A Rational Proposal (Furze House Irregulars Book 1)(16)
Verity found herself bundled inside without ceremony. The boy had disappeared, but she thought she saw a pair of heels vanish in the throng and a slight figure weave towards an alleyway. “Charles?”
Charles was staring out of the grimy window. He looked back at her, troubled but decisive. “I could wish you in Grosvenor Street, but as you are not I must tell you certain things which, while they are not in any way secret, I would prefer not to be the subject of drawing room discussion.”
Verity nodded.
“Very well. I do not always deal with settlements and wills and land contracts. There are many people who through lack of education, or illiteracy, or feeble-mindedness are accused, or taken up by the authorities, and are not able to fashion themselves a defence. Some of these people I try to help, by ascertaining facts that the accuser - the supposed victim - has suppressed. The boy who came to find me just now is the son of a coal merchant who has been accused of theft by one of his customers. The customer says he paid for coal, but only half of it was delivered. The coal merchant knows he delivered the whole order. I found a groom who saw the delivery, saw it inspected, saw the coalman paid, saw him drive away. I have taken a statement from the groom, but the man himself would lend more weight.”
Questions rose to Verity’s lips, but they had arrived at the Old Bailey and she was being hurried inside. Charles had a word with a gentleman in a brown coat, and then they were passed through into some sort of gallery.
To Verity’s swimming senses, the proceedings seemed to take very little more time than they had in the Bow Street courthouse. Beside her, Charles was so intent on the scene that she didn’t like to disturb him, so it was a few minutes before she could sort out who was speaking and what their function was.
There was a flurry of movement, everyone seemed to breathe and the noise level rose, then a clerk was banging with some sort of hammer and a charge was read out.
Verity heard the words ‘...wilfully stealing a handkerchief from ...’ and then lost the rest. A stout man repeated the charge, pointed over to a bench, another man nodded and agreed that he’d witnessed the theft. There were more voices, then a juryman said ‘Guilty’ and the judge perfunctorily pronounced the accused to be sentenced to death.
Verity felt a shocked jolt run through her, even more so when a small girl was led away, her face white and pinched. She turned to Charles, appalled. “I cannot believe it. That child is to die for stealing a handkerchief? A handkerchief?”
Charles’s face twisted. “I am sorry, I knew I should not have brought you here. I am every kind of fool and I apologize profoundly. Verity, theft of all property worth a shilling or more attracts the death sentence, but it is rarely carried out. The cost of the handkerchief will be valued at less than a shilling and the sentence commuted.”
Verity’s distress eased a little. “Oh. Oh, well that is better. Commuted to what?”
Charles hesitated, looking wretched. “Transportation. Hard labour. But very often the accused are not taken to the ships at all.”
Transportation. Away from family and friends and everything they have known. Verity swallowed. “But some are?”
He gave a reluctant nod.
“Why? Why do they steal when the consequences are so final?”
“For food. For clothing. In the country, a family may just about scratch enough food for themselves out of the soil, but here in the city it must be bought. A penny from a stolen handkerchief goes frighteningly far in a desperate household.”
“Can nothing be done?”
“Who is to do it? It is impossible to employ all the poor people in London. Hush now, this is my man. I must be ready to go down.”
Verity had never felt so cold. She sat in a frozen numbness through the charge and the depositions. She watched as Charles handed in the statement and was glad when the jury found the coal merchant not guilty. She stirred only when Charles reappeared beside her and put his hand on her arm.
“Come, I will take you home,” he said in a gentle voice.
She managed to wait until they were out in the hallway before she turned blindly to him and hid her face in his coat.
His arms were comfortable around her, strong and firm. “I know,” he murmured. “I know, Verity. This is why I do what I can.”
Fool. Imbecile. Idiot. Charles castigated himself over and over as he summoned a hackney carriage and helped Verity inside. However stubborn she was being, insisting on going about with him for the day, he should never have taken her to the Old Bailey sessions. A sheltered country upbringing was little preparation for the desperate wave of humanity to be found in the cells, waiting their turn for justice, if justice could ever be found in an unequal society.
She sat close to him in the carriage, but quiet, leaving him to wrestle with a second problem. He needed to get a message urgently to Fitz. The man he had seen at Bow Street had let slip the information that a slave trader was in London from Liverpool, and was looking for investors. Slave trading was illegal, so if they could obtain evidence against the man leading to a successful prosecution, that would be one more foul outlet shut down.
Alex Rothwell moved in the right circles but he was well known as an abolitionist and a reformer, so would never be accepted by the trader. Fitz, on the other hand, had money and position. The rogue merchant would believe him out of sheer greed. The question was, how to get word to him without suspicion? As a rule the members of the Pool kept as far apart as possible. Slave trading was nothing to do with their current investigations, but as they suspected the shadow master they were after was someone high up, Fitz especially had to stay clear of the rest of them. Charles was loathe to use a street boy to carry a note that could be easily discovered and both ends then traced to make a connection. The same went for a public messenger.