Unraveled (Turner #3)(4)

Lord Justice cut his eyes briefly in their direction, and did not join in their merriment. “Did you take the bread?”

“No, sir. It wasn’t mine.”

“That’s what they all say,” Skew-wig said, shaking his head. “It’s his word against a respectable business-owner. I believe the man who doesn’t carry billy-dos about.”

That was as good an entry cue as any. Miranda took a deep breath, expelling all her fears. Then she reached out and tapped the clerk again. The man jumped, spattering ink, and then caught her eye. She pointed at Widdy, and the man coughed once more.

“Your Worships,” the clerk said, “there is a lady here who claims to have witnessed the whole affair.”

“Where is she?” the mayor asked.

The clerk jerked his head at Miranda. She felt as if she’d been thrust onstage: every eye in the room trained on her. She went from cold to too-hot. Still, as she pushed to her feet, she also felt a hint of excitement for the performance.

“Your Worships.” The girl she was playing might have that slight tremor to her hands. She would drop her eyes from the intensity of Lord Justice’s gaze. “I saw the events in question. This boy merely watched.” Her words felt almost mushy in her mouth. She pitched her accent somewhere between aristocratically smooth and street-wary, with an added touch of broad country. She needed to hover on the brink of respectability. In this gown, she’d never manage wealthy.

Nobody said anything, so she kept her eyes on the floor. How many people had stood here like this, hoping for the best? A bead of sweat collected on her forehead. After a few moments—seconds really, although it felt an age—she dared to lift her eyes.

Lord Justice watched her, unblinking, one hand on his chin. If there’d been a hint of softness in his manner toward Widdy, it had evaporated at her appearance. Next to him, his colleague frowned in puzzlement.

It would be a mistake to let the stretching silence drive her to speak. That way lay babbling, and too much revelation altogether. She dropped her chin and contemplated the floor instead.

Lord Justice spoke first. “You saw the entire thing.” It wasn’t quite a question, the way he said it. Still, she bobbed her head in response.

Beside her, the clerk shuffled his feet. “Should she be sworn in?”

Lord Justice gave a negative wave of his hand. “What is your name?”

“Whitaker,” Miranda said. “Miss Daisy Whitaker.”

Her day-gown was serviceable muslin, one that a countrified girl might wear. He’d already taken note of her accent. He glanced to either side of her, and then scanned the room before raising one eyebrow.

“You are here unaccompanied,” he commented.

“My father is a farmer. A gentleman farmer. He’s here for market, and brought me along to town. It’s my first time.” Miranda ducked her head. “I didn’t think it was wrong to come. Was it?” She glanced up once more through darkened lashes, and willed him to see a headstrong girl from Somerset. Someone not used to being chaperoned at all times. Someone who might walk through fields by herself at home. She wanted him to see a foolish chit, so innocent that she believed going out alone in the city was no different than traipsing down a dusty lane.

“I had to come,” she added softly. “He was just a child, Your Worship.”

Lord Justice examined her a minute longer—as if she were a mouse, and he the owl about to swoop down and gobble her whole. “Where do you and your father stay?”

“The Lamb Inn.”

His gaze cut away from her. “Mr. Pathington, in what manner did Master Widdy remove the loaf of bread from your premises?”

The baker who’d made the accusation jerked his head up. “I—well—that is to say, I did not precisely see him take it. But there was no one else about. I saw him; I turned away for the barest of instants. I turned back, and the loaf was gone. Who else could it have been?”

Lord Justice tapped his fingers against the bench. “Precisely how bare was your instant?”

“Pardon?”

“Estimate how long you stood with your back turned. What were you doing?”

“Counting change for a half-crown, Your Worship.”

Magistrate Turner looked up and away, as if in calculation. “As much as a half-minute, then. You want me to punish this boy, who had no bread on him when he was apprehended, because you did not watch your storefront?”

Pathington flushed red. “Well, Your Worship, I wouldn’t put it precisely like that—”

Lord Justice turned to face the other magistrates. “In my opinion, the charges have not been proven. Gentlemen?”

“Here now,” the mayor said, “Miss…uh, the miss over here has not delivered her testimony.”

Turner’s lips compressed. “No,” he said shortly. “But there is no need to hear it, as it is duplicative of what we can determine by reason. The lady—” he glanced sharply at Miranda “—need not expose herself.”

“You cannot be serious, Turner. Maybe the boy didn’t steal this particular loaf of bread,” the mayor said. “But surely he is guilty of something. Skulking about bakeries, carrying billy-dos. We can’t just let him go.”

Lord Justice turned to the mayor. Miranda had that sensation once again—that he could have been on a stage, so clever was his timing.