Unraveled (Turner #3)(3)

Billy Croggins licked his lips. “Lord Justice. Please. Have mercy.”

The man shook his head. “The proper form of address is ‘Your Worship.’”

Croggins frowned.

“In any event,” Lord Justice continued, “if the house had truly caught fire, you might have killed your daughter and your grandchildren.” He paused and looked round the room.

He stole the breath from his audience, packed a thousand years of expectation into those bare seconds. If this had been a performance, Miranda would have applauded the perfection of his timing. But this was no play, put on for public amusement. This was real.

Lord Justice looked back at the defendant. He spoke quietly, but his words carried in the waiting silence. “I am having mercy, Mr. Croggins. Just not on you. Not on you.”

Miranda shut her eyes. She’d done this before—stolen down to the hearings at the Patron’s behest and delivered testimony designed to prevent the conviction of a particular defendant. The other magistrates never doubted the testimony of a genteel young lady.

But Turner asked questions. He listened. He heard the things you didn’t intend to say. She’d spoken before him only once—the first time she’d testified, well over a year ago. It was the only time she had actually witnessed the crime in question. He’d wrung every last drop of truth from her then.

She surely couldn’t afford Magistrate Turner’s brand of mercy today.

“I’ll conduct the examination,” Turner said. “Palter—hold Mr. Croggins.”

A blighted silence reigned in the hearing room, broken only by the shuffling of feet.

“Call the next case,” the mayor muttered.

Beside her, the clerk began to speak. As he did, Lord Justice’s gaze traveled over the spectators. His eyes briefly rested on Miranda. It was only in her imagination that they narrowed. Still, she shivered.

Under Lord Justice’s voluminous black robes, he might have been fat or slender. He might have had tentacles like a cuttlefish, for all she knew. His long white wig made his features seem thin and severe. Perversely, all that black and white made him appear almost young. That couldn’t be the case. A man had to be ancient to deal justice as he did without flinching.

Don’t lie to this man. The instinct seemed as deep as hunger, as fierce as cold. But if she walked away now, she’d lose the protection she so desperately needed. And Robbie… It didn’t bear thinking about. One didn’t say no to the Patron’s requests. Not even when justice threatened.

She’d received her orders less than two hours before. She was to speak on Widdy’s behalf, to make sure that he wasn’t convicted.

She didn’t know why. She was never told why. But she’d asked, once, in a fit of lunacy, and she’d never forgotten the answer the Patron’s man had given her.

In Temple Parish, justice belongs to the Patron, not the magistrates.

An officer was shuffling about, bringing to the front… Oh, yes. It was Widdy this time.

At the front of the room, the boy looked fragile and scared. The harsh life of a street-urchin in Temple Parish had broken him long ago. She doubted Widdy’s release mattered except as a symbol, proof that the Patron was more powerful than the law.

She listened attentively as the baker who was prosecuting the case—a florid-faced gentleman by the name of Pathington—railed against Widdy specifically, and all small scourges upon honest sellers in general. The urchin looked confused and desperate against that onslaught.

When the baker had completed an exaggerated recounting of crime, infamy, and a missing half-loaf of bread, it was Lord Justice who turned to Widdy. “What is your name, young master?”

Widdy swallowed. “Widdy.”

There was a pause. The clerk next to Miranda wrote the word, then looked up. “I beg your pardon, Your Worships. Is that his Christian name or his surname?”

Widdy looked beleaguered.

“Well?” the mayor said. “Speak up. Is that short for something?”

“Yes?” Widdy shifted his feet uneasily.

A faint chuckle rose from the onlookers.

“Well, what for?”

“I don’t know. Me mam called me Widdy, back when.”

“And what is your mother’s name?”

Widdy looked away.

“Well, boy,” the magistrate in the lopsided wig thundered, “what is your mother’s name?”

Widdy shrunk in on himself. “People called her ‘Spanky.’”

The laughter rang out again, darker and just a little more cruel.

Lord Justice cast a quelling glance over the room. “What did she do?”

“She’s dead,” Widdy replied earnestly. “But she used to drink gin.”

The hearing room erupted at that. Lord Justice didn’t even crack a smile. “Do you have work? A place to stay?”

“I sweep streets, sometimes. I hold horses, when gentlemen go into the shops. That’s my favorite. Sometimes, I deliver billy-dos.”

“Billy-dos?” The mayor’s mouth quirked up.

“For ladies,” Widdy explained earnestly. “When they don’t want their words to be seen.”

Skew-wig reached over and nudged the mayor’s elbow. “I believe the boy is referring to billets-doux.” His mouth twitched in a self-satisfied smile.