‘This is ridiculous!’ Killigrew protested as he was pushed forcibly into the cell at Bow Street Police Court. ‘I was there, yes, but it wasn’t I who drove the gig. Ask Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Napier. He was there; he saw the whole thing. He’ll vouch for me.’
‘We already have,’ said Blathers. ‘As a matter of fact, he was the one who gave us your name.’ He slammed the cell door, turned the key in the lock, and walked away.
‘Gave you my…’ stammered Killigrew, and then felt relief flood through him. At last what had seemed like a terrible misunderstanding had been explained. The rear-admiral was certainly a fast worker; but then, the timing of the girl’s death had been too good to ignore. It was notoriously difficult to find witnesses in such cases; the only man who could deny that Killigrew was responsible was the driver of the gig, and he was unlikely to come forward.
It was perfect. If a gentleman like Killigrew pleaded guilty to manslaughter then he had every chance of being let off with a hefty fine – which suddenly struck him as unfair, although now was hardly the time to complain – but the repercussions would be more far-reaching. The navy would dismiss him for conduct unbecoming the character of an officer and a gentleman, and Society would shun him as a child-killer.
As would Eulalia.
He felt a momentary pang. But she would believe in his innocence – wouldn’t she?
And then he could inveigle his way aboard the Madge Howlett, and with any luck return to England a few months later, honour redeemed, to have his rank restored and, he hoped, able to point the finger at whoever was behind the slavers.
Assuming, of course, he was let off with a fine. Assuming he was successful in joining the crew of the slavers. Assuming the slavers did not see through the imposture and slit his throat and throw his body overboard as soon as the Madge Howlett was out at sea.
Killigrew realised he was not alone in the cell. He turned in time to see three heavily built men rise from the bench. They were not smiling. ‘So, you’re the bastard who killed that little girl on Pall Mall today?’ snarled one.
Killigrew guessed that now was probably not the time to plead guilty. Such men rarely found themselves in a position where they could beat up a member of the gentry – assuming they were not rampsmen who did so for a living, which was not entirely improbable from the look of them – and any man would naturally want to inflict some kind of punishment on someone guilty of such a crime. ‘Accused,’ he said. ‘There is a golden thread running through British justice which says a man is innocent until proven guilty—’
Two of the men quickly moved forwards, grabbed Killigrew by the arms and slammed him back against a wall while the third rammed his fists repeatedly into his stomach. Fire exploded in Killigrew’s midriff. A fist smashed into his face and threw his head back against the wall, cracking his skull. His eyes rolled up in his head and the two men released him, allowing him to slump to the floor, then the third kicked him in the mouth.
‘That’ll teach you not to go around killing little girls,’ he snarled.
Killigrew tried to get up but a boot slammed into his side and he collapsed to the floor again.
‘Break ’is bleedin’ neck, ’Arry.’
As the man came at him again, Killigrew barely managed to roll away from the blow. He spat out a mouthful of blood and crawled into the far corner.
‘Still got some fight left in you, eh?’ snarled Harry.
Killigrew pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and turned in time to see Harry swinging a fist at his head. Then the rampsman’s eyes widened in shock as Killigrew’s hand came up as fast as a striking cobra and stopped the fist in its tracks. Killigrew closed his fingers over the fist, squeezing tightly until Harry gasped, and then began to twist. Harry turned away from him in an effort to relieve the pressure on his shoulder, and Killigrew punched him in the kidneys.
Harry fell to the floor with a grunt. One of the other men came at Killigrew. The naval officer punched him in the stomach once and the man doubled up in winded agony. Killigrew hit him on the back of the neck and lifted his knees into his face. The man lay still.
Killigrew glanced at the third man, who backed into the furthermost corner and raised both hands placatingly. Killigrew knew he need expect no more trouble from that quarter. He glanced down at his trousers. There was blood where he had kneed the second man in the face, and the fabric had ripped. ‘Damn it!’
‘My missus’ll mend it,’ offered the third man. ‘Be good as new, it will. I’ll give you her address.’
‘Mr Killigrew?’ called the gaoler. ‘You made bail.’
Killigrew looked up in surprise from where he sat on the bench in the cell. ‘No I didn’t!’ he protested. He had been in the police cell for nearly a week now and his clothes were ragged and filthy. Bail had been posted at a hundred guineas, the same amount that Napier owed him after their wager, but as an impecunious naval officer Killigrew preferred a couple of weeks’ board and lodging at Her Majesty’s expense and some cash in hand at the end of it.
The gaoler was not having any of it, however. ‘Come along, Mr Killigrew. There’s a gentleman waiting to see you.’
The gentleman was the lawyer who had posted his bail, a burly, prematurely-balding man with deep-set eyes beneath bushy eyebrows. He gave Killigrew his card. ‘May I ask the name of my benefactor?’ asked Killigrew.
‘You may ask,’ said the lawyer. ‘But I can only reply that I am not at liberty to divulge my client’s name.’
‘My grandfather,’ guessed Killigrew. ‘Probably worried that I’ll bring the family name into disrepute.’
‘I could not possibly comment on that,’ said the lawyer, gnawing the side of a forefinger. ‘However, I have been instructed to engage Sir Abraham Haphazard, QC, MP, to speak at your trial.’
‘But you cannot instruct a barrister to act as my counsel without my consent.’
‘True.’
‘Then you may kindly inform your client that it is my intention to conduct my own defence.’ Even if the danger of being acquitted had not been entirely at odds with Napier’s plans, Killigrew would not have accepted help from his grandfather even if his life had depended on it.
‘That is entirely your prerogative,’ admitted the lawyer. ‘Although if I were your lawyer then I should advise you against it. Still, you seem to be a young man who knows his own mind. If that is your last word on the subject, it remains only for me to inform my client that I have done everything within my power to carry out his instructions. Good day to you, Mr Killigrew.’
‘Mr Killigrew, you are hereby charged with manslaughter; to whit, that on Friday the fourteenth of April in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-seven, while incapacitated through over-indulgence in alcohol, you did drive down Pall Mall in a gig with wilful negligence, and that furthermore by doing so your actions resulted in the death of Elizabeth Williams, a minor. How do you plead?’
Killigrew rose to his feet. ‘I wish to lodge a plea of guilty to both charges, m’lud, but would also like to plead mitigating circumstances.’ He glanced up towards the gallery. Eulalia was there with her father and Eustace Tremaine, although as soon as Killigrew announced his guilty plea the three of them rose to their feet with expressions of disgust on their faces. Killigrew knew he could not blame them for their reaction, but it was still a knife in his heart that Eulalia could really think him guilty of such a crime.
‘Very well,’ said the judge. ‘Does the counsel for the prosecution still wish to call its witnesses?’
The counsel for the prosecution stood up and bowed. ‘If it pleases m’lud, counsel for the prosecution would like to demonstrate that there are no acceptable mitigating circumstances for a crime so heinous as that of which Mr Killigrew now stands accused.’
‘Very well. Pray continue.’
Killigrew stood in the dock feeling dazed. He knew that in effect the whole trial was no more than a sham, although the fact that he was the only one who knew so was not very reassuring. His only consolation was the sealed letter from Napier brought to him by the solicitor appointed on his behalf. The letter had briefly confirmed that this was all part of the plan, and that while no one except himself and Napier knew the truth of the matter, Chief Justice Denman – the father of the author of the Instructions for the Guidance of Her Majesty’s Naval Officers Employed in the Suppression of the Slave Trade – had assured Napier that if Killigrew pleaded guilty then he was unlikely to receive any sentence tougher than a fine of a few guineas, which Napier had agreed to pay – admittedly out of the money he owed following Killigrew’s final shot in their game of billiards.
‘Call the first witness.’
‘Will Mr Simon Gubbins please take the stand?’
An elderly and filthy-looking man entered, evidently unnerved by his surroundings, and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Killigrew was glad that as the accused he had not been sworn in; he was not much of a church-going man, but even so he would have been uncomfortable about perjuring himself on the Bible, albeit in a noble cause and at no one’s expense but his own.
‘You are Mr Simon Gubbins, of Blue Gate Fields, London?’ asked the counsel for the prosecution.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And can you tell us where you were at ten minutes to three last Wednesday?’
‘Yes, sir. I was on Pall Mall. Looking for pure.’
‘And did you see the incident—’
The judge held up a hand, interrupting the counsel for the prosecution, and leaned forward to address the witness. ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that? What were you looking for?’
‘Pure, your honour. Dog-muck. That’s what I do. I’m a pure-finder.’
The counsel for the prosecution closed his eyes as if in pain. Normally he would ask his witnesses what they did for a living if the respectability of their profession would lend credence to their testimony. Mr Gubbins being a pure-finder, the prosecution had felt that his profession was best left unmentioned, unless the defence were so crass as to raise the issue.
‘Let me make sure I understand you correctly,’ said the judge. ‘You were looking for excrement?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘And what did you intend to do once you had found it?’
‘Why, put it in me bucket, your honour. That’s what I always do. Then, when I’ve got a full bucket, I takes it down to one of the tanneries in Southwark. They’ll give you a good price if it’s the right kind of pure. They like the white, limey kind best of all; they use it in puring the leather, I’m told, though I ain’t never seen it done myself. That’s why we calls it “pure”.’
‘And this is how you make your living?’
‘Yes, your honour. It may not be much of a living, but it keeps the wolf from the door.’
‘That’s as maybe, but I don’t think I shall ever feel comfortable in the saddle ever again,’ said the judge, and a polite titter ran around the court. ‘Pray continue with the cross-examination of your witness,’ he told the counsel for the prosecution.
‘Thank you, m’lud. Mr Gubbins, did you see Elizabeth Williams knocked down?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And did you get a good look at the man driving the gig which knocked her down and ran over her?’
‘Why, yes, sir. I told you before, didn’t I?’
‘For the court, please.’
‘I saw him, all right. A moment later he almost ran me over, too, so I got a good look at his face.’
‘And can you see him in this courtroom today?’
Mr Gubbins had a good look around. ‘No, sir.’
‘Try again, Mr Gubbins. And I suggest you pay particular attention to the gentleman standing in the dock.’
Gubbins peered at Killigrew. ‘No, sir. ’Tweren’t him. Definitely not.’ The counsel for the prosecution looked stunned; if he was not careful, thought Killigrew, he was going to lose this case. ‘He was there, all right, but he weren’t driving the gig. He—’
‘Just answer the question: yes or no,’ snapped the counsel for the prosecution.
‘No.’
‘I have no further questions for this witness, m’lud. May I respectfully request an adjournment?’
‘You may,’ said the judge. ‘And I shall respectfully decline it. Since the accused has already pleaded guilty, I really don’t see why this case should take more than a few minutes and I have a luncheon appointment at one. Does the defendant wish to cross-examine the witness?’
‘Yes, m’lud,’ said Killigrew, reflecting that when the accused had to help the prosecution prove their case it only went to show just how complete an ass the Law could be. ‘Mr Gubbins, have you ever drunk alcohol?’
‘I am an occasional imbiber, sir, but then who isn’t? I only ever drink when it’s cold, to keep the chill out.’
‘There are a great many pure-finders on the streets of London, are there not?’
‘Oh, yes, sir!’
‘And not many dogs.’
‘Sadly, no, sir.’
‘So there must be a great deal of competition to find pure.’
‘Oh, yes, sir. It can be quite a dog-eat-dog business.’
‘Which means you must have to get up very early in the mornings.’
‘Yes, sir. When it’s still dark.’
‘And still very cold at this time of year. So it would be natural for you to fortify yourself with a nip of something alcoholic before going out in the morning?’
‘Objection, m’lud!’ protested the counsel for the prosecution. ‘The defendant is putting words in the witness’s mouth.’
‘Since the defendant seems to be doing a better job of prosecuting your case than you are, I hope you won’t think me too harsh for overruling your objection,’ the judge said drily. ‘Continue, Mr Killigrew.’
‘Mr Gubbins, had any alcohol passed your lips on the morning of the fourteenth? And may I remind you that you are under oath.’
‘Well… maybe just a drop or two…’
‘Yes or no, Mr Gubbins?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. No further questions, m’lud.’ Killigrew resumed his seat.
‘Does the counsel for the prosecution have any further evidence it would like to present?’
The prosecutor looked flustered. ‘No, m’lud.’
‘Very well. Mr Killigrew, is there anything you would care to say by way of a plea for mitigation?’
Killigrew rose to his feet once more and read out his prepared statement.
‘I only wish to say that no matter how great a punishment you seek to impose on me, it will pall into insignificance beside the burden of guilt which now tortures my conscience; and that as a God-fearing Christian, I know I will receive my due punishment in the next life as well as in the present. Furthermore, I wish it to be known that I have now sworn off alcohol for the remainder of my days.’ He crossed his fingers behind his back before he said the last part.
‘Very well. The jury may now retire if it wishes to consider its verdict. In summation I can only draw attention to the fact that, despite the hesitancy of the prosecution’s sole witness, the accused has pleaded guilty, and I therefore direct you to find Mr Killigrew guilty as charged.’
The jurymen briefly exchanged a few whispered words, and the foreman rose to his feet. ‘We have considered our verdict, m’lud.’
‘And how do you find the accused, guilty or not guilty?’
‘Guilty, m’lud.’
‘Christopher Iguatios Killigrew, this court finds you guilty as charged. In view of your hitherto blameless reputation, and the sterling work done by you in the service of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, this court does not consider that a custodial sentence will be appropriate in this instance. Fined fifty guineas.’ The judge banged his gavel like a salesman at an auction.
As he walked out of the court, Killigrew felt almost as guilty as if he really had been responsible for the girl’s death. And meanwhile the man who had killed her was walking free, without any danger of ever being brought to justice. Of course, if Napier had not decided to take this opportunity, then it was unlikely that the man would have been in court; but all the same, Killigrew had been guilty of perverting the course of justice.
Justice? After that farce, he was no longer sure what justice was. Fifty guineas, he thought bitterly. If he had been a member of the labouring classes he might have been given ten years’ hard labour, or transportation to New South Wales. So much for justice.
He was just about to leave the courthouse when a young midshipman stopped him. ‘Lieutenant Killigrew, sir?’
‘Yes?’
Red-faced, the midshipman said nothing more but merely handed him a letter. Killigrew noticed the Admiralty stationery at once. He ripped it open. The letter was polite but none the less curt: would Lieutenant Killigrew consider himself under open arrest until he presented himself to a court-martial to be held on board HMS Icarus at Deptford at ten hours ante meridian on Friday the seventh of May, yours faithfully, Vice-Admiral Lord Richardson, etc., etc. It was dated that very day; the letter must have been written the day before, and the midshipman given instructions to hand it to Killigrew as soon as a verdict of guilty was returned. ‘You may tell his lordship I’ll be there,’ he told the midshipman, who saluted and turned on his heel.
Killigrew took a hansom to St James’s Square and bounded up the steps to his club. He went straight past the porter in his lodge who called after him. ‘Excuse me, sir? Letter for you.’
Killigrew returned to the lodge to take the letter from him. He was about to tuck it inside his coat when the porter called after him once more. ‘I think you’d better read it now, sir.’
The letter was from the secretary of the Army and Navy Club and written in the same polite, formal but curt tone as the letter from the Admiralty. Following an extraordinary meeting of the club’s executive committee it had been unanimously decided that Lieutenant Killigrew was no longer a fit and proper person to be a member of the club.
‘Your dunnage has already been packed, sir. I’ll fetch it for you now, shall I?’
Dazed, Killigrew nodded. He had expected it, of course, but it still hit home. He had joined the Army and Navy as soon as he had been promoted to midshipman, but this was his first stay there and he had only been in residence a few days. Nonetheless, it was his only home and now that too had been taken away from him.
He took his sea-chest and made his way to the White Horse Cellar Coaching Inn. From the looks he got there from the innkeeper and his wife, it was clear that news of his arrest and trial had spread with astonishing swiftness, and while the innkeeper was not too proud to have a disgraced naval officer living under his roof, he did not treat Killigrew with the same deference as he had done previously. Not that Killigrew cared for the deference; it was the civility he missed.
To his complete lack of surprise he heard nothing from Eulalia over the next few days. He called on her at her father’s house in Knightsbridge on more than one occasion, but she was never in; or if she was, she was not receiving. Knowing that there would no longer be a place for him in her box at Her Majesty’s Theatre, he managed to get a dress circle ticket through the good grace of an opera dancer of his acquaintance in the hope that he would at least get a chance to speak to Eulalia. He was not sure what he was going to say to her. He did not want to tell her all the details of Napier’s plan, more because he did not want her to worry about him than because Napier had told him to tell no one. The force of the pang he had felt seeing her walk out of the courtroom had told him that he loved her; if he could not trust the woman he loved, whom could he trust?
There were several people of his acquaintance in the gaslit finery of the theatre foyer when Killigrew arrived on the night; all of them studiously avoided meeting his gaze. Indeed, whichever way Killigrew turned, an avenue seemed to part through the crush for him. He tried to find the situation amusing, but could not.
He was unable to find Eulalia and her party before the last bell rang, and went in to watch the opera. Jenny Lind’s singing was unquestionably delightful – for once Punch had got it right when they said that to call her the Swedish Nightingale was a compliment to the bird – but even her dulcet tones were not enough to distract Killigrew from his troubles. He was more concerned to speak to Eulalia, whom he could see seated in one of the boxes with her father, Tremaine, and several others Killigrew knew only vaguely. He studied her through his opera glasses – God, she looked lovelier than ever – but could not catch her eye as she concentrated on the stage.
At last the first interval came and he made his way through the crush to the saloon. Many of the people in the boxes would remain there and have their drinks brought to them, but Killigrew guessed that Mr Pengelly and his daughter would prefer to stretch their legs and socialise with the other opera-goers in the saloon.
He guessed correctly: he was standing by the bar when Eulalia entered with her friends. They were chatting gaily, Eulalia laughing at something Tremaine had said. Then they saw Killigrew and froze for a moment, before Eulalia abruptly led them off in another direction.
Killigrew headed off through the crowd after them. ‘Eulalia! I need to talk to you, to explain! For God’s sake! Just a minute, that’s all I ask…’
She did not even turn her head. Tremaine broke off from the group to block Killigrew’s path. ‘Damn it, Killigrew, I’d’ve thought that you of all people would have had the taste and decency to know better than to remind Society of Mrs Fairbody’s former connection with you.’
‘I just want to explain…’ Killigrew said desperately. ‘Can you at least give her a message from me?’
‘Oh, really! Stay away, damn you, or I’ll be forced to call you out.’
‘Then call me out!’ snarled Killigrew, knowing that he could beat Tremaine any time he pleased, with sabre or pistol.
Tremaine knew it too. He blanched and backed away. Some instinct stopped Killigrew from following. Tremaine was right, of course, as far as he understood the situation, and Killigrew could hardly blame him for that. To have pressed the matter any further would have embroiled Eulalia in an ugly scandal, and that was the last thing he wanted.
He returned to the bar, and when the third bell summoned the audience back to the auditorium he ordered another whisky. He was in no mood to sit through any more of Roberto il Diavolo. He was the only one left in the saloon when the second act began; a moment later Sir Joshua Pengelly entered surreptitiously, with an embarrassed look on his face. ‘Mr Killigrew?’
‘Sir?’
‘Look, I’m sorry I had to cut you dead earlier, but you understand…?’
Killigrew nodded.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry about what happened. For you, I mean. You’re a good man, I know. You made a mistake, that’s all. I… I understand you’ve forsworn alcohol? I’m sorry there’s not much I can do for you now, but perhaps in a year’s time or so, when the scandal has died down, I can have you appointed as an officer on board one of my steamers…?’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir, and I’d be honoured. But a year is a long time, and anything can happen in—’
‘Your whisky, sir,’ said the barman, placing a glass at Killigrew’s elbow.
Killigrew shrugged sheepishly. ‘Force of habit,’ he said. ‘I meant to order soda water…’
Pengelly just shook his head grimly, turned away with an expression of disgust and hurried back towards the auditorium.
Killigrew finished his drink and went outside, dining alone in a chop-house – none of London’s more fashionable restaurants could find a table for him any more, even if he booked in advance. Even in the chop-house, he was aware of people nodding towards him and muttering to one another under their breath. He could imagine what they were saying: ‘That’s Lieutenant Killigrew, that is, the Pall Mall child-killer. You can tell he’s a villain just by looking at him – that swarthy complexion, a touch of the tar-brush in him, they say. Not really an English gentleman at all.’ Thanks to his mixed heritage he had had to put up with that kind of remark during his early days in the navy, and although he had not been troubled by such taunts in recent years he had no doubt they would all be dredged up and used to account for his sudden disgrace.
He knew the opera was due to finish around half past ten and after he had paid his bill at the chop-house he found himself ambling back towards the theatre, he was not sure why. The Haymarket was crowded with prostitutes, lining up on the pavements like cabbies queuing for fares. Several of them called out to him – they at least were not too proud to accept the custom of the Pall Mall child-killer, he mused wryly – but he merely shook his head.
‘Killigrew?’
He turned. It was Strachan. ‘Hullo, Mr Strachan. What are you doing here?’
Strachan blushed. ‘Oh, just… er… taking the night air.’
‘Are you sure you want to be seen talking to the Pall Mall child-killer? Everyone else in Society is snubbing me these days, you know.’
‘Well, I’m not sure that I qualify as a member of Society yet. What happened, Killigrew? The papers said you pleaded guilty to manslaughter.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘It’s true.’
‘That you killed that girl? Or that you pleaded guilty?’ Strachan asked shrewdly. ‘I know you, Killigrew. That’s just not the kind of thing you’d do…’
‘Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you thought you did.’
Strachan shook his head. ‘No. I may not be the brightest fellow on God’s earth, but I’ve always been a good judge of character. And I think there’s something deuced rum going on here. What happened? Were you framed?’
Killigrew just shrugged. He was pleased that at least someone did not believe the pretence, even though he himself had confessed to the crime; he just wished it could have been Eulalia instead of Strachan.
‘Look, Killigrew, it’s obvious that whatever’s going on you don’t want to talk about it – or you can’t. That’s up to you. I just want you to know that anything I can do to help, just let me know. Money, a letter of recommendation, anything within my power. Here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to get in touch, all right?’ Strachan moved on, embarrassed by his own effusion, but Killigrew called after him.
‘Mr Strachan?’
‘Aye?’
‘Thank you.’
Strachan shrugged. ‘You know what they say. A friend in need…’ He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
A friend indeed, thought Killigrew, and then had to move quickly to avoid being engulfed as the patrons emerged from the theatre. He quickly took one of the hansoms waiting for trade before they were all snapped up. ‘Where to, guv?’
‘Do you mind if we just wait here a moment?’
‘I’ll have to charge you waiting time.’
‘Fine.’ Killigrew was more intent on the crowd than on what the cabbie was saying.
A slatternly-dressed woman stood on the running board so she could thrust her bosom at him. ‘Looking for company, handsome?’
‘Yes, but not yours, I’m afraid.’
‘Impudence!’ The woman stepped back on to the pavement and turned to her friends. ‘Bleedin’ window-shopper.’
Killigrew saw Eulalia emerge from the theatre with her friends. They said their goodbyes amongst the crowd, and then she got into a carriage with her father and Tremaine. ‘Follow that carriage,’ Killigrew ordered the cabbie. ‘But discreetly, if you please.’
‘All right, guv.’ The cabbie flicked the tip of his whip across his horse’s back and the hansom rattled off across the cobbles after the carriage as it headed up the Haymarket towards Piccadilly Circus.
‘Is that young lady your missus, then?’ the cabbie asked as they headed west along Piccadilly towards Hyde Park Corner. He evidently thought that Killigrew was a cuckold tracking his wife in the hope of catching her in flagrante delicto with her young escort.
‘Mind your own damned business,’ said Killigrew, seeing no reason to disabuse him of that notion.
At last the carriage turned off Knightsbridge into the grounds of the Pengelly mansion. ‘Pull up just down the road,’ Killigrew told the cabbie, taking out his pocket telescope and squinting down the drive to where Eulalia and her father were climbing out of the carriage underneath the mansion’s portico. Killigrew was terrified that Tremaine would also get out and go inside with them, even though the rational part of his mind knew that that would be unthinkable. But the rational part of his mind was in abeyance that night, as his act in trailing Eulalia back to her home – and what he planned to do next – demonstrated.
Tremaine did not get out of the carriage, which pulled back down the drive and out of the gate once more, heading back towards Mayfair. Killigrew waited until it was out of sight and then climbed out of the hansom, paid the cabbie his fare and tipped him generously. As the carriage rattled off into the night, Killigrew walked along the pavement until he came to the next turning and cut down a side street which looped around the back of the mansion. The street was unlit and deserted at that late hour, but Killigrew nonetheless looked about to make sure he was unobserved before he jumped up and grabbed hold of the top of the eight-foot-high brick wall which surrounded the grounds. His feet scrabbled against the brickwork, until at last he was able to haul himself over and drop down amongst the bushes on the other side.
There were lights on at the back of the house, in the kitchen downstairs and on the landing above. Enough light filtered out to enable Killigrew to navigate his way across the lawn to the rear of the house. There were bars on the ground-floor windows and the only door led into the kitchen where Killigrew could see the cook making cocoa, but a stout iron drainpipe leading up to the guttering at the eaves provided easy access to a landing window on the first floor; easy, at least, for a vigorous young man who had spent a goodly part of his teenage years skylarking about the rigging of a man-o’-war. He stood on the stone window ledge and held on to the drainpipe with one hand to steady himself while with his other he took a clasp knife from his pocket and opened the blade. He eased it into the gap between the sash windows and slid the catch open. Then he pushed the sash up, slipped through and stepped lightly on to the landing.
The first floor was silent, the only sounds from below the gentle murmur of voices: Eulalia and her father, although what they were saying was none of his business even if he could have made out the words, which he was too much of a gentleman to try to do. A peculiar sort of gentleman, he reflected, who breaks into a lady’s bedchamber at night. The gas lights were low, but bright enough for him to find his way.
Six doors led off the landing. The first he tried was a bedroom, well furnished but obviously unoccupied. The next room was distinctly feminine without being girlishly so; since Eulalia lived alone with her father, it had to be her room.
He took off his hat as he entered. There were no pictures of the late lamented Mr Fairbody, which did not surprise Killigrew: whatever her feelings had been towards him, she was not the type who would spend the rest of her days pining for a departed husband. In fact there were no pictures at all, only a sampler above the bed: ‘The wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God – James i,20’. The needlework looked recent, but somehow Killigrew did not think that Eulalia had stitched it: she was not the kind of woman who could find pleasure in menial, repetitive tasks.
He put down his hat on the dresser, lit the oil lamp on the bedside table and sat down. He did not have long to wait. There were footsteps on the stairs, and then: ‘Goodnight, Papa.’
‘Goodnight, my dear.’ A door opened and closed across the corridor while Killigrew watched the doorknob turn. He rose to his feet as the door opened and Eulalia came in. She had closed the door behind her and was halfway across the room before she saw him standing there. She froze in shock.
‘Get out of here before I scream,’ she said at last.
‘If you were going to scream, you would already have done so.’
She snatched one of the pillows off the bed and threw it at his head. ‘God damn you, Kit Killigrew. Infuriatingly right as ever.’
He pulled the pillow down from his face. ‘Sorry. And sorry for breaking in here, but I had to talk to you and there was no other way.’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Did you kill that child?’
‘No.’
‘Then why did you plead guilty?’
‘It’s a long story.’
She indicated a carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘You have one minute to convince me.’
‘I’m going to join the crew of a slaving vessel so I can find out who’s financing their voyages and where the slaves are coming from. I’m too well known amongst the slavers as an officer of the Royal Navy, so the only way to do it is to pretend that I’ve been disgraced and am after a petty revenge by working for those men I previously tried to catch. When Rear- Admiral Napier and I saw a child knocked down outside the United Service Club, it seemed like a perfect opportunity, so I confessed to the accident.’
‘And you really expect me to believe that?’
‘Frankly, no. But it is the truth. How am I doing for time?’
‘You’ve still got about half a minute. And a long way to go before you convince me.’
‘Remember a couple of weeks ago, when you gave me a ride back to the Army and Navy, and I asked you if you’d think any the less of me if I were accused of some terrible crime, and found guilty and shunned by Society? If you would believe in my innocence when everyone else was convinced of my guilt?’
‘So this is what all that was about?’ He nodded. ‘Look me in the eye and tell me you were in no way responsible for the death of that child.’
‘I was in no way responsible for the death of that child.’
She took two quick steps to where he stood and embraced him, burying her face in his shoulder. ‘Oh, Kit! I knew you could never have done such a thing. But when you pleaded guilty I thought… to tell the truth I didn’t know what to think.’
He held her close. ‘It’s all right. I understand. I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you before, but Sir Charles told me I was not to tell anyone. He thinks that the financier may be a member of the British Establishment.’
She stiffened, and then broke away to stare at him. ‘Someone we know, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. But we need proof before we can make any accusations.’
‘Won’t it be dangerous?’
‘Only a little bit.’
She turned away. ‘You’re trying to stop me from worrying about you. Of course it will be dangerous. For the love of God, Kit! If the slavers find out you’re a spy, they’ll kill you!’
‘They can try.’
‘It’s too dangerous, Kit. What if something happens to you? I couldn’t bear to think that I might never see you again.’
‘I thought you weren’t in a hurry to get remarried? There are plenty of other men out there. Eustace Tremaine, perhaps?’
She turned back to him and seized him by the lapels. ‘I don’t want Eustace Tremaine,’ she said fiercely. ‘I want—’
She broke off, and he tried to save her the embarrassment of having to finish the sentence by kissing her. It was a wasted effort, however, for the way she kissed him back finished the sentence more eloquently than words might have done. The next thing he knew she was trying to pull off his coat without breaking off the kiss while he fumbled with the fastenings at the back of her gown. So great was his passion that it required reserves of willpower he had not previously known he possessed to break off and back away. ‘Slow down!’ he protested.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘No. My head says no, but the rest of me says yes, yes.’ She blushed at her own passion, and lowered her eyes demurely. ‘Do not misunderstand me, Kit. I loved my husband as a dutiful wife ought to. The feelings I have for you are stronger, but I’m not sure they’re feelings of love. I… I think I’m… I’m weak, Kit. You’ll have to help me be strong.’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t need me for that. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known, Eulalia, and you’re intelligent enough to realise that if there’s something you want to do which will be to no one else’s detriment, there’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t.’
She considered his argument for a moment, and then turned away from him. For a moment he feared she was going to tell him to leave at once and never return.
‘Help me take off this gown, Kit.’
She bit him in the shoulder at the end. If she had been trying to stop herself from crying out it did not entirely have the desired effect, for he yelped in surprise and pain; she bit deep. She always had. But he did not mind. Nothing can ever be this perfect again, he told himself. I wish I could die right now.
The two of them subsided on the mattress and lay entangled in one another’s limbs, gasping for breath like two shipwrecked sailors washed up on a sun-kissed beach.
After a few moments Killigrew became aware of a knocking sound on the door. ‘Eulalia?’ called Sir Joshua. ‘Are you all right?’
Flustered, she raised a hand to her chest, visibly trying to catch her breath. ‘What? Yes, I’m fine, Papa. I was… I must have been having a bad dream.’
‘I told you not to have the Stilton so late at night.’ His shuffling footsteps sounded on the landing and a moment later his bedroom door closed.
Killigrew and Eulalia stifled giggles, and then she looked up at him with wonderment in her eyes. ‘That was… strange. I felt so scared and yet… I never wanted it to stop. Oh, Kit! Why did it have to stop?’
‘Sorry. I’m only human.’
Smiling, she reached up and touched him on the cheek. ‘You’re a god, Kit. A perfect Greek god. An Adonis.’
‘That’ll be my mother’s nose.’
‘Is… is it always like that, between men and women?’
‘I’ve never known it quite like that,’ he admitted, and frowned.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t believe that matches are made in heaven, that two people are meant for each other. Life doesn’t work like that. People just drift through life… sometimes they connect, more often they don’t…’
‘I think we connected just now.’
‘That’s what I’m thinking. I know you’re not in any hurry to get married…’
‘Yes. On the other hand, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.’
‘I can’t afford to marry you yet. But when I’m a postcaptain…’
‘How long will that take?’
‘It depends. If I can pull off this mission to expose the slavers…’
Her face fell. ‘I love you, Kit. The truth is I loved you before tonight. In fact I think I’ve loved you since we were children. I don’t want to lose you.’
‘Promise you’ll wait for me, and I’ll promise to come back alive.’ He took off the small medal he wore around his neck and put it around hers.
‘What’s this?’
‘A St Christopher.’
‘I thought only Catholics wore saints’ medallions.’
‘And Greek Orthodox Christians.’
‘You’re not Greek Orthodox, are you?’
‘No, but my mother was. She gave it to my father, and he left it to me. St Christopher is one of the patron saints of sailors.’
‘Hadn’t you better keep it? You’re the one who’s going to sea.’
He shook his head. ‘I want you to have it, as a symbol of our engagement. May I consider us engaged, or would that be presumptuous of me?’
‘You’d better,’ she said gruffly, and then kissed him and grinned impishly. ‘Must you go? I’ll be so afraid for you. Haven’t you already done more than your fair share towards suppressing the slave trade?’
‘How much is a fair share?’ He shrugged. ‘Believe me, I’d much rather stay here in London with you. But I have no choice. My pleading guilty to the killing of that poor child may have been a ruse, but the trial was real enough.’
‘You can pay the fine, can’t you? I shall gladly lend you the money if you cannot.’
‘There’s more to it than that. I have to restore my reputation in the eyes of Society. My honour.’
‘Pooh to Society. Your honour’s intact in my eyes. Isn’t that all that matters?’
He shook his head. ‘If we’re to be married I’ll need a good steady income, and for that I’ll need the good opinion of the navy.’
‘Haven’t you already got that?’
He grimaced. ‘Not for much longer.’
HMS Icarus was a small frigate anchored in Greenwich Reach; these days larger ships could only navigate so far up the Thames with difficulty, if at all. Deptford had only been chosen as a venue because it was traditional to hold courts-martial on board ship and the town was convenient for London; Killigrew had no doubt it was the admirals’ convenience that they had in mind rather than his own.
On the appointed day he presented himself in full dress uniform at the wharf where a jolly boat waited to row him out to the ship. The seamen on deck stared at him impassively as he made his obeisance to the quarter-deck. He recognised the faces of a few hands from the Tisiphone, men who would usually have grinned and knuckled their heads to him; these men now just stared as impassively as their new shipmates. Killigrew had told himself that he did not care what other men would think of him when he was disgraced, so long as he knew in his own heart that he was blameless; but seeing the condemnation in that lack of expression on their faces, he realised he had been wrong.
The court-martial was held in the Icarus’s great cabin before a panel of no less than nine admirals, including a straight-faced Napier. Killigrew presented himself before them, tucked his cocked hat under one arm and bowed first to the president of the court, Vice-Admiral Richardson – a smooth, white-haired, sharp-faced man – and then to the rest of the panel. The judge advocate recited the court’s authority to assemble and then explained the circumstances which had led to its being convened. The rest of the trial was mercifully brief. Even if Killigrew had been of a mind to contest the accusation, the facts of the matter were clear: he was charged with conduct unbecoming the character of a commissioned officer of Her Majesty’s Navy; he had been found guilty by a civilian court of manslaughter through drunkenness and wilful negligence.
‘Lieutenant Killigrew, have you anything to say in your defence?’ asked Richardson.
Killigrew hesitated. Even though this was all part of the plan he had hatched with Napier, the court was real enough and its decision would be binding. He could not merely declare his innocence at a later date, even with Napier to back him up; in the eyes of the Admiralty, he would have to do something pretty extraordinary to redeem himself. It would not be enough just to spend a voyage on board a slaver: he would have to come up with some hard evidence to prove that the enterprise had been worth while. But he hesitated only briefly, for he had thought this through countless times in the preceding days, and he grinned inwardly, knowing that the need to pull off a spectacular success would only be an added encouragement to him, as if he needed any in his fight against the slave trade. He stood up, his back as straight as a propeller-shaft, and looked Vice-Admiral Richardson in the eye.
‘No, sir.’
‘Very well. In which case I see no need for this court to adjourn to consider its verdict; the facts speak for themselves.’ He glanced at the other members of the panel to make sure that they were in agreement, and saw only nodding heads. ‘Lieutenant Christopher Iguatios Killigrew, it is the solemn duty of this court to find you guilty of a most gross breach of conduct. Your behaviour proves you to be wholly unfit to hold either your current rank or any other rank within Her Majesty’s Navy. Therefore you are hereby stripped of your rank and commission and dismissed the Service…’
Even though it was all part of the plan and entirely expected, it was like being kicked in the chest by a mule. He had lost his home, his friends and now his career. The only thing left for him to lose was his life. Indeed, the navy was more than a career to him, it was his life. If he failed in his mission now, then he might as well end it all.
He was stripped of his lieutenant’s epaulette and rowed back to the wharf. He went back to the White Horse Cellar Coaching Inn and took off the uniform he was no longer entitled to wear. He folded it carefully and put it in his chest, wondering when he would be allowed to wear it again. If ever.