She wanted badly to go on with the story. It was forming in her head, weaving round her scribbled notes. Thomas’s cases were all high profile and he obviously relished the challenge of the public defence against what he saw as the deep injustice and corruption of the times.
She pictured Thomas sitting elegantly on the far side of the dining room, his legs crossed, his arms folded as he sat at an angle to the table, his eyes sometimes focused on her face, sometimes staring into the far distance where his memories lay buried. It was as if she was acting as his amanuensis, putting down the facts – and surely they were facts, as he remembered them – telling the story the political biographers only skimmed over.
And if he was there with her, surely, she was safe.
So, do you intend to tell the truth about what happened to me?
The voice hissing in her ear was laden with sarcasm.
The voice wasn’t Thomas’s. She clenched her fists. ‘What happened to you?’ She spoke out loud.
There was no reply.
‘Go away!’ She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let this vile incubus frighten her. He wasn’t real.
But nor was Thomas.
She wanted to ring Mal again. She needed to hear his voice. She wanted to run out of the house, slamming the door behind her, and drive back to his magical tower. She did neither. She took a deep breath, visualised a clear bubble of light around herself, held it there for a couple of minutes and then she went back into the dining room. Thomas was real. The other was not. She had to hold onto those two thoughts.
But if they were both real?
She took a deep breath. Farquhar was already in her story. After all, every tale needed a villain.
The sound of Chopin followed her down the hall.
51
Andrew Farquhar stretched out in bed with a groan and opened his eyes. Beside him, the woman was still asleep. She was snoring, her mouth slightly open. Was it Moll or was it Georgie? He screwed up his eyes and peered over the pillow towards her, his head spinning. It was neither. This one had straggling fair hair. She was pretty. Younger than Moll. Much younger. He debated whether it was worth waking her for some more of the same, then lay back with a sigh. His limbs ached and his head was throbbing from the beating Thomas had given him. He scowled. His mouth was dry and tasted like an open drain. He remembered now. His glorious attempt at running over Thomas had failed dismally and he had staggered back to his crib, bleeding. He hadn’t intended to kill him; what would have been the fun in that? Just hurt him, annoy him, frighten him and throw him into the mud.
There was nothing left in any of the bottles they had drunk the night before; no food either. His pockets were empty. No doubt had they had anything of worth in them they would by now have been ransacked by the girl and she would have disappeared into the night. He gave a cynical smile. Easy come, easy go. He would have to get up; he needed a piss. He rolled out of the bed and groped for the chamber pot under the bed. It was almost full already and stank. He groaned again. This time the noise woke her and she sat up. He was right. She was young, no more than a child, and she was, she announced, hungry. He eyed her distastefully. She was scraggy, with almost no breasts. He liked his women buxom, with a bit of experience. What had possessed him to choose this one? He bent and picked her dress up off the floor. It was muslin and had been pretty once. His face softened for a moment. Had it been hers in her earlier life, bought for her by a loving mother perhaps, or had she stolen it from a washing line hung across some dark alley? He laid it on the bed. Pulling on his trousers he buttoned them wearily. He would have to go out and find something for breakfast, he owed her that much. He had no money to pay her, that was for sure. She was clutching at her dress, holding it up to hide herself, and he saw her eyes widen in a panic as he made for the door. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back with something to eat,’ he reassured her. He meant it.
The air was cold and comparatively fresh as he walked along the alley and out into the street. It had rained and the sun had come up; he paused and looked round. The world was beautiful this morning. He seldom noticed these days; his was a world of shadowy streets and the people around him, any one of them, a potential victim. He sniffed distastefully. He had no desire to go back to that room ever again. The girl had been verminous. He shuddered. Perhaps he wouldn’t bother to go back to her. There was nothing worth stealing in the room, nothing of any value at all. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had enough money to rent a decent crib. Better to cut his losses. When she was hungry enough she’d leave and find herself some other mug to infect.
There were more people around now. Ahead of him he saw an elderly man emerge from a doorway, descend the steps and turn away from him, leaning heavily on a cane. His eyes narrowed. He saw the old man grope in his pocket for a handkerchief and bring it out, wiping his nose vigorously. In three steps he was alongside him, cannoning into him, knocking him off balance. The watch was his, the silver snuffbox, the guineas in the breast pocket. With a final vicious push he left the old man lying in the gutter, sobbing, and ran straight into the arms of two Bow Street Runners.
He struggled frantically, but they had him fast. Two other men joined in. ‘I saw him, the bastard! He robbed that old gent!’ A costermonger had dropped his crate and joined in with alacrity. Andrew threw himself from side to side like a madman. One of the men lost his grip for a moment and he was almost free, but then another market trader joined in the affray and another. He felt rope slide round his wrists, his arms were wrenched behind him and he was lost. He was dimly aware of two women bending over the old man. He was sorry for hurting him but sorrier for himself as he felt the rope tighten as they dragged him away along the middle of the road. He was shouting and cursing, kicking out with his legs and it took four of them to hold him, lifting him clean off his feet. Someone must have hit him for he could feel his jaw aching; he barely noticed. He only stopped struggling when he was thrown into a cell and left in the darkness, his arms still bound behind him, lying on the floor as they slammed the door on him and he heard the lock grate shut.
It was several hours before two jailors appeared. They searched him roughly, removing his spoils, then untied the ropes that bound him and pulled his arms forward to fix manacles round his wrists. In the light that filtered through the open door he saw he was in a small cell without windows. ‘Wait!’ he called.
But they had already gone, dragging the door shut behind them. No word had been spoken. He swore viciously as the darkness descended again.
The magistrate was a tall thin man who wore wire-rimmed spectacles. There were a dozen or more witnesses there, including the old man whom he had robbed and the two women who had helped him and, to his extreme puzzlement, the girl who he had left lying in his bed and who it seemed had not trusted him to come back and had followed him. It appeared they knew who he was. He was confused. He was the Man from the Shadows; the Invisible Man. No one knew his name, but here they were claiming he was a well-known thief. They thought he was in disguise, that he had a rich house somewhere, that he had a fortune hidden away. That might have been true once, but no longer, not for a long time. He wanted to laugh but his cry of derision turned into a moan of self-pity. He had been rich, he had had everything they claimed and he had drunk and gambled it all away. He drew himself up in the dock and faced the magistrate. He could at least pretend to be an officer and a gentleman even if he stank like a street beggar. ‘If I am to face a court, sir,’ he said clearly, ‘I need to send a message. I want my man Dickon to be fetched and a letter delivered by him on my behalf. I wish to be represented by a top barrister. I wish to be represented by Thomas Erskine of Lincoln’s Inn.’
Malcolm stood looking out of his living room window towards the woods. The sun had set in a stormy blaze and it would soon be pitch-dark. Since Ruth’s revelation that she had recognised Farquhar he had been growing increasingly uneasy. He had had his suspicions, but somehow the fact that she knew made her more vulnerable and this evening his a
nxiety quotient had been ratcheting up tenfold. His planned meeting had been postponed. That had left him time to think.
He felt one of the dogs lick his hand and he smiled. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there, boy.’ He felt in his pocket for his phone and scanned the screen. Nothing. It wasn’t Pitt’s American policies that were worrying him, he knew that. It was Ruth. He scrolled down to find her number.
‘Ruth? Are you OK?’
‘Hi, Mal. I think so.’ She sounded distracted.
‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘Fin’s gone down to London.’
‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘No.’ And suddenly she was speaking in a rush. ‘I was thinking, can I come to you? I don’t want to be here alone. I’m sorry, tell me if it’s inconvenient—’
‘Come now.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. Now, Ruth.’
‘OK. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t worry about collecting anything, just get in your car,’ he shouted. He looked down at the phone in his hand. Call ended. He wasn’t sure she had heard him.
Thomas read the note again, then he stood up. ‘Is there a reply, Mr Erskine?’ Charles Bevan, his clerk, was watching him anxiously, not quite sure what to make of his master’s reaction. Thomas usually greeted potential retainers brought to him in chambers with interest, enthusiasm, anger on behalf of the wronged person anxious for his aid, or an instant gracious refusal, pleading overwork and lack of time if the brief failed to attract him, but this letter had been read with a mixture of emotion which puzzled him. Anger, pity, frozen indifference, each succeeded the other on Erskine’s face. He threw the letter down on the desk and went over to the window, standing, his hands clasped behind his back, staring out without a word.
At last Bevan cleared his throat, reminding him that he was not alone. Thomas turned. ‘Have you read it?’ he asked, his voice husky.
‘Yes, sir. I opened it, as I always do unless marked confidential.’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘It is not your usual kind of retainer, sir. It was brought by a rough-looking boy who is still outside awaiting your answer. Normally I would have thrown it on the fire, but the …’ there was the slightest hesitation, ‘the gentleman who penned it claims to be an acquaintance of yours.’
‘He claims to be my friend,’ Thomas corrected sharply. ‘Which he is not. We were midshipmen together in the navy many years ago.’ He went back to the desk and sat down, picking up the letter again. It was a sheet torn from a notebook, crumpled and written in pencil. ‘Since those days he has proved to be a charlatan and a blackguard. He has threatened the safety of my wife and my children.’
Bevan frowned, his heavy jowls making him look more like a bloodhound than ever, something which usually endeared him to his employer. ‘Then there can be no possibility of your helping him, surely. Particularly as it appears that there is a string of accusations against him, and as he freely admits, the stolen goods were found on his person after his crime was witnessed by some dozen people. He claims he was framed, but I find myself wondering as to the nature of his veracity.’ Bevan pursed his lips primly.
Thomas was silent. He rolled the paper into a tube and tapped the leather-topped desk in front of him. ‘You are right, it is not my usual kind of case,’ he said after a few moments, speaking more to himself than to his companion. ‘But,’ he favoured his clerk with his most charming smile, ‘it would be a triumph to save the man from the gallows, for that is where he will surely end if I don’t take on his case.’
‘It sounds as if he is a man who deserves to swing if anyone does,’ Bevan retorted briskly.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘Not a charitable response.’
‘He does not appear to be a charitable person. If the letter is to be believed, he is accused of robbing a man of eighty who is yet likely to die of the shock. In which case he will be arraigned for murder.’
‘Since the days of the Greek lawgiver, Draco, there has been a clear difference between intended and unintended homicide,’ Thomas corrected him absentmindedly. ‘In this case, it was clearly unintended.’
‘Unless he’s done it before, armed,’ Bevan stated flatly. ‘When has a cutpurse ever gone out without a knife about his person?’
‘Was he armed this time?’ Thomas responded thoughtfully. ‘We would have to ascertain from the arresting officers.’
‘You are not going to take the case?’ Bevan was incredulous.
‘I will think about it, and perhaps interview the prisoner.’ Thomas sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together on the desk in front of him.
‘I can enquire for you,’ Bevan reminded him tentatively. ‘See what word is on the street about him. Try to find character witnesses.’ He cast a doubtful glance towards the letter.
Thomas looked up. ‘Do that. Let us see what we are dealing with.’
That evening he told Fanny what had happened. ‘You are not going to defend him?’ She was horrified. ‘He threatened my life, and your children! He cut little Frances with a knife! And he tried to crush you with that horse and cart. No, Thomas, you can’t even think it!’
He went to stand in front of the fire. They were living now in a smart rented house; Abi had been promoted to housekeeper, though she was still more of a friend than a servant and somehow she had tracked down Martha, who was now the children’s nanny. He looked forward to this part of the evening. His growing family were upstairs in their own quarters. Fanny was able to buy rich gowns; she had a personal maid and Abi had enlisted nursemaids, house servants and a wonderful cook, besides a valet and a butler. Thomas was smartly dressed though he still showed no interest in his clothes and if Fanny let him he would have gone to work in a dressing gown and slippers, distracted by a head full of his latest case.
She went to him now and put her arms around his neck, snuggling against him. ‘My darling, you cannot do it. I know you. You will see this as a challenge. You against the world. But supposing you get him a discharge. Would you be proud of yourself? Would you be happy knowing he was free to prowl the streets of London again, robbing old men and women, for all we know, cutting people’s throats! You and I know what kind of a man he is. We know he’s guilty.’ She gazed up into his eyes. ‘We know it, Thomas,’ she repeated firmly.
He nodded slowly.
‘And you owe him nothing.’
He smiled at her. ‘You would make a good advocate, Fanny. I’ve always said so.’
‘Yes. I would.’ She was always so certain about things. And she was usually right. ‘He is not going to disturb your dreams, Thomas. Give him not another thought. The man turned to a life of crime and violence and disgusting debauchery. Abi has told me some of the things written about him in the newspapers. If he is truly the Man from the Shadows he doesn’t deserve to live. Leave him to God’s judgement!’
‘But …’ he said thoughtfully.
‘No! There are no buts! You are not God, Thomas Erskine.’ Her stern face softened into a smile. ‘Even though you sometimes think you are.’
‘But,’ he went on firmly, ‘are we sure that he is the Man from the Shadows? What does he say the papers call him, the Invisible Man, a title he seems proud of. Do we allow the gutter press to make the identification, to scream of his guilt? Yes, he’s a thief, we know that, and he made threats, but he never actually hurt you, Fanny. You told me he saved your life when he pulled you away from in front of the horse in the street.’
‘No! You saw what happened, Tom.’ She stood back from him and grabbed his arms in her small hands, tightening her grip until he winced as she held him in front of her, forcing him to look into her eyes. ‘You saw it! You told me how it was. You saw, when you were still in Cambridge. You saw as if you were there. He pushed me. Yes, he rescued me, but he pushed me in front of that horse. Maybe he changed his mind about seeing me dead, but he pushed me. He tried to kill me! And he took a knife to your
daughter’s throat, Thomas. How can you even consider this?’
Thomas gave an agonised moan.
She released his arms and walked away with a rustle of silk skirts to stand in front of the window, staring across the street. ‘So, that’s settled, you will not defend him. In any case, you told me you have no time to take on new cases.’
‘As always you are right, my darling.’
‘So you will tell Bevan to send back the request.’
He knew everything she said was correct but he was still uneasy.
‘Thomas!’ His attention had wandered. His determined wife was in front of him again. ‘Did you hear what I said?’
He smiled at her. ‘Remind, me, my darling.’ He caught her in his arms.
‘I said we are going up to Hampstead tomorrow to stay in the new house. You promised. The children are looking forward to it.’
His smile broadened. He was drawing up plans with the architect to alter their new home to suit his ever-growing family. He was full of plans for it; already there was one extra incumbent of the stable. The pony, Invincible, had responded to his new regime and become a firm favourite with everyone. He was now a family pet and would follow them round the garden like one of the dogs. The gardens, already being replanted with a huge array of flowers and trees and shrubs under the care of a wonderful Scots gardener, would be full of beauty and peace and children and animals – if the two concepts could ever be made compatible! As if on cue, the door opened and one of the dogs pushed its way in, coming to him at once and thrusting its nose into his hand. Frances shook her head good-humouredly. She was used to sharing his affection with his pets. ‘I have ordered the carriage and the phaeton. Enough room for children plus servants. If the dogs are coming you can ride and they can follow with you. There will be no room for us all in the carriages!’