could stand the wait no longer. In the week since the walk at Vauxhall with Bette and his accidental meeting with her assailant, Tim had employed numerous strategies to locate that man. Finally, with the man's carriage in view and the man himself tucked securely inside of it, Tim could exact the punishment that he had been devising for the man who had injured her last year.

It had certainly taken him long enough. Mr. Stanhope and his friends had unfortunately disappeared from the pleasure gardens by the time Tim was able to go after them and they had left no trail. The boys that made their living by helping the quality folk secure their hack cabs at the entrance to Vauxhall had seen all too many groups of boisterous young men exit the park, none looking any more distinctive than the other. The grooms and the cab drivers waiting for their passengers couldn't be bothered to recall anyone either.

And this line of inquiry was assuming that Mr. Stanhope and his friends were traveling by land and not by the river. Tim did quiz the boatmen about Stanhope and his group, but found them even more taciturn and uncommunicative. Whether they knew anything or not did not matter -- they simply were not going to tell him.

After these attempts, Tim had been forced into discovering the addresses of every Stanhope living in London and visiting the residences of each one in turn. It had been a very time consuming process and one that he was not at all inclined to enjoy. He found himself out of his element in the other quarters of London. On his own turf, Tim knew the people to ask when he needed information and was always sure of what was needed to bribe them into giving it to him. Outside of his domain, he had to challenge the unfamiliar, bullying young bootblacks into describing their masters, stopping delivery men as they made their rounds, even occasionally masquerading as a tradesman anxious to garner new business in order to question cautious housekeepers about the families for which they worked. It was a tedious, delicate job; all this inquiry had to be done in a way that would not arouse suspicions.

And it only proved fruitful in the end after Molly turned up on his doorstep one day with an anonymous note that had been left for him at Mrs. Marchand's. It appeared that he had made enough inquiries in the right neighborhoods to make someone acquainted with a certain young Mr. Stanhope fully aware of the fact that he was interested in learning more about the unremarkable young man with light-colored eyes and nondescript brown hair. Tim wasn't sure if he liked the fact that he had made his interest in this Mr. Stanhope so obvious, but he wasn't about to pass up what could be good information. "Understanding that you wish to know the whereabouts of a Mr. Stanhope," the note began, "I am taking the liberty of writing you this note." It gave a Christian name, George, to the man as well as an address, but, even more usefully, it described the man's general habits, especially the fact that he frequently went out in his carriage at night, had himself driven to a place not far from Covent Garden, and had his footman procure a girl for him from the unseemly group of women who frequented the theater. Even more usefully, the note listed that night as the next evening when Mr. Stanhope would be indulging in this vice.

Which was the reason why Tim found himself in that particular alleyway that night, watching as the driver of a very well-matched pair of horses helped the animals to a drink of water and a nibble of sugar, possibly in order to keep himself as far away from the carriage as possible while his master entertained a young lady inside. Tim stayed in the shadows made by the overhang on an ancient building as he waited for just the right moment.

And, in another instant, he knew that the moment was upon him. The figure of a woman, cloaked and closely hooded, opened the door to the carriage and stepped down from it unassisted. With not even a backward glance into the carriage or a word to its occupant, she left the door standing open and walked swiftly past the driver and horses and disappeared down the alleyway. Tim watched as the driver continued to tend to the horses, seemingly oblivious to the woman who had just left his master's carriage. In fact, Tim watched as the driver examined the pan of water from which his horse had been drinking, noticed that it was empty, picked it up, and walked back to the pump down the street.

Tim could not believe his own good fortune! Taking advantage of the opportunity that the opened doorway and the absence of the driver afforded him, Tim moved quietly forward, pulling his knife from its' sheath. He fingered it as he silently placed a foot on the step to the carriage and looked in.

The figure of a man seemed to be lounging on the front facing seat, propped up by an elbow, reading an open book in the dim light given off by a lantern. He wasn't nearly as young as he had seemed at the park, surrounded by a gang of boisterous associates, nor as large. In fact, he seemed rather slight of build. He had an unassuming figure, to say the least. Tim knew that he would be no match for him, especially since he seemed to be quite drunk at the moment. Tim's eyes had begun to make more sense of the scene in front of him and he saw that the man's head was actually lying directly on the cushion, his mouth gaping. Instead of reading the thick, leather bound tome in front of him, he appeared to be passed out and was drooling directly onto the tapestry, a dark stain growing where his mouth touched the cloth.

A very dark stain. Tim looked more closely and saw the damp area was actually tinged with red...

He was bleeding from his mouth!

Startled, Tim looked more closely at the figure and saw that there was a growing circle of red on his front, completely covering his cravat and beginning to stain what Tim could see of his shirt! A trail of bright red spots led from the front across the page of the book, to the man's hand. And in this hand there seemed to be the glint of metal shining through a sheen of red -- a long, thin knife blade!

The hand opened and the blade fell out onto the floor. Tim watched in shock, not comprehending it at all. Was the man dead? Had he killed himself?

Hardly knowing what he did, Tim found himself taking hold of the book. He was barely able to glance at it before a voice sounded from behind. "Wot do ya think yer doin'?" Tim turned and saw that the driver had returned. He pushed past Tim and looked into the cab. He saw the figure of his master lying prone on the seat of the carriage and turned back to Tim. "Wot 'ave you done? You've killed 'im!"

"No!" Tim shook his head as he began to back away, dropping the book from his hand as he did so, but it was almost too late. The driver was already advancing on him shouting with all of his breath for assistance. The footman came running, the young lady he had found for his master still in tow. Together, they attacked Tim -- one holding onto his arms while the other managed to land two air-taking blows on Tim's stomach. The young girl took up the screaming for assistance where the driver had left off and soon Tim heard other steps hastening towards them.

"What's goin' on?" A newcomer asked authoritatively while Tim struggled against his captors.

"This man needs ta be taken in charge! 'E murdered my master!" The footman spat out, managing a swift kick to the back of Tim's knee. Pain shot up his leg, buckling it and he nearly fell down. The footman pulled him straight again.

"No, I didn't!" Tim managed to gasp.

"Wot? Was 'e dead before ya got 'ere, then?" The footman landed a kick on the back of Tim's other knee, injuring it fully. Tim sank to the ground this time.

"Well," another pair of hands reached down for him and pulled him up. "Let's just see wot 'e says ta the magistrate, then." The gruff voice was different than the first one, but Tim could see that both men were similarly and respectably dressed.

"The magistrate?" Tim gasped and tried to struggle himself free from these two new captors. He looked back over at the footman and the driver. "I didn't kill 'im! 'E were dead before I looked in!"

"Really?" The one with the authoritative voice spoke again, "Well then, who did?"

Tim's pain muddled mind tried to make sense of everything that happened. He saw a young girl, barely clad and with no cape or coat around her shoulders standing wide eyed under a lighted lamp. This was the one who had been brought by the footman. But there had been another woman that had come before, one wearing a heavy cape, hood drawn closely around her face. "It must have been the woman..." Tim gasped out, looking at the girl. The girl's eyes widened even further.

"That little girl?" the footman said harshly.

"No," Tim tried again; "There was one who came before!"

"And that must've been you!" the gruff voiced man spoke in his ear. "Why don't you try ta come up with a better excuse on yer way ta Bow Street?"

"Bow Street?" Tim gasped out again. He had heard of that place.

Chapter 7, Part 1

Tim was not present on his usual street corner the next day when 'Mr. Blevins' walked by with a task for him. This was quite irritating. After his conversation with Arabella, John had made a decision to throw more work Tim's way and actually saved a task for him to do from being done by the completely competent and ever-willing Willie Barton. As he turned at the end of the block and made ready to walk past the corner a second time, John self-righteously reminded himself that he had actually gone out of his way to keep this job aside in order to assuage Mr. Scoggins' sense of importance and all-too-great degree of pride. This was not the way he thought Tim should reward him for such consideration. To not even show up at all? What did he pay the man for anyway?

After a third pass down the same street, John decided to duck into a coffee shop across the street, with windows that offered a good view of the designated corner. It would allow him to remain relatively inconspicuous as he waited for his employee to show himself.

And that employee had better present a good excuse for his tardiness. His mother, at the very least, should be on her deathbed.

Then again, John knew very well that Tim did not have any family, ailing or otherwise. He was an orphan who, John had learned some years earlier, did not even know his real name. Just like many of the man's possessions, the moniker Tim Scoggins had been given to him after a dead man no longer had any use for it.

John sat down at a seat close to the window and ordered a cup of coffee, wondering where Tim could be and what reason he would give for being late. If he came at all. But that was an unthinkable prospect. Tim had never been late for an appointment, much less missed one entirely! John wondered if this tardiness weren't a harbinger of things to come in his relationship with Mr. Scoggins. Perhaps, like Arabella had supposed, the man was beginning to chafe in his narrow circumstances? Was this lateness his way of showing his disdain for the job that he performed for 'Mr. Blevins'?

The coffee came and John consulted his pocket watch. It was now ten minutes past the hour. John snapped the cover shut with a click and allowed himself to acknowledge the frustration that was welling up inside of him. Just who did Mr. Scoggins think he was?

A newsboy walked past the window, hawking his papers, and John tapped on the window to get his attention. He motioned the boy inside, pulling out a coin to give him as he did so. He hadn't had time to read the paper yet. In fact, he had left his breakfast unfinished because he was so intent on meeting Mr. Scoggins on time and giving him his assignment. Thoroughly exasperated, he paid the boy and began to open the paper on the table.

"Ye'll want ta read all about th' vicious murder o' Mr. Stanhope," the boy commented rather cheerfully as he pocketed the coin. "I'm sure that a gentl'man such as yerself likes ta keep up wit' the most important goings on in London!"

John looked up at the boy, not smiling. He was sure that things like this sold newspapers, but he disliked the idea that the latest murder was one of the most important 'goings-on' in the city.

The boy took the hint and scampered out of the door, starting up his patter once again, speaking all in capitals as befit a headline. "Read All About It! Man Murdered In His Carriage! Timothy Scoggins Charged With His Bloody Death!"

"Tim Scoggins?" John shouted involuntarily, causing the others in the coffee shop to turn and look at him. The boy didn't hear John's question as he passed through the door and onto the street. Paying no heed to those now staring at him, John sat back down and looked more closely at his paper.

It was the lead story.

Bette Maberley stood behind the counter of Smiths, absently trying to fold handkerchiefs and doing a very poor job of it. Her eyes were more frequently turned towards the window than they were to the linen in her hands. "Elizabeth?" Robert Smith, standing on the step of a ladder had turned towards her and was trying to recall her attention. She looked up towards him. "You're making a greater mess of those than they were already in!"

She looked down and saw how wrinkled they were becoming with her inefficient folding. She would have to iron them before anyone would wish to purchase them. "I'm sorry, Robert," she sighed deeply and picked up the tray, meaning to walk back to the storeroom with them. Her employer jumped off the ladder and stopped her.

"What's wrong, Elizabeth?" He asked, voice quiet and almost tender.

His gentle voice grated. "Nothing, Robert," she said patiently, trying not to sound frustrated, "I'm fine."

"You've been..." he seemed to ignore the note of irritation in her voice and tried search the right word to describe her behavior. He couldn't find it. "You haven't been yourself for awhile now, for an entire week, ever since we returned from Vauxhall. What is it? What is troubling you? Perhaps I can help?"

Bette felt as if Robert was the last man on earth that she would wish to tell her troubles to and certainly no one could help. It was a battle that she would need to fight by herself. She simply had to give Tim Scoggins up. There was nothing else to be done. She could not go back and be the person that she once was, and Tim could not go forward and be the person that she needed him to be.

But realizing those facts didn't make accepting them any easier. And Robert's cautious attempts to assist her in doing so were maddening! She wished that they would all leave her alone while she tried to come to terms with life without Tim.

"Please," she begged, voice weak. "I'll be fine. I just need to iron these." And she made a move to go past him as the front door opened and the bell rang. She continued to move down the counter. Let Robert handle the customer. Her heart simply was not in it.

"Hello John!" She heard Robert greet the customer almost cheerfully. "How's Arabella?"

Bette stopped and turned around. Mr. Barrow was there? Hardly knowing what she did, she dropped the wrinkled handkerchiefs on the edge counter and returned to the center of the room, where Mr. Barrow was.

"Hello Mr. Barrow," Bette tried to sound calm, while the voice in her mind screamed questions about Tim. Where was Tim? Had he seen Tim? How was Tim?

"Ah, Miss Maberley, How are you?" Barrow greeted her, attempting to smile slightly, but failing. The expression that he managed to produce was half-hearted at best and Bette could see that it didn't match the unsettled cast to his eyes. And his fingers seemed to be drumming the counter as he looked around the store to in order to see if there were any other customers. He didn't bother to wait for Bette to answer his inquiry before he turned back towards Robert. "I believe that your brother has a package for my wife?" he said. "Perhaps it's ready for me to pick up?"

Robert shook his head. "A package?" he inquired. "No, I don't believe so. He would have told me about it."

"No?" Barrow looked surprised. "And he is away from the store?"

"He's upstairs." Robert admitted.

"I see," Barrow said, knitting his brows together in what looked to be consternation. "I was sure that Arabella had said something about a package..." Bette watched with some confusion. She hadn't heard of a package for Arabella either and, generally, whenever that lady needed something from Smith's, she came to pick it up for herself. She seemed to enjoy coming to her former place of business and wouldn't normally pass up the opportunity to do so by asking her husband to act as her deliveryman.

"Would it help if I ran upstairs to ask him?" Robert asked, ever helpful.

Strangely, Barrow's eyes lit up. "Why yes, Robert, I would really appreciate it!" Robert, with one quick glance to Bette, walked into the back of the shop where the stairway to the upstairs apartment was located. Once his footfalls were heard on the steps, Barrow turned back to Bette. "Have you read the paper today?" he whispered urgently.

"No," Bette shook her head vigorously. So it was a ruse that Barrow devised to get Robert out of the room. But why? And what was in the paper? "The Smiths don't think that ladies should read the paper." That had been quite a surprise to her when she first came to live with them, not that it really mattered all that much to her. She wasn't that great of a reader, just proficient enough to work in a shop.

"When was the last time that you saw Tim?" Barrow pressed on.

"A week ago," Bette didn't need to do any calculations to answer that question. She had been adding up the days as they went by. "What is wrong, Mr. Barrow?" She started to fear what the answer might be. "Is there something wrong with Tim?"

Grimly, Barrow unfolded the paper that he had brought with him. The headline revealed enough.

"Oh dear Lord, no!" she shouted.

"Elizabeth?" Robert, coming back down the stairs quickly, raced to her side. Bette watched as John quickly folded the paper again, hiding it from view. "Elizabeth, what's wrong?"

But Bette could not speak. She pressed her hands to her mouth so that she would not speak. She couldn't trust what she might say if she allowed herself to speak, but her mind kept on screaming questions. Tim kill Stanhope? He actually killed that horrible bugger? Not that she was sorry that the man was dead, but had Tim actually been caught in the act? Oh dear Lord, he must have done it for her!

"Elizabeth, you're unwell!" Robert put his hands around her, as if to steady her. "Here, we must take you upstairs."

"No, Robert!" Bette nearly shouted in anger. She didn't want to go upstairs! She wanted Robert to go upstairs so that she could continue her conversation with Mr. Barrow. She had to know more!

"Robert," John broke in. "I'm sorry for distressing Bette," he used the diminutive of her name without thinking, "But I've just brought her some news about one of our maids -- Constance."

"Constance?" Robert repeated, not comprehending at all.

"She's unwell and, while Bette was staying with us, had become quite a friend to her." Barrow continued on, creating, Bette was sure, a completely false reason for her to be so upset and yet another reason for him to take her back with him to his house.

"I must go to her!" Bette willingly assisted him in the story. "She's asking for me, Robert! I really must go!"

"I've been asked to convey Miss Maberley back to our house, if you can spare her, Robert," Barrow added, seeming to regain some control over the situation.

"Well," Robert looked confused. He hadn't known that Bette had made such a friend at the Barrow mansion. And why should Mr. Barrow care so deeply for the health of one of his maids that he would actually go to fetch a friend for her?

"I assure you that we shall return Miss Maberley before the afternoon is out, Robert," Barrow added, in a voice that seemed to brook no refusals.

"I'll go get my coat," Bette said quickly as she hurried through the storeroom and to the apartment upstairs. Not an instant did she have to lose. She had to know all that Tim had done!

They could speak of nothing else while in the Barrow's carriage. Bette demanded to see the paper and John willingly gave it to her. It told little more than what she had already imagined. Tim, supposedly, had found Mr. Stanhope in his carriage which had been, for reasons unknown to the paper, parked in an alleyway near to Covent Garden. Mr. Stanhope had momentarily been without his footman or his driver and, while they were away, was beset by Scoggins, a "foul fiend who could only have theft and killing on his mind." Scoggins, the paper noted, had actually brought two knives with him in order to do a proper job, but only one had proven necessary. He had sliced his throat open, letting out "copious amounts of blood." Only the "quick work" of the "brave and intelligent men of Bow Street had saved the day." They were able to capture him immediately and bring him to their station where he was being held, pending arraignment and transfer to Newgate Prison.

The article went on to lament over Mr. Stanhope's untimely death and express the paper's deep sorrow at such an occurrence. It continued to question the safety of the streets of London if such "upstanding gentlemen" were murdered in their carriages. Such things seemed to be commonplace in the country where highwaymen preyed upon innocent travelers, but the city should have better security than the country.

"He certainly wasn't as 'upstanding' as they're making him out to be." Bette spat out angrily after reading the article. "If they knew half of what he was capable of, they wouldn't be talking about him so kindly!"

"George Stanhope?" Barrow asked. "Then you did you know him?"

Bette nodded, but couldn't trust herself to say anything further. If she told Barrow that Stanhope was the man who had abused her the year before and had left her bleeding, to die alone in her room, would she actually be admitting that Tim had a good reason for killing him? She looked closely at Barrow, as if trying to read his mind. What did he think about Tim? Had he already assumed Tim's guilt? Or could his coming to get her be seen as a desire to believe Tim innocent?

Did Barrow wish to help Tim? Would he continue to do so if he knew the truth about George Stanhope?

But Barrow would have to know the entire truth if he were to be able to help Tim.

She couldn't keep it from Mr. Barrow. "He was the man who..." she stopped, not knowing how to tell him.

She didn't need to.

"He was the man." He nodded his head as he said it. "You know how that makes things look, don't you?"

Bette looked down, heart sinking.

"Tim did have a reason for killing that man, didn't he?" Barrow said quietly.

She couldn't answer that. She wouldn't answer that.

"Do you believe that he did it?" Barrow continued, voice barely audible above the noise of the street.

Bette shook her head. "I don't know." She looked up. Barrow was no longer looking at her, he had turned towards the glass, his face a mask of painful regret and frustration. "Do you believe that he did it?" she whispered.

Barrow shook his head. "I don't know either."

Bette felt like weeping. Why did he have to do it? Why? When she had begged him not to? When she had told him that she had healed from the wounds that he had inflicted? When she had told him that she had moved on?

But perhaps that was the reason. Because she had moved on and away from him. George Stanhope's act had injured her mentally as well as physically. She had become unwilling to live life as she had.

And that had taken her away from Tim.

"Will you go see him?" Bette didn't know what else to say, what else to ask. She couldn't ask Barrow to believe in his innocence, especially when she didn't believe in it herself, nor could she ask him to defend a man who was guilty. "Please go see him." She begged quietly.

Resigned, Barrow nodded.

Chapter 7, Part 2

"I didn't do it," Tim said clearly and without any preamble just as soon as Barrow had been locked into the cell with him. The man stood in the middle of the small space, there being no stool or cot for him to sit or lie down upon. Tim had scrambled up from what looked to be a very uncomfortable position on the stone floor, yet it had not seemed to cow his posture. Tim, as always, stood perfectly straight. His hands and arms were chained together, however, and the dim light given off from a window farther down the hallway, John could see the raised mark of a welt beginning to form on Tim's cheek. One eye had been blackened. His shirt hung open, buttons torn away. It was patently obvious the type of treatment accused murderers receive at the Bow Street Station. It was also patently obvious that Tim was not succumbing to that treatment. He seemed to remain as cocky as ever. But to actually state that he did not kill George Stanhope...?

It had taken John over an hour to convince the magistrate to let him visit the 'pathetic waste' that they happened to have arrested for the murder of such a fine gentleman and, even then, he had only been granted ten minutes. That was in keeping with what John knew of Bow Street, its magistrate, and constables. Unlike London's other parish gaols where discipline was lax at best and unheard of at worst, Bow Street had a reputation for efficiency and, unfortunately for Tim, an almost ruthless attention to punishing law-breakers properly. There would be no way for Tim to easily wriggle out of his troubles. Tim had to know that. So, how in the world could he be protesting his innocence? "I don't expect you to believe me, but I didn't do it." Tim repeated, one half-closed eye having difficulty focusing steadily on his employer.

"I went to see Bette," John said baldly.

Tim's good eye widened, but he still displayed no emotion. "'Ow is she?" He asked, continuing to feign nonchalance.

"She's worried sick about you and the fact that you seem to have committed a heinous crime in her name, Tim!" John became exasperated and quickly closed the distance between them. "And now you're trying to make me believe that you didn't do it? Do you take me for a fool?" He rattled the last out, looking angrily at the man whom he had once trusted implicitly. "Don't lie to me, Tim," he said.

"I'm not." Tim's lopsided gaze remained steadfast. "I didn't kill th' man. 'E were already dead when I got there."

"Already dead?" Barrow could have laughed in frustration.

"It's the truth." Tim insisted further. "'E were bleeding like a stuck pig when I showed up."

"But you meant to kill him?" Barrow tried a different tack.

That had some effect on Tim. The man glanced away and looked caught.

"You did follow him in order to kill him, didn't you?" Barrow continued. "He had hurt Bette, and you meant to exact your revenge on him."

Tim shook his head. "I dunno wot I meant ta do. But I didn't do it! He was..."

John held up his hand to stop the man from reiterating what he had already said., resigned, he walked to the other side of the cell. "I know, he was already dead! You've said that." He turned back towards Tim, "But you can't prove it, and neither can I."

"You might be able ta prove it," Tim said, voice almost sounding flip.

"What?" Barrow looked at him in shock. Did he not understand how desperate his own situation was? "I don't think that you understand the depths to which you have sunk here, Tim. You are going to be put on trial for your life, and they are going to hang you!"

"But I didn't do it! Someone else did!" Tim said once again.

"Someone else?" Barrow questioned, disbelieving.

"There was a woman wot left the cab right before me. She must've done it!"

"A woman?" Barrow turned away. Tim must have taken complete leave of his senses. Here was absolute proof. Yet, he was still standing there, in the middle of the room, stance just as straight as it had ever been, gaze just as unwavering. "You expect me to believe that a woman knifed this man, left him bleeding in his carriage, and you just happened along and discovered him dead?"

"Yes," Tim nodded. "That's wot 'appened."

The two men watched each other silently, John unsure of what to say next to get the man to at least admit his guilt, Tim, seeming to have explained the situation as best he could. And it didn't seem to be good enough. Barrow didn't look as if he were inclined to believe him. That fact appeared to wash over Tim, taking away some of his bravado. Looking suddenly quite tired, Tim eased back down on the floor then, sighing heavily. "But I don't expect ya ta believe it." He pulled his knees up and placed his elbows on top of them.

John hesitated. He wanted to believe Tim, but the story he told was almost too outrageous to be believed. "Would you believe it if you were me?" John questioned, crossing the floor of the cell in order to kneel down next to Tim.

Tim didn't answer for a moment, seeming to consider. "Probably not," he agreed. But then, he looked up. "But I'd want ta check it out first."

"So, you expect me to find this woman?"

"If there's anyone in London 'oo can find 'er, it's you." Tim admitted. "I dunno why she killed th' man, but she did it." He looked straight at Barrow again. "Not me."

John looked at Tim and found it difficult to not believe him. As far as he knew, Tim had never lied to him before. But the story that he was giving him as an explanation seemed completely nonsensical. Who was going to believe that a woman had killed Stanhope before Tim even arrived?

"Why in the world should I believe you, Tim?"

"'Ave I ever lied ta ya before?" Tim asked.

"There's always a first time."

"Not with me, there ain't!" Tim said angrily. "I've never lied ta ya an' I never will!"

"Then, tell me the truth, Tim," John went further. "Did you mean to kill George Stanhope?"

Tim inhaled sharply and didn't answer immediately. "Probably." He said after a moment seemingly spent in considering his options. Tim would have known that it would not work to lie to John Barrow. "Th' man 'urt Bette," he offered an excuse.

John nodded his head, figuring that this was the closest that Tim was ever going to get to an actual admission.

"But I didn't kill 'im." Tim said again. "I wanted to, but didn't."

"You didn't get a chance," John reminded him of that point.

"Should I 'ang for wantin' ta do it when there's someone else out there 'oo act'ally did?" Tim asked John heatedly. "There's someone out there that's goin' free!"

John considered that. It wasn't right that Tim had wanted to kill Stanhope, but should Tim die for it?

Would justice be served by Tim's death?

Not considering that there would still be someone out there that had committed the crime and would go unpunished.

John sighed audibly in consternation. Damn the man for getting himself into such a spot! This was all maddeningly frustrating! "Tim," John began, not exactly sure what he was going to say next.

"Please," Tim interrupted quickly.

John had to look over at the man to ensure that he hadn't changed into another creature entirely, so shocked was he by the word that Tim had uttered. Had he really said the word please and sounded as if he meant it? Was the man actually asking for his help? In all of their time together, Tim had hardly asked for anything at all and never asked anything for himself. The one time that he had even come close to pleading for assistance was when Bette had been assaulted and Tim had nowhere else to take her. But, even then, he hadn't asked for help with words, he had just brought the injured girl to them and expected her to be welcome.

"Please...John," Tim tried again, using Barrow's given name for the first time, almost as if he were claiming him as a friend, not just an employer. John's eyes widened in surprise and he continued to stare at the man but he did not return John's gaze. He stared down at the floor and swallowed with difficulty. He looked almost vulnerable, staring down at the hard floor on which he sat. "I need yer 'elp," he continued. "You're th' only one who can."

And Barrow knew that he was the only person in London who would even attempt to believe his story of a woman leaving the carriage before he had arrived. And Tim deserved at least one person attempting to believe his story.

And what if that story was actually true?

"All right, Tim," John sighed and sat down on the floor next to the man, "Why don't you try to tell me everything that you recall about that woman."

Chapter 7, Part 3

As he rode home from Bow Street, Barrow considered the task before him and tried to plan his next step. Tim hadn't been able to give him much to go on. There had been very little to relate. The woman Tim had seen leave the carriage was so heavily wrapped in a hooded cape that it completely obscured her face. The cape itself wasn't very memorable; Tim couldn't even remember what color it was, much less whether it was expensive or cheaply made.

If Tim's story was to be believed, then there was at least one other individual in London who wanted to kill George Stanhope. That man had made least one other enemy who hated him enough to do murder. In order to discover that person, John would need to learn all that he could about Mr. Stanhope and his proclivities. Perhaps Bette was not the only woman whom he had patronized and then assaulted. John wondered how much Bette could help him in this regard. If Tim was telling the truth about a woman committing the crime, then it was quite possible that she was another one of his battered conquests. Would Bette remember the names of other women that he had harmed? He would ask her as soon as he returned to his house, Bette had asked if she could remain there until he had returned from the gaol. She had wished to hear the news about Tim.

He supposed that Willie would have to track down these women on the next day, learning enough about each one to either eliminate them from their investigation or earmark them for closer scrutiny. Willie would have to do this in a way that didn't cause any alarm, of course. John wouldn't want the actual murderess to know that they were looking for her. The element of surprise would be useful in catching her.

And while Willie was at it, perhaps he could find out if there was anyone who saw the cloaked woman emerge from the alleyway that night. That, at least, would prove that Tim's story had merit.

But did he need further proof that Tim's story was true? John wanted to believe the story...he wanted to believe Tim, but belief certainly would be easier if he had something in hand that agreed with Tim's tale.

John reserved the most difficult task for himself: that of questioning the Stanhope family. If George Stanhope's enemies weren't limited to the women who he had assaulted, then his family and associates would be the only people who might know the names of the others. They were probably not going to be very forthcoming with such information, John realized. And they had no reason to give it to him either. Unlike other cases, where he was called in by families desperate to give him assistance, the Stanhopes would believe that the culprit had already been apprehended and he was being charged. He would have to think carefully about how he wished to present himself to the family before he did so. And he would have to learn a great deal more about the Stanhope family and George Stanhope himself before he could even consider how to approach them.

John sighed loudly. It was all so complicated! It would require all of his energy for the next few days, not to mention Willie Barton's. He would have to push his current cases to one side for as long as possible. And his mind was still nagged by doubt: what if what he was chasing was actually a fiction?

But Tim had never lied to him before, had he?

And if he were lying now, why wouldn't Tim at least create a story that was more believable? To actually pin the blame on a woman? He had had all night and most of the day to spin something that was more creditable than the one he had offered, and John knew that Tim was not a man lacking in imagination.

Or resourcefulness. From the very first moment of his acquaintance with Tim, John had been struck by the man's ability to see opportunity in the most unconventional of situations. In fact, Tim had quickly seen the chance to make some money from John by relieving him of an extremely distasteful job -- that of sifting through dust bins.

It had been one of John's first cases acting completely as 'Mr. Blevins', without the oversight of his predecessor Sir John Murdock and, truth be told, he had felt as if he were beginning to flounder around without the older man to guide him. The case required him to find proof that a certain gentleman who was a partner in a shipping firm had actually been embezzling large sums of money from the business. Normally, John would have relied on Murdock's informant, William Todd, a manservant who had proven himself invaluable whenever Murdock had needed to know the substance of conversations carried on in the intimate, members-only world of Whites, one of the most prestigious men's clubs in London. But John had found William Todd to be a difficult, mean-spirited, little man who he was coming desperately close to belittling. He couldn't stand the man's pretentious attitude and had decided to attempt circumventing him. Surely there were other ways of getting information. But since John had not been able to place an informant in the household of the suspected embezzler, he had been reduced to pawing through the ash and other debris that was carted out of the house in the hopes that he would find some charred sliver of paper with figures or writing on it that might prove the accusation. It was tiring, dirty work for which John was not suited.

That John found the job uncomfortable as well as the grubby clothes that he donned every morning in an attempt to blend in with the other dustmen that frequented the back alley must have been quite obvious to one of the rat catchers that worked his trade there as well. Tim Scoggins had found John to be a more interesting object than the beady-eyed vermin that he was supposed to be seeking.

"I 'ope it's worth it," he had commented to John one day after passing him in the alley for over a week.

"Worth it?" John had replied somewhat crossly. It was bothersome to have someone take notice of him and his movements.

"Wotever yer lookin' fer in th' trash," Tim had explained further. "I 'ope it's worth yer gettin' yer nice 'ands all dirty."

"My nice hands?" John had replied, looking down at his hands. After fifteen minutes of pawing through the ash, they were now quite filthy. He kept on meaning to wear gloves, which would have protected them not only from the grime, but also from being noticed by the rat catcher. With their well-manicured nails and unscraped knuckles, John supposed that his hands looked as if they didn't belong to the common laborer he was attempting to impersonate. Feeling caught, John had shoved them in his pockets in disgust.

"They go wit' that nice voice of yers," Scoggins had explained further. "You don't belong 'ere, do ya?"

John had remained silent then, knowing that anything he said in his clipped, Etonian accent was just further proof that he was not who he was attempting to be.

"Too bad ya can't get into the 'ouse ta find wotever yer lookin' fer in a more... civilized... fashion," Scoggins had continued, not looking as if he were inclined to walk away any time soon. He had leaned against a fence, arm lightly swinging the net and stick that he used to catch and club the rats that scampered around the dustbins. "Prob'ly more efficient as well. Betcha the gent wot owns th' 'ouse is real particular about 'is trash. Prob'ly chars it complete."

This was the same conclusion that John had already been coming to, that he was never going to find one damning scrap of evidence in this manner because the man was too careful to let them remain unburned.

"Too bad ya can't get in there and see 'em words before 'e sets 'em to th' fire," Scoggins had added almost tauntingly.

John remembered trying to keep his composure while being watched by the infuriating man. He had said nothing to him either to disprove the man's assumptions or confirm them. He had wondered why the man continued to provoke him.

"If only ya 'ad someone 'oo could get in there for ya," Scoggins added then. "Someone 'oo knows 'ow ta get things."

It had become clear then, the rat catcher was offering his services as thief. But John hadn't needed someone to steal the information. That would have certainly let the man know that he was being investigated. "That won't be necessary," John had said abruptly, and had moved away in order to put distance between himself and the unwanted rat catcher.

But Tim had not been that easy to shake. "I know wot yer thinkin'," he had followed. "Yer thinkin' that I'd botch th' whole thing fer ya."

"You probably would," John had retorted immediately. "You have no idea what the nature of my work is." He walked further down the street.

"Ah, but that's where yer wrong. I know that ya need ta 'ave a look at some of that man's letters without 'im knowing that you've seen 'em! That's where I come in. I can get the stuff fer ya without th' man being any th' wiser!"

John had found himself just curious enough to stop walking. He had turned around and waited for the man to catch up with him, still more skeptical than interested. "And how do you propose to do that?"

"I copy 'em down." Scoggins had replied smugly.

"You copy them down?" John had nearly scoffed. "Can you even read?"

"No," Scoggins had shaken his head, not disturbed by having to make that admission. "Doesn't mean that I can't copy it. I do it all the time!"

John must have looked as if he could hardly give credence to such an idea because Tim, in the next instant, had offered to prove it to him. "Look," he had said, going over to another dustbin and pulling out a discarded newspaper. He had handed it to John. "You got any writin' paper on ya?" Grudgingly, John had pulled out his notebook and a tiny nib of a lead pencil, wondering what the man was going to do with it. He had flipped to an empty leaf and had handed it to the man. "Thanks," Scoggins had accepted and gave further instructions. "Now, tear anythin' outta this paper and 'and show it ta me. But only for a second!"

Unsure of whether he had felt more perplexed than intrigued, John did as he was told. He located an obscure obituary in the back of the paper and had torn it out as the man had said. "Go on," the man had said encouragingly when John finished his task and threw the paper back in the bin. "Show it ta me!"

And so Barrow had. He had held up the thin column of small print to the man for an instant and then pulled it away. And immediately Tim had started to write...confident printed letters that formed actual words and complete sentences. John had looked back over at the column and saw that he was indeed following the text of the obituary to the exact character. "What?" John had exclaimed involuntarily, but the man just looked up, smiled quickly, bright blue eyes sparkling, and had gone back to his transcription, not stopping until he had come to the end.

"How did you learn to do that?" John had asked after Tim had finished and had handed the completely filled leaf of paper to him.

"I dunno," Tim had shrugged nonchalantly. "I've always been able ta do it. It's a real, impressive trick, isn't it? But it's easy... me mind jus' knows wot it's seen and then I draws a picture of it."

"And how long does the picture last?" John had asked next. "The picture in your mind?"

"Wot d'ya mean? 'Ow long does it last?" Tim had asked, somewhat perplexed. "It's etched in there. Doesn't go away."

"Etched?" John had been quite surprised. Surely the man was not saying that his memory was able to hold extensive pictures of written documents forever? Surely they had to decay at some point in time? But perhaps they did last long enough for him to sneak in and out of a house with them. John had then suggested that they experiment with Tim's little talent. That night, he had tried out Tim's odd ability and had discovered amazing things. Tim could recall scores of separate pages of text never seen before and -- while he wasn't able to test out the theory that they were etched in his mind for all time -- his mind could certainly store this information for several hours, certainly long enough for John's purposes. John had used his skills the next night.

In time, John had found out about Tim's other strengths and began to realise just how extraordinary he was. Tim voluminous mind certainly kept track of more facts about London's East End than any other person still living. In the end, John had found that Tim's usefulness was well worth keeping him on retainer.

And now, when the life of that useful and extraordinary man was threatened, John reflected back and felt that he could do no more than his utmost to keep him alive. He deserved that much.

Feet and hands still shackled, Tim hobbled out to the cart that was to transport him from Bow Street to Newgate, feeling less worried than he had been in twenty-four hours. Barrow had come to see him. Barrow was on the job. Barrow could not fail. Barrow would protect him from the hanging rope just as he had once protected Barrow.

Chapter 8

That evening, Edward continued his now instinctual habit of accepting invitations rather than refusing them by going to dinner at the Tottenham residence. It was a request that had been offered in person by Mr. Tottenham himself when he had called at his house earlier in the week. He had thoughtfully brought his daughter with him so that she could warmly encourage Edward with her persuasive violet eyes. At that moment, Edward could not have found a way of declining their invitation even if he had wished to.

And so Edward found himself at table with the Tottenhams, attempting to make himself charming and meeting with great success. He was quickly discovering that the entire Tottenham family was well practiced in the art of flattery; it was patently obvious where the daughter had picked up her skills. The father, boisterously cheerful, solicited Edward's opinions on every topic, from parliamentary calendars to fly-fishing. The mother, diligently attentive, plied him with food and drink and commented on his discerning palate and exquisite taste. And of course there was Miss Tottenham herself sitting opposite him, bewitchingly lovely in her pale lavender gown.

Or was it a pale mauve gown? In the muted light of the dining room, Edward could not be certain. The candlelight seemed to be playing tricks with his eyes. Or was it the lack of candlelight that was calling colors into question? Edward glanced up to the ceiling, noting that, while each candle holder in the chandelier had been supplied with a long wax candle, only half of them had been lit. The many mirrors that were mounted around the room were bravely attempting to magnify the inadequate light, but they could only do so much.

Regardless, nothing could completely dim the radiant beauty that was Miss Drusilla. Even in the half-light of the room, Edward could discern the attractiveness of her countenance, the well-proportioned features -- brow, nose, eyes, and mouth all agreeably sized and spaced. And not a blemish anywhere on her youthful skin. The presentation, Edward had to admit, was perfect.

If somewhat young.

But Edward was learning that a certain degree of maturity was not the only quality worth valuing in a lady or in a wife. In fact, he had almost completely revised his mental list of important characteristics in a wife. Chief among them now was a healthy degree of agreeableness and a mild temperament. Edward knew that his match would be an individual who possessed a general tendency to seek out shared beliefs and common ground and had a desire to stay away from the divisive. He had learned the importance of this quality the hard way -- by meeting with someone who could not be called agreeable by any definition of the word. Edward was not a man who enjoyed conflict and he could think of no worse punishment than to have discord in his own home.

That was not to say that he expected his wife to be of like opinion on all topics or that she couldn't think for herself. Edward would have been more than pleased if his wife were to be able to make up her own mind on certain matters.

But there were weightier issues in which his wife would need to be of the same mind.

And, regardless of those more ponderous topics, Edward wanted to find someone who would always assume the best in him. His heart wished to find one that would be able to see what was good and would never choose to dwell upon what was not.

But was Miss Tottenham...Drusilla...capable of such discernment?

Edward was closer to admitting that she may very well be, once he had made a careful study of all of her charms. She was, of course, stunningly beautiful, but added to those physical attractions was a degree of wit that had carried her easily into society and had firmly established her there. She carried herself with confidence and seemed to know just about everyone in London who was worth knowing. He must not have understood her fully last year when he believed her to be an empty-headed gossipmonger; first impressions were almost always deceiving, he reminded himself. It wasn't surprising to him now that she knew a good deal about her fellow Londoners -- she was simply interested in their lives!

But, most importantly to Edward, Miss Drusilla seemed to have a very easy disposition, one that did not thrive on debate and challenge. Her demeanor was placidly calm, not at all fractious like another young lady of his acquaintance had twice proven to be.

And, of course, she came from a respectable family.

It was quite relieving that the Tottenhams seemed to admire and respect Edward and what he had accomplished in Barbados. In fact, far from having to hide the fact that he was one of the more prosperous planters on the island, Miss Tottenham's family already knew of Edward's reputation and appreciated it. Mr. Tottenham's shipping business had quite obviously supplied him with many associates and acquaintances in the West Indies that were more than capable of describing the Linson plantation's robust financial picture.

With the Tottenhams, Edward knew that he could take his ease among friends who shared his opinions rather than having to fear that he would be forced to defend his actions when it came to how he kept his workers.

And with Miss Tottenham, he knew that he could be open about his life history without any fear that she would accuse him of being evil and storming away from him in a fit of ill humor and pique after quite baldly accusing him of being evil.

He would not soon forget his conversation with that sadly misinformed individual.

Edward did not believe himself or his actions evil. He was a planter and good planters owned their work force. And he had always gone to such lengths to take excellent care of his laborers. During his tenure on his Barbados plantation, Edward had concerned himself with their health and well being, their diet and clothing, the comfortableness of their shelter and length of their workday. And this almost paternal mindset had been rewarded -- his workers had paired off to bear and raise children, ensuring that he would not need to spend money purchasing and seasoning additional workers from Africa.

He had seen the superiority of this method when he had first arrived in Barbados in 1804, after having been given the estate to manage by his father. At that time all of the plantations on Barbados seemed to be back on their way to prosperity, after many brutal decades filled with competition from newer island colonies and one particularly devastating hurricane. But disaster was always looming over the horizon: agitators in London had been calling for the abolishment of the slave trade for several years and it had begun to look as if Parliament was going to be swayed by their rhetoric. In an effort to plan for such a development, several prominent Barbados plantation owners had authored a document of instructions on the treatment of workers that they suggested would lead them to breed. Edward had adopted their practices wholeheartedly, making sure that his female workers were limited in the number of hours that he spent in the field and even paying them a premium for every child that they bore. He, like other Barbadian planters, had seen his labor supply become self-sustaining long before 1807, when the slave trade was actually abolished.

That, thought Edward, was not the work of an evil person, but of a caring, diligent manager.

It was unfortunate that certain ladies in London could not see the reasonableness of this.

Or had not chosen to listen long enough to hear it expressed.

Edward absolutely refused to regret such short sightedness. He would not allow himself to be affected by her ill opinion of him.

He would, instead, allow himself to be affected by the beauty of Miss Drusilla and by the warmth of her family's welcome. He leaned back in his chair as he resolved to do that, appetite happily sated by the dinner. Completely at ease, he basked in the gentle golden glow of the room.

Mrs. Tottenham called for dessert to be brought in, apologizing to their guest as she did so. "It is only an apple tart. I'm afraid that apples were the only fruit that cook could find at market this week."

"I'm an ardent admirer of the apple," Edward said quite sincerely, allowing himself to glance over at Miss Drusilla as he did so and was rewarded by seeing her blush prettily. It was all fiction, however. He really didn't care for apples at all, but was becoming very good at dissembling in polite situations.

"Drusilla supervised the making of the tart herself," Mrs. Tottenham added, maternal pride in full display. "And picked out the best apples just for it."

"Common as apples are," Mr. Tottenham interjected disparagingly as a piece of the tart was set before Edward. "Nothing like the fruits that I remember eating on that island of yours!" He looked over at Edward conspiratorially. "You must miss those mangoes."

Edward did miss them. He had not yet forgotten just how sweet and succulent a mango could be, how generously large, falling ripely off its' branch and into his hands. He used to eat them in the field, his own knife slicing the buttery fruit away from the pit. He tasted a bit of the dessert that had been placed in front of him and did his best to keep his mouth from puckering. The tart was certainly living up to its' name. It didn't seem to have any sugar in it at all. But then, perhaps Miss Drusilla didn't care for sweets. "Do you like mangoes, Miss Tottenham?" Edward laid down his fork and inquired cheerfully.

She shook her head demurely. "I'm afraid that I've never had the pleasure."

"But I'm sure that she would like them all the same," interjected her father quickly. "Drusilla has always been very fond of new experiences, the unfamiliar, the exotic." Mr. Tottenham then launched about Drusilla as a child, when the management of his shipping concern had taken him away from the company of his family for long periods of time. Mr. Tottenham appeared to be one of those ship owners that, while not captaining a ship of his own, did like to spend a great deal of time traveling as passenger. And in her youth, Drusilla had learned to anticipate his return not so much for the advantage of having her father with them again as for the odd little gifts that he always brought with him.

"She has quite a collection," chortled Mr. Tottenham. "The curiouser the better!" He leaned forward to admit. "I used to wander around a port of call trying to find something exotic that would tickle my Drusilla's fancy. "One time," here he sat back again; "I even wound up delaying the sailing of my ship because I was still on the lookout for something that she had never seen before."

Miss Tottenham blushed again as her father regaled their guest with the full story of how the tide had left with his ship one day because he was too busy haggling with an African merchant over the price of a large, wooden mask.

Edward, considerately, expressed interest in seeing the objects in Miss Tottenham's collection, a request that her father was very keen on her granting. "And so you shall!" Mr. Tottenham said jovially, rising from the table and laying down his napkin as he did so, more eager that his daughter have the opportunity of showing their guest her collection than he was to share a glass of port with him. Mrs. Tottenham rose as well, signaling a hasty end to their dinner. "It is right this way," Mr. Tottenham announced, walking out of the room and expecting them to follow. Edward escorted Miss Tottenham out of the door, wondering why Mr. Tottenham did not choose to do the same for his wife as well. He looked back after that woman and noticed that she seemed to have picked up a candle snuffer from the sideboard of the dining room. Did she think it time to extinguish the candles?

Edward was not given further time to ponder that mystery for Mr. Tottenham was already well down the passage, leading them into a small room off the main hall that had been fashioned into a study of sorts. The absence of books on the shelves brought that title into question, however. There were many other objects housed on those shelves, however, but they were difficult to discern in the dim light. All Edward could make out with any certainty was a desk in the center of the room and a chair drawn near to a hearth that had not been lit. Mr. Tottenham walked back out in the hall and grabbed one candle from a side table, loudly calling for a servant to light the fire in the study as he did so.

"We don't use the study much in evenings," Mr. Tottenham said apologetically as he set the one candle down on the desk and immediately walked over to a shelf. Edward wasn't sure that the man would be able to find anything in the near darkness and was somewhat surprised when he turned around with an object in his hands and proclaimed: "This is the face that delayed one ship!" He chuckled heartily at his own joke as he brought over the wooden carving to Edward and Drusilla. In the dim candlelight, all Edward was able to perceive were the long and narrow proportion, the thin eye slits in the center and the rounded mouth further below. Jagged white teeth showed through the opening, making the rather innocent looking expression of the face appear more sinister and menacing. It was an elegant object, but rather disturbing. Mr. Tottenham touched them confidently. "I was told that these are actual teeth," he said intriguingly.

"Human teeth?"

Mr. Tottenham laughed lightly. "That's what I believed them to say, but I may have lost something in the translation."

Edward glanced over at Drusilla to see how she was bearing up under the weight of such an indelicate conversation. He had to admit to being completely surprised by Mr. Tottenham's choice of present for his daughter. A frightening mask with apparently human teeth? He couldn't think of anything more unsuitable to give to a young lady.

But Drusilla didn't seem shocked by the mask or their conversation. She appeared to be regarding it all with a calm, almost complacent expression -- as if such subjects were routine to her.

But Mr. Tottenham appeared to be waiting for Edward to make some sort of pronouncement on the mask. "It's very interesting," he managed, weakly.

"Do you like it?" Mr. Tottenham sat it down on the desk. "I have another one hanging upstairs in the hall."

Edward winced. While he did see that other societies might value such an object, he couldn't imagine why any Englishman would purchase one frightening African mask, let alone two. But Mr. Tottenham seemed very enthusiastic about them. He made for the door, announcing that he would fetch the other one as well. Edward tried to protest against such an effort, but was completely unsuccessful. The man would not be swayed. "It will only take a moment! No trouble at all," he said as he exited the room, leaving Edward alone with Miss Drusilla.

"I fear that my father is a little too enthusiastic about his treasures," Miss Tottenham commented wryly as she ran a finger over the rough wood of the face, not squeamish in the least about it.

"I thought that they were from your collection of treasures," Edward replied, walking closer to her, but keeping himself a good distance from the mask. He found himself being rather squeamish about the teeth in a way that he could not quite fathom.

"Oh, make no mistake, he did offer them to me," Miss Drusilla smiled, "But I always knew that these little presents were simply another way of adding to his own collection. Some daughters received hair ribbons and china dolls when their fathers returned from their travels. I received eccentric curiosities created by heathen savages." She shrugged her shoulders. "As you have probably detected, my father's tastes are quite singular." She abandoned the mask and walked over to the shelves, taking the candle along with her. Holding it up, she allowed the light to illuminate the collection that had been arranged there. "As you can see, his little museum is quite extensive."

And so it was. Edward saw that the shelves were filled with a wide assortment of objects, would be treasures picked up during a lifetime of traveling from port to port. Edward could not recognize most of them or tell what value Mr. Tottenham might have for them. His eye gravitated towards the only object that made sense to him... a clear glass bottle tipped over on its' side. In it was a model of a ship.

Edward walked over and looked closer, quietly admiring the craftsmanship of the maker and the amount of patience it must have taken to assemble such a delicate object within glass confines. " Is this one of your father's ships?" Edward asked.

"It was at one time," Miss Drusilla amended.

"He lost it." Edward assumed sadly, knowing how risky the shipping trade was. He had lived on an island long enough to become acquainted with the perils of ocean travel. Many ships were, of course, lost to the sea.

"Yes," Drusilla agreed, "I believe it's the HMS Defiant now."

"The Navy pressed it into service?" Edward was somewhat surprised by that. While the Navy was allowed to commandeer private ships and make them over for the defense of the nation, they generally did not do so without cause.

"Father was made to forfeit it after they caught it carrying illegal cargo," Drusilla said, voice sounding completely matter of fact, as if she were still talking about the difference between receiving African curiosities as childhood gifts instead of China dolls.

"Illegal cargo?" Edward repeated.

"Well, it wasn't illegal before 1807," Drusilla qualified lightly, shrugging her shoulders and looking up to catch his eye. It was a calm, steadfast gaze, one that carried no emotion or showed any opinion.

"Your father continued to traffic in slaves after Parliament abolished the slave trade?" Edward asked, perplexed. He couldn't quite understand why any businessman would run such a risk.

"Yes," Drusilla admitted unhesitatingly, knitting her eyebrows and looking at him carefully. "Why should you be surprised by that?"

"Why?" Edward spluttered. He thought that the answer to that question was quite obvious. Had her father not known that the market for imported labor had all but dried up in the British controlled islands of the West Indies? Certainly there was no longer a call for new workers on Barbados! Edward wasn't even sure how much of a profit could be gained by going against parliamentary rule or where these profits were to be had. Most of the shippers with which he was familiar had managed to switch over to another marketable commodity to transport during the middle passage. And, regardless, the penalty for trading in slaves had simply become too high. What rational merchant would knowingly risk one of his ships? "Did your father not understand the seriousness of going against Parliament?"

"Was their decision not capricious, made under the overpowering influence of individuals who had no real knowledge or understanding of the situation?" she questioned in turn, response coming almost too quickly and sounding almost rote, as if she were only reiterating what someone else had told her. "How could one take it seriously?"

Edward looked back at the ship in the bottle; model of the vessel that the British Navy had seized and had appropriately rechristened the "Defiant," and wondered how seriously he took it now that one of his ships had been taken away.

"It is not as if these decision makers fully realized what the results would be of attempting to change an entire way of life," Miss Drusilla continued reasonably. "Could the gentlemen in Parliament truly know the financial implications of their decision? They certainly weren't as familiar with the situation as you and father both are." she commented, sounding innocently confident.

Edward wasn't sure how to respond to that. While he didn't want to force Miss Tottenham into questioning her father's business decisions, he knew them to be wrongheaded; there was simply no reason for him to have continued dealing in slaves after Parliament ruled against it.

"Surely you don't agree with them?" she pressed further.

Edward heard himself sigh loudly, surprising himself by how irritated he sounded, more than disappointed by Mr. Tottenham's bad decision. He sounded almost disgusted by it.

But then, why shouldn't he be disgusted? The man had thumbed his nose at Parliament! He shook his head in frustration.

She smiled sadly. "I see that we're of like mind. I'm sorry to say that Parliament's bad decision forced my father to lose three ships the next year as well."

"Your father forfeited four ships to the Navy?" Edward gasped.

"No," Miss Drusilla shook her head. "Just the first one. The other three were not given up."

"What happened to them?"

"They sank."

"No," Edward breathed out in horror.

But she seemed not to notice; she was still looking at the bottle. "My father was furious about having to give up this ship," she said, touching it. "It galled him to see his property made over to the government, so, to make sure that the same did not happen the next year, he put his captains under orders not to surrender their vessels. They were to outrun their pursuers if at all possible and to scuttle the ships if they weren't."

"Scuttle them? They were deliberately sunk?"

"The crews of the three ships didn't even need to bother with that," Drusilla admitted. "The three had come under heavy fire after not surrendering and sustained enough damage to send them all to the bottom of the ocean," she smiled resignedly.

"But," Edward began, momentarily speechless. "What about the people?"

"Oh!" Drusilla nodded, "There was enough time to swing the boats down. The crews abandoned ship and were picked up by the Naval vessels." She grimaced in distaste. "The crews were pressed into the service of his Majesty, of course, but the officers eventually returned to England."

Edward stared at her, waiting -- wishing -- that she would continue the story and tell him about the rest of the individuals on board the ships and how the others were rescued and saved, but he already knew that this would not be the case.

But, for some reason, he needed to hear it said aloud. "What about the others?" he whispered.

"Others?" She looked at him blankly.

"Were there Africans on those ships?"

"The cargo?" She clarified. "There was cargo in the hold. It went down with the ship."

Edward closed his eyes and tried not to imagine it, but the images would not stop. "How many lives were lost?" He asked, weakly.

She shook her head. "I have no idea," she admitted.

Edward was beginning to feel quite ill. He had spent enough time at sea to imagine what it must have been like to be on that ship as it went down, how dark it was in the low ceilinged spaces below deck, how terrifying those final moments must have been for the individuals trapped on board.

"It is too bad that the cargo of those four ships did not find their way to your plantations," Drusilla commented. "I assume that you felt their loss keenly in your fields."

"What?" Edward coughed, shaken.

"I believe that the loss of those ships deprived you and your fellow planters of the workers necessary to work your fields," Drusilla explained.

"I can assure you that I felt no deprivation," Edward shook his head vehemently, as if trying to put distance between himself and such a tragedy. "My plantation was entirely self-sustaining by 1807. All Barbados had managed to become self sustaining by then," he insisted.

"Really?" Miss Drusilla looked confused. "I understood that my father's captains were ensured buyers for their cargo when their ships sailed into Bridgetown."

Edward felt his eyes widening.

"That's where the...Defiant as it's called now," she gestured towards the ship in the bottle, "was headed when it was captured. As well as the three lost the next year. I can assure you that my father's captains certainly had found adequate business on Barbados after 1807," she said, again sounding completely at ease with her subject.

"You must be mistaken," Edward shook his head, denying it. Perhaps Miss Tottenham did not know the geography of the West Indies well. There were a great many islands in the West Indies.

"I would certainly not wish to quarrel with you," she went on mildly, "But I assure you that my understanding of the situation is quite good. My father's ships were headed towards Barbados, bringing you and your planters the supplies necessary for the success of your plantations."

Edward had to look away from her. He couldn't believe that his fellow planters had continued to purchase slaves, encouraging shippers to continue their trade in slaves, which precipitated this disastrous event. He didn't want to believe that his fellow planters were culpable in the unnecessary deaths of those Africans. And he didn't want to believe that Mr. Tottenham would willingly give his captains an order that sent them to their deaths.

And, moreover, he didn't want to look over at Miss Drusilla and see just how glibly she was able to treat the entire tragedy, how calmly, as if it hadn't touched her at all!

Good Lord, he didn't want to think about that!

"I can see from your face that your plantation was affected as well." Miss Drusilla went on, voice placatingly soothing. "How could it help but create a crisis for you and the other owners on Barbados? It certainly has made a great difference in the fortunes of my own family." She whispered that confidence with great regret.

Edward looked up and around, realizing for the first time just how desperate their situation must be becoming, Mrs. Tottenham forced to ration her candles as well as her sugar. Was the family teetering on the brink of financial insolvency? It was no wonder, then, Drusilla's parents were so eager to see her married well.

But Drusilla seemed to be growing more inquisitive as well as candid and brought her face closer to his own. "Is that the real reason why you decided to sell your property and return to England?"

"No," Edward shook his head, protesting it all more vehemently than was necessary, sickened by it all. He didn't want to hear her comparing his situation to her own, his motives to her father's. He didn't create the situation that caused those ships to sink in the Atlantic. He was an attentive, diligent, caring manager of a work force, not a capricious owner of humans who didn't care if they lived or died.

Wasn't he?

Of this much he could be sure: he hadn't created the situation that had led to the deaths of those people, for he hadn't purchased any Africans after 1807. He had complied with Parliament. He wasn't a law-breaker. His conscience was clear.

Wasn't it?

"Come, Lord Rodale," the concerned voice of Miss Tottenham broke into his thoughts. "You look unwell."

"I..." Edward began, trying to calm himself.

"Can I get you a glass of wine?" she asked, touching his shoulder. Involuntarily, Edward flinched, repulsed. "No, no," Edward negatived quickly and moved away from her.

She must have noticed his change in demeanor and was quiet, as if momentarily stymied by it. "Perhaps we should discuss something else, then?" she offered.

"Yes," Edward agreed hastily, distracted, continuing to keep his distance from her. He needed to get away, he needed to go home and think. But how could he do so without giving offense to the Tottenham family?

Did he actually care whether he gave offense or not?

Miss Tottenham's eyebrows furrowed and her back straightened. She appeared to be considering topics in her conversational repertoire, as if choosing something that might interest and rouse her potential admirer out of his sudden bad humor. "Have you heard about the recent sad misfortune of a certain person we both know?"

"Who?"

"Miss Aintree."

"Miss Aintree? A recent misfortune?" Edward was confused. He had now heard about Miss Aintree's sad history from two quarters, but neither informant had described it as recent. "What has happened to her?"

"Her former fiancé was murdered just last night!" Miss Tottenham whispered urgently, eyes widening, which made her look strangely gleeful, as if thrilled to be sharing such sensational news.

"Murdered?"

She nodded. "Knifed in his own carriage!"

"By whom?" Edward was aghast.

"Oh," she made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "Just some man off the street, I suppose. They've already caught him. He's to hang."

"Poor girl," Edward breathed out, shaking his head, immediately concerned. He realised that the girl had been ill-used by her former fiancé, but she may have continued to harbor feelings for him. Who could say what she might be going through now? Her mourning for him might be just as strong as if they had actually been married. He turned towards her. "Have you visited her yet? How is she?"

"Visited her?" Miss Tottenham shook her head in confusion. "No, I haven't visited her."

"Are you not planning to visit her?"

"Why should I?" Miss Tottenham asked lightly.

Edward looked at her closely. She seemed actually surprised that he would suggest such a thing. But was it not appropriate for friends to call on those in mourning? Or did Miss Tottenham not consider herself a friend of Miss Aintree's? "She may be in need of consolation," he responded, voice sounding harsher than he meant it. "Isn't that generally what is offered to those who mourn?"

"Oh," Miss Tottenham shook her head and rolled her eyes. "I'm not quite sure how much she's mourning, really."

"What do you mean by that?" Edward asked.

Miss Tottenham hesitated, regarding him closely, as if she were trying to make out whether or not she trust him with what she were to say next. "Perhaps this murder wasn't as random as it seems," she offered almost teasingly.

"What are you suggesting?" Edward spluttered in confusion, but quickly recognized the meaning behind Miss Tottenham's comment. "Are you suggesting..."

"Oh, I have no proof," Miss Tottenham interrupted. "But I know that I would not have allowed my fiancé to leave me at the altar."

Edward was stunned. She actually was suggesting that Miss Aintree had something to do with the death of her former fiancé! How could she even imagine such a thing?

But the answer to that question had become quite clear to Edward. Whether by the negative influence of parents completely devoid of proper feeling or a naturally bad character, she herself was quite capable of such actions. "No," Edward agreed, "I believe that you wouldn't."

And, with that, he stood up and walked out of the study.

Continued in Next Section