Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(8)
Jane gave Lizzie her most serious look. “Lizzie.”
“Jane. I will not live my life sitting by the side while there are so many men making a mess of things.”
“You’re referring to Mr. Collins?”
“Mama thinks that I ought to marry him to secure our future, but why do that when I can secure it just as easily by myself?”
Jane kindly didn’t point out that nothing about Lizzie’s plan would be easy, but she did promise to cover for Lizzie on the slim chance that Mama went looking for her. And so Lizzie stepped out into the street with a hamper full of pilfered goods from the kitchen and set out for Newgate Prison.
It was not an overly long walk west. She smelled Newgate before she saw it, and the stench made her lift her handkerchief to her nose as she took in the grim stone building, imposing and forlorn for all the bustle of the streets around it. Gallows stood in the open courtyard, a chilling reminder of what might have been Mr. Davis’s fate if she hadn’t discovered his wife’s deception.
She couldn’t help but trace where Newgate was connected to London’s Central Criminal Court by a stone-enclosed passageway, where prisoners were ferried across to await trial. A brick wall in the shape of a half circle impeded her view into the courtroom windows, and the narrow entrance was beyond her reach. She’d never been inside, although her father had been coaxed into admitting that it was rather fine. Lizzie wanted to see for herself, and this could be the case that finally gained her entry into that building.
With that in mind, Lizzie gathered up her courage and walked past the gallows and toward Newgate’s entrance. It took a shilling to convince the man at the gate she was here to see a prisoner, and another to be escorted past the hopeful family members and solicitors seeking out loved ones and clients, into a stale, dusty office where the warden received her. He was a tall, gray man and was quite amused when she demanded to see Charles Bingley. “And who’re you?”
Lizzie drew her face into an expression of great disdain—it wasn’t very difficult—and said, “His sister. Miss Bingley.”
The warden studied her for a long moment and Lizzie struggled to keep her composure by counting the bricks above his head. One, two, three, four . . . she got up to seventeen when the warden said expectantly, “There will be a fee.”
Lizzie smiled and handed over the last of her shillings. Mr. Bingley had better be worth the trouble, as this was turning out to be quite the expensive venture, and it was not so easy for a young lady to get her hands on coin.
“He’s in the statehouse, so it will take a while to fetch him,” the warden said, and quickly pocketed the money. “We don’t usually let murderers stay in the statehouse, but we don’t usually get ones that can afford it.”
“Alleged murderer,” Lizzie corrected.
The warden gave her one last hard look before setting off.
The wait was long. Lizzie tried to pass the time by mentally practicing what she would say when Mr. Bingley arrived but faltered when she could not imagine his reaction to seeing a strange young woman impersonating his sister. She tried counting the bricks but kept losing track after thirty-five. She began pacing the small office, hoping she might see something of interest, but the desk was locked up tight and the room sparse. Finally she sat again, convinced that she had made a terrible mistake and that the warden was just outside, laughing at her and deciding to lock her up in a cell for her deception. . . .
Lizzie stood the moment the door opened, revealing the warden, a guard, and a rather ruffled-looking young man of about four and twenty. Lizzie noticed his clothing first—he was wearing a fine jacket in a sea-blue linen, covered in garish dark stains that she knew instinctively must be blood. Excitement coursed through her, overriding the pinpricks of horror.
“Brother!” Lizzie cried loudly. “I’ve come to secure your release from this wretched place!”
She stared at Mr. Bingley, scarcely breathing, praying he’d play along.
The young man’s weariness gave way to bewilderment, and Lizzie observed that although he was young, he had fine lines around his eyes that hinted at a tendency to smile. His wavy blond hair was mussed and cravat sloppily tied, but she could tell he came from money by the quality of his clothing and his perfect posture. Luckily for her, proper upbringing prevented him from contradicting her outright. “Don’t just stand there,” the warden growled. “Your sister paid a fair bit to see you, and she brought food, too.”
Bingley’s eyes darted to Lizzie’s basket, and a smile brightened his face. “Sister!”
Men. So utterly predictable.
“Release him from these shackles,” Lizzie demanded.
“I’m sorry, Miss Bingley, but we can’t.”
“My brother won’t harm me,” Lizzie declared, hoping that it was true. It was what his sister would say, but Lizzie had yet to judge Bingley’s character for herself.
“We’ve too many people comin’ an’ goin’,” the warden said. “Can’t take the chance.”
Lizzie didn’t wish to press her luck any further. “Fine. May we speak privately?”
Lizzie’s mother would positively faint if she knew her daughter was demanding a private audience with one of London’s most eligible bachelors, suspected criminal or not. But his sister would not expect to have a chaperone to their conversation, and so the warden obliged.