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Clara and Marguerite walked through the black, spiked gates of the prison. The tall, gray walls, dotted with small, barred windows, loomed overhead. The grunts and cries of the captives were only too grim a reminder of the fate awaiting Wesley if they did not clear his name.
They walked up the steps and into the main receiving room, Marguerite's cane striking the flagstones. The room itself was barren, Clara supposed to make it easier to transport prisoners in and out. There was nothing in the room but a clock, a few wooden chairs, and a large, elevated desk being manned by a single gentleman standing behind it. He wore a dark blue policeman's uniform with shiny brass buttons. His hair was parted down the middle and combed smoothly to both sides. His face disappeared behind a curly beard.
Marguerite rapped on the desk. "Morning, Clarence."
He squinted over his spectacles. "Marguerite! Is that you?"
"In the flesh!" she said with a smile.
"And to what do I owe this pleasure?"
"You have a prisoner who was brought in this morning," she replied casually. "A fellow named Wesley Lowenherz. We want to check in on him."
Clarence pulled out his large ledger book and ran his finger down the names. Something seemed to trouble him, though. He scratched his beard and looked up at Marguerite. "Afraid I can't let you do that yet," he said.
"What?" she replied incredulously.
He tapped his finger on Wesley's name. "He's being held in solitary until we can get a doctor in to look at him. Keeps spouting off things about Egyptian curses and ghosts. He can't see anyone until he is evaluated for the nut house..." He noticed Clara for the first time. "Pardon. For the... asylum. Or if we are cleared to go forward with the murder charges."
"Murder charges!" Clara exclaimed. Marguerite placed a warning hand upon Clara's wrist.
"Has he seen a lawyer yet?" Marguerite asked.
"Not yet, ma'am," Clarence replied. "He's on suicide watch."
"WHAT?" Clara exclaimed again.
"Keeps saying his dead sister forced him to kill Lady Beltza or something. And Trevor Beltza swears Mr. Lowenherz kept threatening to kill himself with the gun Lord Beltza wrestled from him."
"That is not what happened at all!" said Clara. "I saw—"
This time Marguerite stepped on Clara's shoe to silence her.
"She saw in his face he couldn't have done it and she is heartbroken to hear of everything you have told us," Marguerite stated, completing Clara's sentence. "Thanks for your help, Clarence. Mrs. O'Hare and I would be grateful if you would keep us apprised of the situation."
"Sure thing, Mrs. Matson!" he replied, going back to his book.
Marguerite took Clara's elbow. "Help me out, would you dear? I'm afraid my leg has gone all dodgy on me again."
Clara bit her tongue until they were outside the front doors. "Why didn't you let me set the story straight?" she hissed.
Marguerite looked up at the sunny sky. "Put up your umbrella, would you Clara? It is so hot and I would love a little something to block me from the sun." She hissed in Clara's ear. "And also the son."
Mystified, Clara did as she was told. Marguerite grabbed Clara around the waist and leaned upon her as they walked. She kept her face close, as if trying to hide beneath the shade, but it was the perfect excuse to keep her voice at a whisper. "We must tread very, very carefully. If Wesley is on so-called 'suicide watch', it means that Trevor has arranged to kill him any time he pleases, anytime there is even the slightest hint of a threat."
Clara's blood ran cold. "Surely they wouldn't..."
"You don't know the Beltza family. Their influence in this department is heavy and the corruption runs deeper than you can imagine. No lawyer? Solitary confinement? Waiting for a doctor? You had better believe Trevor is pulling the strings. It is very important that until we find out what Trevor wants, you know nothing, you make no statements on the record—"
"But justice—"
"Justice is dead when it comes to the bottomless pockets of the Beltza family!" Marguerite hailed a cab. "You say that Lady Daphne Grey was there, too?" she asked. "And she is now aware of Alastair Beltza killing her daughter, Julie?"
Clara nodded.
Marguerite's usually smiling mouth was pulled into a grim line. Worry knitted her brow. "I'm going to bring her to my house if they haven't snatched her already. Watch yourself, Clara," said Marguerite as the cab drew to a stop. "Do not go anywhere on your own. Look over your shoulder. I don't want to scare you, but..."
"Should I be scared?" asked Clara.
"Yes," replied Marguerite as she climbed aboard. "Very, very scared."