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MY HEART SANK WHEN the square black vehicle carrying Tilda and me drew up before the London Policing House on Bow Street, the same gray stone building where I had been hauled less than a twelvemonth ago by a pair of red-vested Bow Street Runners following their discovery of Mr. Chalmers’ lifeless body.
The memory was so indelibly imprinted upon my mind that without being escorted to it, I could have easily walked straight to the office of the magistrate, whose name I had not learned then and did not wish to know now. Nonetheless, I was not surprised to recognize his face when he glanced up as Tilda and I were shown in. Catching sight of me, the man said, “Haven’t I seen you here before, young lady?”
My heart sank when the remark caused Tilda’s head to jerk ‘round. But, thrusting my nose in the air, I said nothing.
“I thought as much.” The magistrate grabbed a pencil and flipped to a clean page in his occurrence book. “Your name, miss.”
I looked expectantly at Tilda, whose blue eyes widened.
“M-Ma-thil-ah-thil-la Ta-Taomp-kan.”
My poor maid was so frightened, her words came out sounding like mush.
“Say again?” The magistrate scowled.
“Her name is Miss Matilda Thompkins,” said I, quite clearly. “She is six and ten years old. I am Miss Juliette Abbott. Aged nine and ten.”
A smirk appeared on the magistrate’s face. “Knew I‘d seen you here before. So, what kind of trouble you got yer’self into this time?”
I heard the squeak of alarm that escaped Tilda, but, again, offered nothing by way of explanation.
“Here’s their reticules, sir.” One of the uniformed runners who’d accosted us on the street stepped forward. “Both full of banknotes, they is. Truth to say, more’n one shopkeeper has fingered these two. We was lucky today to catch ‘em in the act.”
Baffled, I glared at the man as the other officer spoke up.
“They’s been a-passin’ bogus ten’s and twenties all over Mayfair, sir. Even treated they’selves to a nice luncheon at Gunter’s a few days back. Lobster and watercress sandwiches. Fancy that!” He flung a disdainful look my way.
“Lobster and watercress sandwiches, eh? Sounds as if you ladies was tryin’ to pass ye’selves off as some kinda’ high-brow toffs.”
Still reeling from the man’s accusation that our paper bills were not genuine, I ignored his set down. “If I might have a say, please, sir?”
The magistrate flung a look my way. “Now, why should I allow you to speak, young lady? You can’t buy yer’ freedom with them fraudulent banknotes, if that’s what yer’ a-thinkin’.”
“Sir, I assure you I haven’t the least notion to what you are alluding. I am requesting that you send for a gentleman who will speak on our behalf. He is an emissary of the king assigned to the Home Office. If you will please send for him, sir, I’ve no doubt he will come at once.”
The magistrate chewed on his lip. “On the previous occasion you was here, I recall you askin’ for Mr. George Haworth to come speak for ya’. . . ain’t that right,” he glanced down then back up, “Miss Abbott?”
My head at a tilt, I nodded, tightly. “Yessir. That is correct.”
“So, appears yer’ connections has risen a jot higher.”
“If you will send for Mr. William Sheridan, of the Home Office, sir. I am certain the gentleman will agree to speak for us,” I said again.
“Well, if he don’t git hisself here straightaway, ye ladies can both settle down for a nice long stretch in Newgate.” Rising, he spoke to the pair of officers. “Take the prisoners to the holdin’ cell, boys; and send for this Mr. Sheridan. Tell him he’s got a quarter hour. Longer than that and I’ll be bindin’ the ladies over and transferrin’ ‘em to Newgate Prison.”
Again my heart lurched to my throat and lodged there, even as my thoughts raced ahead. When one burly officer planted a beefy hand on my back and give me an ungentlemanly shove, I said, “I am perfectly capable of walking without aid, sir.”
“Yer’ a mouthy little thing, ain’t ya’?”
Another squeak of alarm escaped Tilda.
As it was fairly early in the day, the cage to which the man ushered Tilda and me was not yet filled to capacity with the sort of rowdy mischief-makers one might expect to find there, meaning (ahem) ladies of the night who’d been arrested for loitering or . . . unsavory activities of another sort. Of the three women who were confined, one lay sprawled upon the filthy floor of the cell, the foul air about her reeking of vomit and gin. The other two appeared to be sleeping off their stupor on benches that ran alongside two of the three enclosed walls. Against the back brick wall was a table upon which sat a cracked porcelain pitcher with an upturned bowl to one side. On the floor at one end of the table stood a pair of chamber pots, bereft of a privacy screen, I noted with disgust. Floor-to-ceiling iron bars secured the foremost wall of the enclosure. Flinging a quick glance about, I realized with chagrin that, as things now stood, Tilda and I had . . . nowhere to sit.
“What’s gonna’ happen to us now, miss?” she whispered, her plea accompanied by a violent shudder as the officer who’d turned the key in the lock nonchalantly strode away, leaving us with our . . . cell-mates.
We both stood rooted in place, our breath coming in fits and starts. At length, Tilda said, “Do ye’ ‘spose that lady on the floor is . . . dead?”
I slid a glance over one shoulder, then mutely shook my head.
“’Spose there’s other folks also locked up in here somewheres?”
“I have no clue, Tilda.” My lips formed a straight line.
“The man behind the desk said you was here before, miss. I knows ye’ must a’ been let out, but . . . what happened . . . a’fore then?”
“I shall explain later, Tilda. For now, I . . . need to think.”
Judging from the chorus of raucous sounds coming from elsewhere in the building, I knew we were not entirely alone. We had walked a long, cramped corridor before reaching this so-called holding cell. There were no other cells across from us, but from some distance up ahead I could see a shaft of light, so assumed there must be a window at some interval along the way. My prayer now was that the magistrate did, indeed, send for Mr. Sheridan and that he came at once. This was a horrid place to be and I did not wish to remain locked up here a single moment longer than necessary.
Commencing to pace, I asked myself what if Mr. Sheridan was not presently at the Home Office? What if his subordinates did not deliver the message to him straightaway? What if he had left the country and would never know of our plight? What if he ignored it? What if the magistrate’s men failed to mention my name in the message? Dear Lord . . . what then?
“Where do ye’ ‘spose the Dandridge carriage got off to?” Tilda broke into my reverie. “I dinna’ see the policeman takin’ our packages off the footman, did you?” After a pause, she added, “Sure am glad I’m not wearin’ me new bonnet.” She reached a hand up to inspect the one on her head. “This one ain’t dry yet. I ‘spose it’s nigh on done for.”
“Perhaps you can bequeath it to one of our cellmates,” I mumbled as I continued to pace, my thoughts not yet fixed upon a viable course of action. Did I dare send for Mr. Haworth? No, certainly not. Given the last, less than civil, exchange between that gentleman and myself in Margate, I doubt he would lift a finger to save me from a runaway carriage. But . . . I ceased to pace. Mr. Wells would! He had already proven that he was a gentleman by properly taking action to save me from a runaway carriage! Of course, Mr. Wells would come! If Mr. Sheridan did not arrive soon, I would send for Mr. Wells! He would come! I was certain of it!
I looked up to find Tilda gazing at me quizzically. “Was you a-larkin’ with me just now, miss?”
“Larking with you? Regarding what?”
“’Bout me givin’ my soggy bonnet to one o’ them ladies in here?” Her head jerked towards the pair now snoring where they lay.
When I did not reply, Tilda turned to curl the fingers of both hands around the bars of the cell to peer out. A moment later, she again addressed me. “I’m scared outta’ me wits, miss. You got any notion what’s gonna’ to happen to us now? Are we gonna’ stay locked up in here . . . forever?”
* * * *
IT SEEMED A GOOD LONG while before we heard the clatter of footfalls upon the cold stone floor; footsteps that Tilda and I assessed, as we exchanged anxious gazes with one another, were, indeed, headed our way.
She and I were both near breathless by the time the men appeared. Thankfully, one of the pair was Mr. Sheridan, his handsome countenance at the moment an uncharacteristic scowl of displeasure.
Which gave me pause. Still . . . he was here! Thank God, he had come! Beside me, I heard Tilda’s sharp intake of breath. In her relief, the frightened child very nearly fell to her knees on the filthy stone floor to kiss his boots. I managed to contain my anxiety by worrying my bottom lip. Tilda and I clasped hands and stood back as the stern-faced officer turned the key in the lock and with a jab of his head, ushered us forward.
I wished only to fling myself into Mr. Sheridan’s arms and sob out my gratitude to him for coming, but was suddenly beset by a rush of humiliation and instead, hung my head. I felt his hand at my back as the four of us advanced up the corridor towards the light. I had no clue what would take place now and was far too frightened to inquire.
Nearing the magistrate’s office, that man stepped to the doorway. “Unless ye can sort this to my satisfaction, Sheridan, and that of the Home Office, I’ll expect to see the prisoners . . . that is, the ladies, in court at the appointed hour. And mind ‘ye, don’t be late!”
Mr. Sheridan, still scowling, merely nodded curtly and walked past him and the other officers clustered nearby, including the two who had rudely accosted us on the flagway, without saying a word.
Just as Mr. Sheridan stepped in front of us to hold open the outer door, Tilda said, “What about our reticules, miss?”
I glanced up at our escort. “Did the magistrate return our reticules to you, sir?” I asked softly.
Mr. Sheridan patted his pocket, which I noted now appeared to be . . . not flat. When the scowl about his lips softened, I drew the first breath of relief I’d felt since our ghastly ordeal began.
Suddenly Tilda cried, “Look, miss!” as she pointed toward the street. “It’s our carriage!”
My gaze shifted. An uncertain smile wavered over my face as once again, I cast an imploring look up at Mr. Sheridan. “I had wondered how we would find our way back to the country.”
Mr. Sheridan guided us toward the high-sprung Dandridge coach parked at the curb. “Before you return to Marsh Lane, Miss Abbott, I would like a word with you.” Reaching for the door latch, he turned to address Tilda. “You will wait for us inside, Miss Tilda.”
Without a word, she scrambled up and into the coach. Through the window at her side, I caught a glimpse of her anxious countenance as she watched Mr. Sheridan guide me across the cobblestone street away from the Policing House and once there, toward a stretch of greensward and a wrought iron bench sitting beneath a pair of gnarled old oak trees.
“Sit down, Miss Abbott. I need you to explain all that you know of the charges being leveled against you and your maid.”
“I do not yet know what the charges consist of!” I cried with a bewildered shake of my head. “The magistrate accused us of passing forged banknotes, but I haven’t a clue what he meant! I know nothing of counterfeit bills.”
Mr. Sheridan’s brow knit. “Initially, I thought it possible that a compromised banknote may have found it’s way to you by happenstance; but upon closer inspection of the paper money both you ladies carried in your purses, it was clear to me, as well as to the magistrate, that all the bills in your reticules are fraudulent.”
“If that is the case, then why did he release us?”
“Because I informed him that forgery, being a crime against the crown, falls under the bailiwick of the Home Office. And, since the banknotes were given to you by Mrs. Dandridge, that the Dandridge grandsons could very well be engaged in the business of counterfeiting. Have you observed anything to that effect?”
Baffled by the bizarre assertion, I slowly shook my head, then said, “I-I have noticed that David seems always to have . . . unclean hands. His fingers seem perpetually discoloured, as if some substance has stained them.” I looked up. “When I observed him repairing the entryway door, I spotted a pot of stain sitting nearby. He mentioned that he would be staining the new wood and that once the task was complete, the colour would exactly match the old wood. But, I suppose it is possible that his discoloured fingers could instead be the result of . . . printer’s ink.”
“Quite possible.” Mr. Sheridan nodded.
“Plus,” I added, “the day I snooped about in Mrs. Dandridge’s bedchamber I pulled one of the hatboxes from beneath her bed and found a . . . a bundle of crisp new banknotes inside, neatly tied with fresh string.”
“Crisp, new bills, you say?” Mr. Sheridan leaned forward. “Now, we’re getting somewhere. Anything else?”
“Well, it was only a day or so later that . . .” I glanced up again. “I have not yet told you about Norris accusing Tilda of stealing her ruby ring, which is why we are in Town today.” I proceeded to relay the particulars of that episode, ending with . . . “Apparently David only just purchased the ruby ring for his new bride. Oh-h, dear.” Again, I chewed on my lower lip. “It does appear that David might indeed be fabricating fraudulent banknotes and freely spending them. I admit I have wondered how the family came by their wealth. Theirs is not a working estate, you know. No tenant farmers, no crops, no cattle or sheep grazing in the fields. Where does the family’s wealth come from?” I cast another helpless gaze up at Mr. Sheridan.
“Appears the answer could very well be staring us in the face.” He paused. “We now have only to prove it, otherwise, it is possible . . . well, we’ve no choice but to prove it. We must and we shall.” He rose.
A shudder passed through me as I, too, stood. “If we are unable to prove it, or simply cannot, then Tilda and I will be charged with . . . and . . . then,” a wrenching sob caught in my throat, “both found guilty and . . .”
Taking pity on me, Mr. Sheridan’s hardened features again relaxed as he reached to draw me into his arms.
Stiffening, I protested. “Please, sir! We are in public!”
“Hang what the public thinks!”
“I would rather you did not use that word.” I murmured into his chest.
“Forgive me. Poor choice. Still, you appear to be in need of consoling, Miss Abbott. If you will just allow me to . . .”
That Mr. Sheridan wished to put his arms about me was an action I could not refuse. Most certainly not now. I willingly melted into his warm embrace, and knew that if we were not standing toe-to-toe in plain sight of anyone who might be walking, or driving, by on foot, or in a carriage, that he would have also kissed me. But I could certainly not allow that in public.
My emotions still raw and my thoughts still a tangle, he escorted me back across the street and into the Dandridge coach waiting at the curb.
“Try not to worry, ladies. I shall call soon. Good day, Miss Abbott. Tilda.”
Nodding, I reached to cover my quivering lips with a gloved hand.
Beset by troubles more terrifying than anything I could ever have imagined, to cease worrying did not seem at all likely; nor even possible.