“Very flattering,” Eden said faintly.
“I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation,” I argued.
“Could be, sir. Could be. He can tell it to the magistrate.” Pomeroy gestured to the carriage that halted beside us. “Are you lending us your coach, Captain? Kind of you.”
“No need to come with me, Lacey,” Eden said as Pomeroy jerked open the door. “Or give me the use of your coach. I’ve weathered worse.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “We’ll visit the magistrate together and clear this up in a trice. Please.”
“After you, sir,” Pomeroy said to Eden.
Pomeroy hadn’t come alone to the wharves. Three foot patrollers stationed themselves on the far side of the carriage, so Eden wouldn’t simply bolt out the other door.
Eden showed no inclination to do so. He climbed calmly into the coach and sat on the rear-facing seat.
I started for the carriage, to be held back when Brewster seized my arm.
“You’re not going to walk into Bow Street nick by choice, are ye?” Brewster demanded. “And face a magistrate what’s examined you before?”
“And found me guilty of nothing. Sir Nathaniel Conant is a rational man.”
“I’ll tell you this for nothing, guv. You go into a courtroom with a mate, trying to help, and the next thing, you’re banged up with him, accused of being his accomplice.”
I freed myself from his grasp. “As I know nothing of the matter, that is hardly likely.”
“Ye hired me to keep you out of trouble, guv. My advice is to leave it.”
“I’d listen were I you,” Pomeroy put in. He pushed past us and hoisted himself into the coach.
“You make an excellent point, Brewster. However …” I reached for the handholds on the side of the coach and pulled myself up and inside just before Hagen started the horses. “Go on home if you don’t have the stomach for Bow Street.”
Brewster’s glare was full of fire. His face creased into a snarl but he caught hold of the coach as it passed him and hauled himself onto the seat on the back.
We said little as we traveled from the river to Bow Street in Covent Garden. Pomeroy was pleased, as he’d receive a reward if a judge convicted Eden of murder.
Eden’s nervousness at the wharves and his request for advice became clear. He’d realized his arrest had been imminent, and he’d wanted my advice about it. I wondered if he’d seized the opportunity of our chance meeting to ask for help, or if he’d been searching for me. Any inquiry at the South Audley Street house would have told him where I’d gone.
We bumped along Fleet Street to the Strand, and from there north on Southampton Street to Covent Garden, past the opening to Grimpen Lane, where I still kept lodgings, and around to Bow Street.
The magistrate was already sitting, Pomeroy said, hearing cases for the day. He’d dismiss those he felt were trivial and send any criminal he thought dangerous to Newgate to await trial.
Brewster hopped off the coach and faded into the crowd on the street, never liking to be near a magistrate’s court. Pomeroy led us inside the tall house and up the stairs to an office I’d visited before. It was a place where the more genteel could speak to the magistrate, instead of being thrown in with the pickpockets, housebreakers, and game girls.
Pomeroy left us, telling us he’d be back with Sir Nathaniel directly.
“Lacey, please accept my apologies.”
Eden paced the room while I stood near the door, supporting myself on my walking stick.
“Please explain what you are apologizing for.” I tried a light tone. “So I can decide whether to forgive you.”
Eden tossed his hat to a chair and ran a hand through his thick hair. “I should have told you straightaway I was suspected of murder. I didn’t commit it of course.”
“Who was this man, George … ?”
“Warrilow. A bad piece of work if ever there was one. I had no idea he was dead until this morning. I’d been asked to return to the Custom House today to gather my belongings they’d seized to search—almost everyone’s baggage was taken by the excise men when we landed, as there was some worry about smuggling. They found nothing untoward about mine, and the customs officer was ready to hand my things back to me. But then I saw my name blazoned on a handbill, which did not half give me a turn, I can tell you. The custom officer must not have seen the bills, or he or his clerks would have kept hold of me, I am certain. I then heard men from the ship on which I’d sailed saying that some of their cargo had been stolen, and Warrilow was dead.”
A chill crept over me as I listened to his tale. Cargo theft, smuggling, murder, and Eden somehow had blundered into it.
“I decided to make myself scarce—my belongings aren’t important—and then I saw you—
His words cut off as Pomeroy banged open the door and ushered Sir Nathaniel Conant into the room.
Conant was the opposite of Pomeroy in every way. Where Pomeroy was robust and loud, Sir Nathaniel was elderly and quiet. He’d been knighted several years ago for his skill as a magistrate and contributions to various reforms of London’s thief-takers. I’d found him to be careful and intelligent. He reviewed evidence painstakingly and did not simply send a man to Newgate because it was convenient and he wanted his dinner.
Sir Nathaniel waved us to chairs and took a seat behind a table, spreading out a sheaf of papers before him.
“Major Miles Eden.” Sir Nathaniel fixed him with a keen eye. “You stand accused of the murder of Mr. George Warrilow. From what Mr. Pomeroy has indicated, you will enter a plea of not guilty to the murder.”
“That is correct.” Eden sat forward, his breath quick, his eyes animated. “I did not kill Mr. Warrilow.”
“Several witnesses have attested to the fact that you came to blows with the man as you traveled on the ship.”
“I did.” Eden gave him an unashamed nod. “Mr. Warrilow was an unpleasant person to the point of cruelty. He regularly beat his servants for no reason except to satisfy his pique. About halfway through the voyage, I grew tired of his pettiness one evening at supper and remonstrated him for it. He became enraged and actually attacked me with his fists. I defended myself. The captain broke up the fight and asked that we shut ourselves in our quarters. I had little to do with the man after that.”
“He was found in his lodgings the morning after the ship docked,” Sir Nathaniel went on in his dry voice. His hand trembled slightly as he moved a paper. I’d heard from Pomeroy that the man contemplated retirement as his health was declining, but he spoke with as much vigor as ever. “Two days ago. Dead from a blow to the head. You were seen visiting his boarding house the evening before, not long after you both had disembarked.”
Eden flushed. “True. I looked him up but I never saw him. The landlady told me he’d already gone to bed, so I decided not to bother.”
“Why did you visit him?” Sir Nathaniel asked. “If you disliked the man so?”
“To ask him a question—about business he had in Antigua. It scarcely matters now.” Eden clamped his mouth closed, setting his face in stubborn lines.
“The landlady, Mrs. Beadle, is a witness,” Sir Nathaniel said. “She will be asked to verify your story. Did anyone else see you there—and more importantly, see you leave without speaking to Mr. Warrilow?”