Chapter Six
The next day,Nate rode back to the village of Braithwaite and managed to persuade Magistrate Hunt to let him speak with Mr. Groby.
“It won’t do you any good to give the man false hope, Mr. Squires.” Magistrate Hunt rested his folded arms on his round belly. “I know Miss De Lacey has a soft heart and wants to believe the butcher is innocent, but I’ve got twenty men who heard Groby swear he’d carve that young poet up and feed him—”
“Yes, I know.” Nate held up his hand to stop the magistrate from going on. “All I’m saying is that you’ve known Groby for years. He is your neighbor and your friend. Are you simply going to condemn a man without an investigation? Surely, there must be an inquest to decide if he should stand trial.”
“Why call an inquest when we already know what the outcome will be? Yesterday was proof enough. The people of Westmorland have already decided that Groby is the killer and must stand trial for the slaughter of George Otis. We don’t need an inquest for that. But…if the formality is what you want, then I shall do one. Just don’t expect a different outcome.”
The magistrate had a point. At best, an inquest would yield the same result as yesterday. At worst, it would create more anger and chaos. Nate shuddered at the thought. “I’d like to ask him if there is anything I can do to help his wife and children. They’re innocent, aren’t they? If you’re going to send a man to his death, at least let himgo in peace.”
Magistrate Hunt shifted his stance, unfolding his crossed arms and reaching into his pocket for the keys to Groby’s cell. “I suppose I can’t see any harm in that. Follow me.”
Nate followed the magistrate across the street to the local jail, which was most often occupied by intoxicated men needing to sober up.
“I’m taking Mr. Squires to Groby’s cell,” Magistrate Hunt informed the guard, who jerked up from his slouched position as they marched past his desk.
Groby sat in a cell with a wooden bench that acted as his bed and looked as though it were only big enough for a child. The bear of a man looked up in surprise as Nate and the magistrate approached his cell.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you inside,” Magistrate Hunt said, slipping the keys back into his pocket. “Too much of a risk after the heinous act he committed.”
“Well, we don’t know that he’s guilty. The man hasn’t had a trial yet,” Nate reminded the magistrate.
“All the same,” Magistrate Hunt said, “this is as far as you’re going.”
“Very well,” Nate said. “Thank you, Magistrate.”
The magistrate nodded and strode away.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Nate said, and Groby shrugged in response.
“Can’t intrude on a dead man, now can you?”
“You will have a trial. There’s a chance you might be found innocent.”
Groby snorted. “Is that why you came? To try and save my neck?”
“I’d like to try. If you are innocent as you claim, I—Miss De Lacey and I—would like to help prove as much.”
A faint smile appeared on Groby’s gruff face. “Aye, Miss De Lacey.She’s a sweet lass. Known her since she were the age of me daughter.”
“She thinks very highly of you, too, and that’s why she—we—want to try and help you.”
“That’s mighty good of you. But how will you do that?”
“If you can answer a few questions for me, that will be a start.”
Groby shrugged again. “What is it that you want to know?”
“Do you recall what you said in The Black Horse last night?”
“I know what people told me I said, but I don’t remember saying it.”
“Some of the patrons that night remember you as being very intoxicated—more so than usual. Did you start drinking earlier than normal?”
“I don’t remember,” Groby said. “It’s a blank space in me head.”
“Do you remember if something happened to upset you that night?”
