One, and only one.
Lady Clifford had made it clear she preferred they all stay away from the Old Bailey today, it not being wise to emphasize the Clifford School’s connection to Jeremy just now. It wouldn’t do for people to become suspicious, or to attract undue attention. There was, after all, apossibility—not acertainty, because no one could ever be certain of anything—but a possibility Jeremy Ives’s fate wouldn’t bequitewhat London expected, regardless of what happened in the courtroom today.
Sophia rose to her tiptoes and tried to peer around the shoulders of the rows of men in front of her. Jeremy hadn’t been brought in yet, so there wasn’t much to see, but it had been weeks since she’d laid eyes on him. She was desperate to catch a glimpse of him today, even as another wave of dread rolled over her at the thought of whatshe might find.
Newgate was infamous for the miserable conditions, the gleeful brutality of the gaolers, and the unimaginable suffering inflicted on the prisoners. A simple, sweet-tempered boy like Jeremy wouldn’t have the first idea how to survive in such a place.
An expectant hush fell over the courtroom, and a few moments later the harsh reality of Jeremy’s predicament was borne home to Sophia with pitiless clarity. She slapped a hand over her mouth to smother her horrified gasp as Jeremy—lovely, kind, gentle Jeremy—was dragged intothe courtroom.
He looked…dear God, he looked as if he’d been starved and beaten half to death. If she hadn’t known this poor, ragged creature to be Jeremy, Sophia wouldn’t have recognized him. He’d always been a big, strong lad, but his body had been reduced to a pathetic wreck, his shoulders hunched, his chest sunken. He was dragging one foot behind him as if it had been injured, and his face was covered in bruises.
Nausea clawed at Sophia’s throat, and she was obliged to reach out a shaking hand and brace it on the column beside her to keep from staggering. She hadn’t expected he’d look well, but this…she felt as if she’d been plunged into one of her most frightening nightmares.
They had todosomething, help him somehow. In another week there’d be nothing left of her precious boy to save. He’d be lost to them forever.
The trial began. Sophia tried to listen, to concentrate on the evidence, but everything spun in a confusing blur around her until Peter Sharpe rose and stepped into the witness box. The hiss of the spectators in the gallery and the drone of voices in the courtroom below all ground to a halt when he gavehis testimony.
Gave his testimony, andlied. Glibly, and without a shred of remorse.
With every word out of the man’s mouth Sophia’s anguish and fury grew, until her hands were fisted at her sides and it was all she could do not to leap from the gallery into the witness box below.
“Never saw the like of it in my life, my lord. That poor man, the Bow Street Runner what was, lying on the ground with ’is blood all over, like, and that one there,” Sharpe pointed an accusing finger at Jeremy. “Like to ’ave cut’is head off!”
Sharpe preened as a shocked gasp rose from the gallery.
“Please be so good as to refrain from embellishment, Mr. Sharpe.” Mr. Beddows, the thin, soft-spoken gentleman Lady Clifford had hired as Jeremy’s lawyer interrupted him. “Simply tell the court what occurred on the night in question.”
Sharpe blinked. “Aw right, then. It’s like this. I were at St. Clement Dane’s Church, not bothering no one, when all of a sudden this one,” jerking his chin at Jeremy, “comes out of nowhere down the Strand, and attacks me!”
Another gasp arose, and Sharpe nodded importantly.
“You mean to say he came out of nowhere, and attacked you for no reason?” Mr. Beddows prompted.
“He had a reason, right enough. He were after my purse! Thieves are the scourge of London, sir, and make no mistake. But ’e didn’t get it, ye see, because along comes the other gentleman—the Bow Street bloke, as he were. What were his name again?”
“Mr.Henry Gerrard.”
“Right. Him. Along comes Mr. Gerrard, and ’e’s going on about gangs of thieves or some such, and he must ’ave frightened that one.” Sharpe jerked his chin toward Jeremy again. “’Cause next thing I know poor Mr. Gerrard’s on the ground, sliced to ribbons like a Christmas goose!”
“Your testimony, Mr. Sharpe, is that Mr. Ives stabbed Mr. Gerrard in the course of a robbery. Isthat correct?”
“That’s whatI said, innit?”
Mr. Beddows gave Sharpe a thin smile. “Yes, very good, Mr. Sharpe. Whathappened then?”
“Well, I…I couldna just let that big bloke—Ives—get away with murder, could I? So ye see I-I…well, I bashed ’im over the head with my cane, once or maybe twice, until ’is brains were like to be splattered all over the churchyard.”
“And then?”
“Well, I weren’t sure what to do, but then I think to myself, Bow Street ain’t but a few streets over, so I run there and tell them there’s a thief and a murderer in the churchyard, and one man dead, and t’other leaking brains, and Mr. Willis comes running, as ye do when there’s a murderer about, and ’e took ’im up—Ives, I mean, sir—and tossed ’im into Newgate where ’e belongs.”
“I see. Is that your complete testimony, Mr. Sharpe, or do you have anything to add?”
Peter Sharpe, who didn’t appear to be in any hurry to leave the witness box, drew himself up with a sniff. “I’ve got plenty to say about murderers wandering the streets of London with us virtuous folks—”
Mr. Beddows cleared his throat. “Anything factual relating to thecrime, I mean?”
Sharpe deflated. “Nay.”
