Page 61 of To Save a Scoundrel’s Soul

The judge intervened. “You are certain that the gentleman you chased and apprehended was this gentleman?”

“Yes, I am certain.” Havens gave a brisk nod. “I have a good memory for faces, my lord. An hour earlier, on his arrival in the ballroom, I served him with a small balloon of cognac. It was notable as he refused my offer of ratafia, thus I sent a member of my staff to retrieve the brandy. Moreover, he has—” The butler hesitated, tilting his head up to where Valentin’s own head was cocked to one side as he listened carefully. “—striking features and a memorable accent.”

Valentin’s objection had demonstrated the latter beautifully. The former was self-evident.

“You may cross-examine the witness, Mr Beauregard,” offered the judge with a sigh, leaving no ambiguity about his opinion regarding the futility of it. Nonetheless, Valentin stood; he even threw the butler a charming smile.

“You recall my features and foreign accent, and you apprehended me in the garden. And yet you found nothing in my possession to suggest I had stolen valuables from your employer.”

“You were behaving in a manner unfit for a guest and were seen running away from a broken window and an open safe,” answered Havens stiffly. “I was merely performing my duties to my employer.”

Valentin nodded thoughtfully at the unruffled butler. “And you say you saw me assist another gentleman over a wall. Yet this unknown man has never been found. The garden was dark.”

“The drapes pushed back from the ballroom window illuminated it well enough. And I know what I saw.”

Valentin sat down again, the chain on his wrist jangling. “No more questions, my lord.”

Next came three more witnesses, all long-serving members of Talybridge’s household and all delivering their own versions of the same story, give or take a few embellishments. As each witness came to the end of their tale, Valentin posed the same questions, his shoulders sagging lower as each loyal servant stepped away from the witness stand. No matter that only one of them remarked on Mickey’s limp, nor that the second described him as short and fat and the third as tall and thin. Mickey already read the verdict on the sober faces of the twelve men of the jury, on the faces of the rapt audience, even on the earnest mien of the judge.

Talybridge’s expression was so thickly smug, one could spread it on toast.

As the case dragged on, guilt settled on Valentin’s shoulders—persistent and unyielding. Mickey couldn’t see any path to escaping it, no breaking free of the tightening noose wrapping around his lover’s neck.

Talybridge’s final witness was Mr Harold Pearson, the Bow Street runner who’d so petrified Mickey when he’d come sniffing around at Squire’s. He instilled the same fear now as he described his arrest of Valentin and his subsequent discovery of the open safe.

“In the course of my investigation, I visited the premises of Chubb and Sons, situated in St Paul’s Church Yard. The safe in the marquess’s study is fitted with a Chubb detector lock. I discovered that a picklock key fitting this safe was reported as missing one month earlier. I shall spare you all the details, but a young man previously in the employ of Chubb is now a guest of Marshalsea Prison, awaiting trial for the theft of one picklock key from his employer under the aggregated category of crimes labelled Theft from a Specified Place. On direct questioning, this individual confessed to receiving ten pounds from an unidentified foreign gentleman in exchange for the theft of the key.”

Talybridge shot Valentin a long, satisfied look. “Did the Chubb thief describe that gentleman?”

“Tall, thin, and dark,” confirmed Pearson. “Persuasive and charming. I took the liberty of bringing the prisoner from Marshalsea to Newgate, and he confirmed that the accused in the dock today is the man who gave him money in exchange for the key. I have his signed statement here, if the judge and jury would care to examine it.”

“That shan’t be necessary.” Campbell-Allen gave a wave of his hand. “I think we can all agree?”

“Quite,” barked Talybridge. “In your esteemed opinion, Mr Pearson, how do you believe the events of New Year’s Eve unfolded?”

Mr Pearson puffed out his chest. “I believe that Valentin Beauregard and his accomplice conspired to steal the parure having spied it around the neck of Miss Amelia Chesterton earlier in the season. They procured a key to the safe by the degenerate means I have outlined and then, on the evening of the New Year, contrived to create sufficient disturbance in the ballroom—” At this he gave a delicate cough. “—to enable them to break into the safe in your downstairs study and steal the parure. Unexpectedly discovered in the act, they took flight through the study window. During his escape, the accomplice stumbled, damaged his ankle, yet managed to flee with the parure in his possession, thanks to the assistance of the accused in the dock. Valentin Beauregard is—” At this, Harold Pearson’s gimlet gaze flicked across to Mickey. “—protecting the identity of this accomplice for reasons yet to become apparent but most likely because the accomplice is in possession of the parure, and he still hopes to gain from it if he is found not guilty.”

“Do you consider him not guilty, Mr Pearson?”

Valentin shot out of his seat. “Surely deciding if a defendant is guilty is the role of the jury, not a witness, and only after hearing all of the evidence, my lord?”

The judge tilted his head to one side, the curls of his grey peruke tilting with him. “Mr Pearson is a man of integrity. His credentials are of the highest order, and he has an unsurpassed reputation for excellence in the field of apprehending criminals. His opinion, therefore, is valid, and I will allow the question to stand.”

The spectators shifted restlessly in their seats, casting anticipatory glances at one another. Mickey could practically taste the collective thrills thrumming around the courtroom. His throat closed. He’d have liked to close his ears too.

Pearson drew himself up to his full height. “I think the man is as guilty as if the parure was hanging from his own neck, my lord. Regrettably, his accomplice is still at large, and I shall leave no stone unturned in my hunt for him.” Once more, he threw Mickey, sheltering next to Rossingley, a hard stare. “I shall not cease in my search until that parure is safely back in the marquess’s safe.”

“Thank you,” answered Talybridge once the ripples of awe around the courtroom faded. “That concludes the case for the prosecution, I believe.”

“Do you not intend to cross-examine the accused himself?” The judge seemed surprised along with everyone else. “You do not wish for Mr Beauregard to take the stand?”

“No.” Talybridge smiled thinly. “On reflection, I don’t think we need to waste anybody’s time any longer, do you?”

“Very wise of him,” whispered Rossingley as Campbell-Allen warmly returned Talybridge’s smile. “He has already demonstrated Beauregard’s guilt beyond reasonable doubt. Pearson taking the stand has all but sealed it. If Beauregard takes the stand after him and charms the crowds, Talybridge risks losing ground.”

Mickey gulped, his fingers tightening around his fine calfskin gloves. He recalled the day he’d purchased them; they were expensive, and he’d been proud to own such a smart pair. But it didn’t matter now. Nothing did, really.

When he was much younger and waiting for Tommy to take him away from the stews, hope had been a warm, steady thing—like a fire on a bitter winter’s night. But now the fire had flickered out. Rossingley and the others would insist otherwise, of course. There was still the promise of the bloody plan, the new bloody plan, but his hopes for that were fading fast. In concert with the judge, Talybridge was running the whole show. Frankly, Mickey couldn’t bear to hear another word about the bloody plan, any bloody plan, ever. Shifting, he stretched his aching ankle out in front of the cramped bench, eyes fixed on Valentin. He was only a few feet away, chained to the dock, but there might as well have been an ocean separating them. That was the thing about hope, he thought despairingly. It was always just out of reach.