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The moment Marianne ducked through the doorway, the smell hit her. The sting of a cesspit filled her nose and left a noxious taste in her mouth. She took out a handkerchief and covered her face.
“We’re here to see Bartholomew Hayter,” Mr. Northam told the attendant.
“Wait here, sir,” the man said and left through an iron-reinforced door at the rear.
A man stood up from a bench in the shadows, dressed in a pair of gray breeches and a dark coat.
“Mr. Northam,” he said, extending a hand.
Mr. Northam maneuvered Marianne until she was partially behind him, shielding her from the man. It was quite a formidable bulwark, and Marianne was glad to have Mr. Northam on her side. Only when she was tucked away did Mr. Northam extend his hand and offer a cold greeting.
“Mr. Shadwell. I wasn’t aware that you would be here today.” He turned to Marianne. “The defense for Hayter.”
No wonder he wanted to keep her hidden. No man in good conscience could defend a monster.
“I have a right to know whether or not there is a case against Mr. Hayter. He may not even be the man in question.”
“Well,” said Mr. Northam with his most presumptuous air, “we shall see.” He turned away from Mr. Shadwell, taking Marianne to the opposite end of the small room.
He leaned in close and whispered, “That man is only here to cause problems. He will try to make you doubt your own name. You are under no obligation to speak to him, do you understand?”
She nodded, peering at Mr. Shadwell around Mr. Northam’s shoulder.
“Do not let him rattle you. Just focus on the job at hand. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
“All right.”
Mr. Northam’s letter of summons had not given her the full picture of what she was getting herself into. All it said was that she was needed as a witness. It had mentioned nothing about visiting him in jail.
The heavy barred door opened, and a short man with no hair on his head and a beard down to his waistcoat entered the antechamber.
“Mr. Northam,” he said. “This way.”
Mr. Northam blocked the doorway. “Might I have a word privately, first?”
Whether the jailer was willing to have a private word or not seemed to matter little. Mr. Northam used his great height and ox of a body to give him no choice. They stepped into the corridor beyond the door.
“So,” said Mr. Shadwell from his place in the shadows. “Northam seems to have a great deal of confidence in you. His whole case depends on your testimony.”
Marianne kept her eyes on the map of Bath hanging on the wall beside her.
“I hope you are certain,” Mr. Shadwell continued. “I’d hate to be the one standing before the final judgment bar having sent an innocent man to his death.”
“And I’d hate to be the one standing before the judgment bar having helped a murderer go free,” said Mr. Northam, coming back through the door. “How many more people do you want to see in coffins because of him?”
He didn’t give Mr. Shadwell a chance to answer. He took Marianne by the arm and led her down the corridor.
Mr. Shadwell started after them, but the jailer stopped him. “Sorry, sir. Can’t have all three of you back here. It’s against regulations.”
Mr. Shadwell swore. “I have every right to accompany them. You can’t stop me—”
The jailer swung the door shut, cutting him off. The lock clicked, and that was the end of Mr. Shadwell’s protests.
The corridor was dark and wide. If the antechamber smelled bad, this place must be the devil’s chamber pot. She’d never set foot in a jail or prison of any sort before now. A row of cells lined either side of the passageway, each crowded with people.
“Who are they all?” Marianne whispered. Some looked absolutely pitiful while others sneered at her with wolfish lips.
“Thieves, debtors, blasphemers.”
“I’ll show you blasphemy,” called a ragged man, his beard laden with filth. He stumbled toward the bars, opening his mouth to speak.
Mr. Northam turned on him. “Not in front of the lady, unless you want a hangman’s noose to warm your neck.”
The man’s mouth snapped shut, and he backed away to the depths of the cell.
Marianne edged closer to Mr. Northam until she was pressed up against his side. It seemed the only safe place in the building.
Mr. Northam pointed to the next cell. “He’s in there. Are you ready?”
She closed her eyes. His face came to her, as it always did, bidden or not. If she looked on him again, she would never be able to wipe it from her mind. He would always be a part of her, lurking in the dark corners of her mind, waiting for the perfect moment to rise up and kill her.
Such a mistake to agree to this. She should have stayed hidden in her little room in Shrewsbury.
The answer to Mr. Northam’s question was no, she would never be ready. But she would do what she’d come here to do. For her family.
She smoothed the front of her dress and straightened her bonnet as if being properly attired would somehow imbue her with needed strength. “I am ready,” she whispered to Mr. Northam.
He offered his arm again and took her the few steps forward until she could see the feet of a man sitting on a three-legged stool.
She gripped Mr. Northam’s arm like it was a lifeboat saving her from a hungry sea. When she raised her eyes to the man behind the bars, she knew instantly.
It was him.
Her knees faltered, and Mr. Northam’s hand wound swiftly around her waist.
The man’s yellow eyes fell on her. She remembered that look, and the pure evil that raised gooseflesh on her arms. Hair blacker than coal. Skin the color of spoiled cream.
He stood and walked forward, almost as tall and broad as Mr. Northam, but not quite. “Well, well. What a pretty thing you brought me. Better than the maggoty bread, ta be sure.”
His teeth were small in his mouth, leaving gaps between each where the rot leaked through.
“Is it him?” asked Mr. Northam.
She lifted the handkerchief from her mouth. “It is,” she said, turning away so she couldn’t see him, but all she met was the broad chest of Mr. Northam.
“Are you sure? We must be sure.”
“It is him.”
“Yes,” said Hayter. “You’d better look again just ta be sure. It’s easy ta mistake a face in these dark rooms.”
She turned to look again.
Hayter was grinning at her. He didn’t say it, but he knew her. He recognized her. She could see it in his eyes that glowed like a flickering candle flame as he watched her.
“It’s him.”
“All right, then.” Mr. Northam steered her away.
“Thanks for the visit,” he said. “I hope we meet again sometime. I never forget a pretty face.”
She looked back at his unshaven face pressing between the bars. He made a swiping gesture across his throat. “I’ll see you in Hell.”
Mr. Northam whacked his umbrella against the bars, and Hayter dove out of the way.
He did remember her. Those were the exact words he had spoken to her two and a half years ago—right after he’d threatened to slit her throat should she mention his deeds to anyone.
Her hand went immediately to the scar on her shoulder she kept hidden with a lacy chemisette. He had indeed almost ended her life that night. But the vicar happened upon them and Hayter fled—after leaving her the warning.
“You all right, miss?” asked the jailer.
Marianne shook the memories from her head, bringing herself back to the jail. Mr. Northam had both of his arms around her, and she was leaning into him. Had she fainted? No, she didn’t think so.
She straightened herself, righting the bonnet that had been pushed askew by Mr. Northam’s shoulder. “I’m fine. I just need some air.”
“We all do,” said Mr. Northam, urging the jailer to open the locked door.
Mr. Shadwell was waiting for them, pacing the small antechamber. “Well?” he asked as Mr. Northam pushed past him.
“Thank you for your time, sir,” Mr. Northam said to the jailer. He pushed open the front door, and a burst of air rushed in. He opened his umbrella. The instant she stepped out under it, he swung the door closed.
He smiled at her. “I knew you were brave.”
Then they were up into his carriage and away. She leaned back, looking out through the drops of rain on the window as they crossed the River Avon and at the shops as they drove through the streets of Bath. Most were closed now, the crowds of people gone home to prepare for the evening’s entertainments.
Bartholomew Hayter. It was still strange that the man had a name. He’d always been him for so long—the man with the yellow eyes.
“Miss Wood?” Mr. Northam said. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not good company.” She could not pull her mind away from the horror of those eyes. They would haunt her forever; she may as well resign herself to that.
“I’m not worried about company,” said Mr. Northam. “I’m worried about you. I thought you were going to faint for a moment back there. That man is despicable. He deserves the noose.”
If anyone could put him there, it would be Mr. Northam. From what she’d seen of him in these few short hours, he was not a man to be denied.
“Do you always get what you want?” she asked.
He seemed surprised by her question. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t want that man, Mr. Shadwell, to come with us, and the jailer shut him out.” This was only one example.
“A crown goes a long way in a place like that.”
“You bribed him?” No wonder the jailer had been so accommodating. “Isn’t that wrong?”
He shrugged. “I don’t always get what I want, to be sure. But I do know how to play the game.”
“The game?” Murder was hardly a game.
“The game of life,” he said with a grin. “Know who you’re dealing with and what they desire. Then, yes, you can get what you want.”
She turned back to the window. It was all clear now. His kindly manner, his steady arms. He had managed the whole thing very well. Summoning her to testify. Coaxing her out of the coach. Encouraging her until she mustered the courage to enter the jail. He’d gotten her to do exactly what he wanted. So much for the friendly stranger.
“Well, I’m glad I could play along,” she said, swiveling her whole body away from him. She would take care with this man to keep her guard up. She would do her part to see Hayter hanged, but she would do it for her family. For all the people he had hurt. And to keep him from ever hurting anyone again.
“Miss Wood?”
“I’m very tired, Mr. Northam. Could you please take me to my rooms?” She spoke to the carriage window.
He let out a huff, then said, “Of course.”
The carriage turned a few more times before pulling up in front of a row of modest town houses, all in the light honey stone that marked Bath. The footman opened the door, and Marianne climbed out without a word to Mr. Northam.
The front door of the town house opened, and a woman motioned to her. “Come in, come in. It’s pouring hogs and dogs out here.” She must be Mrs. Strumpshaw.
Marianne hurried across the paving stones and ducked inside the house before the rain could completely soak her through. The footman unloaded her small trunk and placed it inside the front door.
Mr. Northam stood on the doorstep, holding his umbrella about two minutes too late.
Marianne gave a quick curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Northam.”
He bowed to her with a look of uncertainty—something he’d not yet pulled from his wardrobe of masks. He changed his personage to fit whatever part needed playing much faster than she would be able to change out of her traveling clothes.
Mrs. Strumpshaw waited for Mr. Northam to enter, but he only teetered on the threshold. In the end, he turned and climbed back into the carriage. Marianne closed the door before it pulled away.