I fought hard, recognizing the fellow who’d attacked us in Napoli and Pompeii. He’d been joined by several hardened men, who were wading in to beat me senseless.
Donata was shouting at them, clearly promising them dire outcomes if they did not leave me be at once. No fleeing in terror or standing in the lane wringing her hands. I’d prefer it if she would flee, but she’d snatched up the walking stick that had fallen from my struck fist, and I heard it thud on a back or two.
These were honed fighters, and any moment one would turn on her. I did not believe they’d be gentle because she was a woman.
I punched and grappled, trying to keep to my feet. My back was to a brick wall, slick with rain, and the rough stones dug through my coat.
I knew how to fight, but so did the toughs, who were dark-haired Romans, contrasting the pale Englishman. I might have been able to best the man if we’d fought one on one, in spite of his cudgel, which is no doubt why he’d recruited help.
They’d beat me to a pulp. I shouted at Donata to run, but she ignored me, damn the woman.
I heard the pounding of large boots, and then Brewster was there, his sling gone, yanking a ruffian from me and hurling him to the pavement. Brewster’s face was set in a scowl, rage radiating from him as he tore the second tough from me and smashed his good fist into his nose.
As he drew back for another punch, I shouted, “Leave him. Get him.”
I pointed to the Englishman who’d decided to flee. Brewster released the man he’d pummeled, leapt over his body as he fell to the cobbles, and raced after my assailant.
The ruffians dragged themselves to their feet, decided I wasn’t worth the trouble, and hobbled off into the darkness as rapidly as they could. I pushed away from the wall, catching my breath and trying to brush off my ruined coat.
“Donata,” I said to my wife as she came shakily forward to hand me my walking stick. “What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?”
For a moment, she glared at me as though ready to admonish me in return, then her face crumpled. “Damnation, Gabriel, I thought they’d kill you.”
She came at me, my usually cool and composed wife, and I caught her and pulled her close. We stood there in the tiny lane, swaying a bit as we held each other, I breathing her scent and thanking God she was whole and unhurt.
I heard Brewster stomping toward us, and a second set of scrambling footsteps interspersed with his. Donata and I drew apart as Brewster hauled the knife-wielding man around the corner to us. Brewster had twisted the attacker’s arm behind his back and held him up by the collar, half strangling him.
“You,” I said, gazing into the man’s apprehensive but determined face. “You are going to tell me who you are, and what you are about.”
Our attacker made a few desperate noises and tried to shove a hand into his coat pocket. Brewster twisted the arm tighter, and the man let out a gasp of pain.
Donata darted forward and dipped into his pocket herself, retrieving a small card with handwriting on it.
“Please understand that I am deaf,” she read. “Good heavens.”
“So Grenville told us. Brewster, please escort this gentleman to our lodgings. I have many things to ask him.”
“Should toss him in the river instead.” Brewster jerked on the man’s collar, enough to make him grunt.
“No. Don’t let him go, but keep him alive, please.”
Brewster muttered something, but he pulled the man away with him. Brewster strode rapidly, the captive’s boots dragging as he struggled to keep to his feet.
“The poor man is deaf?” Donata asked. She was still shaking.
I took the card from her, studied it, and dropped it into my pocket before winding her arm through mine.
“The poor man is excellent with a knife, and he pushed Grenville into a hole and left him there. I will shackle him if necessary.” I knew I should give the attacker over to the police, but I did very much want to know why he was pursuing me.
I’d never seen him before in my life.
Brewster and his prisoner reached home before we did, and when we entered Grenville’s house, Grenville was in the ground floor reception room, studying the wreck of our assailant. The man still hung in Brewster’s grip, Brewster on the point of fracturing the man’s arm in vengeance.
“Ah, Lacey,” Grenville said as though we’d entered a soiree at his Mayfair home. “I see you’ve brought a visitor. I was just scolding him for knocking me into that well in Pompeii.”
The man was much subdued, the wildness in his eyes replaced by pain. Brewster knew how to restrain a captive.
“Can he understand you?” I asked.
“As my half-brother does, by reading lips,” Grenville said. “And, like my half-brother, pretends he cannot when he wishes to plead ignorance. But he understands me perfectly. Hand signals help—my brother and I worked out our own form of it, though of course this fellow can’t know what we contrived.”
The man’s dismay as Grenville spoke told me he did indeed understand every word.
I faced him. “Who are you?” I asked carefully.
“It isn’t necessary to twist your mouth with every syllable,” Grenville said in amusement.
“Very well.” I calmed myself and spoke normally. “The question remains. Who are you?”
The answer was unintelligible to me, though I was pleased I received any answer at all.
Grenville’s brows had shot skyward. “Say that again, my good man. Is that truly your name?”
The man nodded and repeated the words.
“Good Lord.” Grenville turned to me, stunned. “His name is Joseph Cockburn.”
“Cockburn?” I stared at the man. “A relation of Leonard Cockburn, who was killed in London?”
This time I understood his answer, hurled with fury. “He was my brother.”
“Ah.” Now I understood the reason for his rage, a frustration born of grief. “I am so sorry, my dear chap. But why have you decided to take revenge on Mr. Grenville and me? We know nothing about your brother.”
Cockburn hesitated, but it was clear he didn’t believe me.
“We might be much better served if we sat down,” Donata said. She’d handed her wet wraps to Bartholomew, who’d hurried in at our entrance, and now settled herself on the most comfortable chair in the room. “Do let him go, Mr. Brewster. Bartholomew, bring us all a pot of coffee. Something rich to cut the chill.”
Bartholomew, who always instantly obeyed Donata, hurried away.
Brewster was more uncertain. “I turn him loose, who knows what he’ll do?”
I did not trust him any more than did Brewster, but I wanted to hear the man’s story.
“If you give me your word you will sit and speak to us, Brewster will release you,” I said to Cockburn.
Cockburn hesitated. He glanced at Donata, who gave him a cool nod, a great lady promising him sanctuary.
“I give you my word,” Cockburn said. I was beginning to catch on to the cadences of his voice.
I gestured to Brewster, and he, with great reluctance, eased his grip. Cockburn untwisted his arm, rubbing it, both relief and anger on his face. Brewster would not let him stray a step, however, until he’d searched the man and relieved him of several more knives.
Cockburn wore breeches and boots rather than trousers, the better for tramping about. As Grenville had observed before, his coat didn’t fit him exactly, which spoke of secondhand gear, but the cloth was serviceable, whole, and sturdy. Not a wealthy gentleman, but not one in penury either.
Grenville, still the congenial host, waved Cockburn to a chair. Cockburn brushed off the back of his breeches before he sat. He did not plop into the chair or lower himself gingerly but took the seat as though comfortable chairs were usual for him.
Grenville waited until I’d also sat down, and Brewster had retreated to the doorway, where he planted himself like a pillar. Grenville pulled a delicate-legged chair around to face Cockburn and lounged on it, crossing his ankles. Any moment, his reclined pose said, he’d call for a brandy and box of snuff.
“Now then. Let us proceed in a civilized manner.” Grenville fixed Cockburn with a stern gaze. “We were very sorry to learn of your brother’s demise in so horrible a fashion. We also know that the world believes the dead man to be his partner, Mr. Broadhurst. You know differently, obviously. But why are you throwing yourself at the captain and myself? We had nothing to do with it.”
“I saw him, didn’t I?” Cockburn shot an angry glance at me. “With the coward Broadhurst, thick as thieves.”
“You wrote the letters,” I said. “Threatening him.” The handwriting on the card had been the same as on the letter Broadhurst had given me.
Cockburn nodded without repentance.
“Mr. Broadhurst sought me out because he feared for his life,” I explained. “Your letters worried him, and he asked me to discover who was writing them. Before I had the chance to investigate, you began throwing knives at me and chasing me through ruins.”
Cockburn had proved his resilience though, evading Brewster and besting Grenville, who was an excellent fighter. Broadhurst was right to be worried.
“I assure you, I had nothing to do with your brother’s death,” I continued. “Broadhurst approached me because he knew of my reputation for handing criminals over to the Runners. That is all. Why do you believe he killed Mr. Cockburn? He found the man after the deed was done.”
“So he says.” The words were filled with wrath. “I know he killed my brother. Stole his name and escaped to Rome. Broadhurst knew he’d be held responsible for all the swindling. So he killed my brother and ran.”
It was plausible and something I had considered. Broadhurst had been fortunate that ruffians had murdered Cockburn at that very moment and to be the first to find the man was very convenient.
“He also beat my brother’s face with a brick to hide his identity,” Cockburn announced. The blood-marred brick was found beside him.”
All three of us gazed at him in horror. I thought of Broadhurst with his fleshy hands, his nervousness when he told me his story.
“He omitted that detail,” I said. “I’d have walked away from him if he hadn’t.”
“Likely he knew that,” Grenville said, his expression as grim as mine.
“How do we prove Broadhurst’s guilt?” I asked Cockburn. “The killing happened in London, and your brother is buried there as Norris Broadhurst.”
“Catch him,” Cockburn said readily. “Pummel him until he confesses and give him to a magistrate. He’ll never break free from a prison here.”
“Or, the papal authorities will simply ship him back to England,” Grenville said. “Where of course he will be investigated, and at least punished for disfiguring your brother, stealing his identity, and fleeing the country.”
“For murder,” Cockburn insisted. “He should pay.”
“What is your plan?” I asked him abruptly. “To kill him yourself? Then you will hang. Is that what your brother would want?”
Cockburn stared at me, lips parted, then to my distress, the man began to weep. He buried his face in his hands, wet noises coming from his mouth, shoulders heaving.
“Steady,” Grenville said. He rose and moved to a table that held a decanter. Matthias at that moment swept in with a tray of coffee and cups, which he deposited next to the brandy. Grenville bypassed the coffee and brought a glass of brandy to Cockburn, shoving it under the man’s nose. “Drink that.”
Donata had moved to the edge of her seat, pity in her eyes. “He and his brother must have been very close.”
Cockburn raised his head, grasped the goblet, and poured the brandy into his mouth. He swallowed, coughing, then dug a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and face.
“Forgive me,” he said.
Grenville settled in once more, and Matthias handed cups of coffee all around. “Not at all, my dear chap,” Grenville said in sympathy. “Tell us about your brother.”
“He looked after me when we were lads.” Cockburn drew a ragged breath and composed himself before he continued. “I was born deaf. No one understood what was wrong with me—Leonard was the first to conclude I could not hear. He taught me to speak and to read lips. He taught me to fight, to keep the other lads off me.”
“He certainly did that very well,” Grenville said feelingly. Brewster, at the doorway, grunted assent.
“I always had to defend myself,” Cockburn went on. “Leonard became a clerk at a stockbroker’s and he gave me a job, assisting him. I’m good with anything written down.”
His story continued. He worked with his brother until his brother joined forces with Mr. Broadhurst about five years ago. Our Mr. Cockburn had not liked Broadhurst, who was jovial but sly-eyed at the same time, so he’d left to work for another stockbroker. He’d tried to warn his brother, but Leonard Cockburn, too trusting, had taken no heed.
Broadhurst finally lured Leonard into a scheme to make millions. Broadhurst had assured him that everyone would make money.
But then it began to go wrong. People demanded their money returned, and Broadhurst couldn’t do it. He’d dragged Leonard Cockburn down with him, and they were on the verge of debtors’ prison, or worse. In any case, they were both ruined.
Leonard had walked home from the office on the evening of his death. He’d been preparing to meet with finance men from the government the next morning to sort out the mess and find the money to repay their investors. Our Mr. Cockburn had wanted to join him but had been waylaid with last minute paperwork at his stockbroking job. Our Mr. Cockburn had hurried through the darkness to the lodgings he’d shared with his brother, and found Leonard on their doorstep, dead, his face caved in.
When the City watchmen came, they’d examined the coat and belongings on Leonard’s body and declared the dead man was Broadhurst.
“I tried to tell them, no, he was my brother, but they couldn’t understand me,” Cockburn went on. “They took me for a madman. First, they believed I’d killed him and then decided I was imbecilic. The magistrates concluded my brother had murdered Broadhurst and escaped, but I knew the truth. But no one would listen.”
A person had to attend carefully to Cockburn to understand him, and I imagined the harried watch and magistrate had brushed him aside, thinking him incapable of coherent speech. It must have been dreadful for him, seeing his brother labeled a criminal and buried under another man’s name.
“I even wrote to the magistrate,” Cockburn continued. “But he said I needed more evidence to prove his identity. Everything pointed to the man being Broadhurst, in the magistrate’s eyes.”
I wondered which magistrate—my friend Sir Montague Harris would have been more careful. But Lombard Street was in the City, which was a separate jurisdiction.
“No wonder you were maddened,” I said to Cockburn. “I cannot blame you for wanting to find Broadhurst and make him pay. But I understand the magistrate’s caution—it would be helpful if we had proof that Broadhurst committed this crime.”
Cockburn shook his head. “I have tried to discover any, but I have been unable to. But I know he did it,” he finished resolutely.
I believed him. If Broadhurst had indeed smashed Leonard Cockburn’s face to confuse identification, it was not difficult to assume he’d done the initial murder himself. Or, if he had not actually wielded the knife, hired someone to commit it for him.
I agreed with Cockburn that the best way to find the truth was to locate Broadhurst and wring his tale from him. But if I sent Broadhurst back to England, I would need some evidence of his misdeeds. Sir Montague Harris, to whom I would write of this, could arrest him, but no judge and jury would convict him on my word alone.
An independent witness would be best—if I interrogated Broadhurst, he might say anything to make me call off Brewster, and we’d not discover the truth in this manner.
I had a few ideas on that score, however.
“Where are you staying in Rome?” I asked Mr. Cockburn.
“In rooms near the Colosseum.”
There were a number of boarding houses near the ruins of the grand amphitheatre. The area was a bit marshy, I’d been told, the air insalubrious. Cockburn wasn’t a pauper as I’d observed, but still it would have cost him a fair bit to pursue Broadhurst across the Continent and into Rome. He’d not have much to spend on luxurious accommodations.
“I will help you, Mr. Cockburn,” I said. “I did not like Mr. Broadhurst, and I too would not be surprised if he in fact killed your brother himself, or at least had a firm hand in his death. If he did, I assure you, I will make certain he pays.”
I spoke grimly, and Mr. Cockburn brightened. “You will beat him down?” He glanced at Brewster who stood like a sentinel near the door.
“I will deliver him to authorities in England,” I returned. “You must cease trying to exact revenge yourself.”
Mr. Cockburn shook his head. “What choice do I have? Everyone believes me a madman.”
“Write your story and your suspicions again, clearly and concisely. I will send your letter to another magistrate in London—he is at the Whitechapel House—whom I know will give it the attention it deserves. Even if the crime was committed in the City, he commands enough respect to have the matter investigated once again.”
Cockburn did not appear convinced, but he nodded. “I will try.”
“Good. Now, Mr. Brewster will escort you home—no more coming at me with knives if I am going to help you. Though the throw you did in Napoli was quite skilled.”
Cockburn reddened. “I thought you in league with my brother’s killer. You have my most profound apologies.”
“Hmm.” I remembered my fright as I hugged the wall, and the knowledge that I’d barely escaped with my life. “I will let you make it up to me somehow. Good day, Mr. Cockburn.”
Brewster, without returning Cockburn’s weapons, led the man from the room. I heard him growling at Cockburn as they left the house, the door slamming behind them. A cool draft scented with rain flowed into the reception room and then faded.
Donata rose, signaling for Matthias to leave the tray and asked him to fetch her a shawl. Matthias disappeared at once.
“Well,” Grenville said. “What do we make of all that?”
“That Mr. Cockburn is a desperate man,” Donata answered. “I confess I have sympathy for him, despite the fact that he very thoroughly attacked us. I hope he ceases his violent ways and allows Gabriel to deliver Mr. Broadhurst to London.”
I tried not to flinch at her conviction that such a thing would be simple.
I took up my walking stick as Matthias returned with a long ivory embroidered shawl that Donata accepted from him gratefully. I helped her drape it around her shoulders, longing to close my hands on the soft garment and draw her into my arms. But Grenville and Matthias hovered, and I had errands to run.
“I’m off to visit Mr. Denis,” I said as I stepped back from her.