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CHAPTERTHIRTY
Something woke Fergus with a start, some time in the middle of the dark night. He could not see anything in his cell in the pitch darkness as they were not allowed any lanterns or candles. He assumed that he had heard a rat and tried to go back to sleep, sitting against the cold stone wall.
A noise came again, the sound of locks turning and doors opening. Surprised by the late hour, Fergus stood and went to the bars, straining to see up the stairs in the darkness.
“Oi, got ourselves a new mate, ey?” another prisoner asked in the darkness. The jailer opened the last door and descended down into the darkness, carrying a lantern with him. He stopped at Fergus’ cell.
“Your Grace, seems like you were right after all,” the jailer said. He fumbled with his keys, unlocking the prison cell door with painstaking slowness.
“That I was innocent?” Fergus asked, surprised.
“Aye, seems like they’ve caught another man,” the jailer said, opening the door. He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Up ya go.”
Fergus stared at the jailer stupidly for a moment.
“What, ya wanna stay?” the jailer asked.
“No, no indeed,” Fergus rushed and made for the stairs before the jailer told him there had been another mistake. The jailer followed him up, unlocking doors as they went and locking them back behind them.
When they reached the entrance, Fergus rocked back on his feet, finding Lord Somersby, Lord Haverton, Edwina, Simon, and a host of other men, including the constable, waiting. The most surprising part was seeing Lord Somersby had his hands bound before him.
“What is going on?” he asked.
“Oh, Fergus,” Edwina cried, rushing to him. She threw her arms around him, pressing her face against his chest with enough force to push him backward. Regaining his footing, he wrapped his arms around her, patting her on the back.
“We found the real Monster of London,” Simon explained, gesturing to Albert.
“I do not understand,” Fergus said, looking around in confusion.
“These bastards thought that they could –” Lord Somersby tried to protest, but Simon punched him in the face again. The bruising on Lord Somersby’s cheek indicated that it was not the first time. Panic rushed through Fergus, thinking how dangerous it was for Simon to be assaulting an Earl.
Edwina pulled away from him, and Fergus finally noticed the welts around her throat, black and purple. In the discoloration, he noticed distinct, finger-like shapes.
“What happened?” he cried, holding her out at arm’s length. Fear and anger rushed through him. “What happened?”
“I went out to act as bait,” she explained softly, tears welling in her eyes, “and he found me.”
“Somersby did this to you?” Fergus whispered, looking up to Lord Haverton and Simon for their confirmation.
“His attack is consistent with the reports of the other ladies,” Simon explained. Just then, the door of the gaol opened. A well-bred lady entered, her husband right behind her.
“Someone sent for me?” she asked, looking around the room.
“Lady Stafford?” the constable asked. She nodded. Fergus could see the faint bruises around the lady’s neck, just the same as Edwina’s.
“We want you to take a look at this man and tell us if this was the one that attacked you last week,” the constable said, waving at Lord Somersby.
Her gaze fell upon him, and she turned suddenly, hand on her mouth. “That is him!” she cried, turning back to her husband with a sob.
“That is all we needed,” the constable said, nodding to the gentleman. They quickly ducked back out of the gaol.
Fergus looked back to Edwina. “Did he…” Fergus started to ask, his voice choking in his throat. “Did he… hurt you?”
Edwina just traced her fingers across the bruising. “Father and Simon and Bertie, all of them, they were all waiting. As soon as he attacked me, they grabbed him. We wanted to prove that you were not the attacker.”
“I do not understand,” Fergus said, looking back to Lord Somersby. Rage filled him. “You knew my mother, my family. We considered you a friend, and you did this to her? My wife? All those innocent women?”
“You can prove nothing!” Lord Somersby snarled. The blood on his chin, mixed with the face paint and rouge, made him look even more diabolical, even knowing what he had done.
