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Chapter Eighteen
Agroup of constables suddenly entered the Black Dog, where Charles was drinking with a group of friends. All of them were London barristers, and they met up once a week to drink. They would fight it out all week in chambers, then when Friday eve came around, they would all go out on the town together—friends. It was a rule with all of them not to talk shop. What was said and done in chambers remained there.
“I wonder what the fuss is about.” Charles muttered, watching as the group of dark-dressed constables climbed the stairs to the second floor of the pub, which served as an inn.
“Looks like something happened upstairs,” Arthur replied.
“We should get out of here,” Alistair Morton added. “Don’t want to be here if there’s a big to-do.”
“Agreed,” Arthur said, bringing his tankard to his lips, and tipping his head back to swallow the dregs.
They all got up, and then made their way to the door, Charles trailing along behind them. They all gathered on the street.
“Let’s head over to the Ox Bow!” Arthur Hinkley suggested. The whole group muttered their agreement. After a long day in chambers, the barristers were all out for a night of drink and debauchery.
“Come on, Charles,” Arthur said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Coming,” Charles replied, burying his hands into his pockets. Something caught his eye as he stepped out into the road, however. “One moment!” he called out, stepping toward the golden gleam. He bent down to pick it up.
It was a pocket watch—very expensive, with detailed engraving of feathers across the front. The chain was broken off—as though it had fallen from someone’s pocket. On the back, it was engraved with the initials, J.M.
Charles knew this pocket watch. It was the very one that he had convinced Lord Winterbourne to return to Lord Diggar, back at the Danburys’ ball during the summer. He looked around, trying to see if Lord Diggar was still around. Not seeing him, he put it in his pocket. As soon as he returned home, he would write to Lord Diggar, to let him know that he’d found it.
“Stop! You, there!” A gruff male voice came from behind him.
Charles turned toward it, finding two constables, standing there, scowling at him. They wore their high black caps, and their dark navy uniforms. Silver badges adorned their jackets, glistening in the light of the streetlamps. “Yes?” he asked. He’d drank just enough ale to give him a low buzz. One was older, portly—while the other appeared quite young.
“What did you just pick up?” The older of the two asked.
Charles pulled the watch out, presuming that they were searching for it, themselves. Perhaps Lord Diggar had contacted them himself. The older one accepted it, turning it over in his hand.
“J.M.,” he remarked. “As in, Josias Montagu.” The two constables shared a look. Charles frowned, suddenly on his guard.
“The Earl of Diggar is a client of mine,” Charles explained. “I was going to return it to him.”
“You know him?” The one raised a bushy eyebrow.
“He’s a client of mine,” Charles repeated, wondering what was going on. They were acting odd, almost as if they suspected him of something. “I’m his barrister.”
“You’re under arrest, Sir,” the constable said, gruffly.
“Whatever for?” Arthur demanded, cutting in to the conversation. Charles glanced over, to find that there was an entire crowd of drunken barristers standing beside him. It made him feel a little better, but not much.
“The murder of Josias Montagu,” the constable said, causing Charles to panic.
“But he was with us, the whole evening,” Arthur insisted. “We were in the Black Dog.”
“The Earl was murdered on the second floor of the Black Dog,” the younger constable said.
“Nice of you to cover for him, but we’re going to have to take him in,” the older constable replied.
Charles’s mind was reeling. The idea that Lord Diggar had been murdered…and that Charles was suspected of it…He couldn’t process—his head was spinning.
“You don’t have any reason, aside from the fact that he picked up the pocket watch from the street,” Alistair said. “He clearly found it—he didn’t take it off of Lord Diggar’s body.” Alistair was in criminal defense.
The constable scowled at Alistair, who stared back at him steadily. “Come on. You can’t actually place him on the second floor,” Alistair pressed, expertly. “He was down on the first floor, and I have an entire room full of people who can corroborate. Including the barkeep, who I know for a fact is stone sober.”
They all watched as the constable deflated. “We’ll take the watch as evidence,” was all that he said.
