Chapter Twenty-Three #2
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.
“In which case, my lord,” answered Campbell-Allen with a deferential duck of his head. Honestly, the man was practically simpering; this must have been his most pleasing court case to date. “I call for the defendant to mount his rebuttal.”
With the languor of someone stirring from an afternoon nap, Valentin unfolded himself from his seat, stretching with a quiet grace. The fingers of his unshackled hand, long and slender, grazed the rail of the dock.
“Good afternoon,” he said, and, to muted laughter, added, “And may I take this opportunity to thank the marquess for his most excellent and thorough presentation of the facts.”
“Shall you be raising any argument, Mr Beauregard?” Campbell-Allen’s tone implied Valentin needn’t bother. “Because I’ve been informed that you have also forfeited your right to legal representation.”
Valentin cocked his head as if considering, then adjusted his stance to face the public gallery. Mickey would be happy if he never heard chain links slipping over each other ever again; simply the sound made him nauseous.
“Why not?” the Frenchman answered. He peered up into the rows of watchers, smiling. “Seeing as so many people have made the effort to visit today. And, as to legal representation, I’m of the opinion that an honest man requires no defence.”
Titters of laughter swirled around the courtroom, stopping abruptly as the judge shouted for order. When everybody fell silent, Valentin spoke again.
“I made the acquaintance of the marquess during the summer of 1825, whilst touring Italy. Thus, I was not surprised to receive an invitation to the New Year ball in celebration of his impending nuptials.” He inclined his head towards Talybridge with a glint of the mischievous intent Mickey knew so well.
“How is married life suiting you, my lord?”
“Oh, I say, well-played, old chap,” murmured Rossingley.
“None of your damned purview,” snapped Talybridge, glaring at Willoughby, who threw him a modest wave. Even Mickey, hardly able to watch, savoured a small, delighted rush at watching Talybridge’s discomfiture.
“Irrelevant to the case in hand,” barked the judge. “Move forward, if you will.”
Valentin performed a low bow. “My sincere apologies, Lord Talybridge. One is so out of the circle when confined to Newgate. I shall allude to your cancelled nuptials no further.”
He resumed his account. “At approximately eight o’clock, having decided that the ball room was stifling hot, I elected to partake of the night air.”
“Via my study window,” growled Talybridge.
“Via a door to the gardens. You had ample opportunity to cross-examine me, my lord.”
Valentin paused, moistening his lips. “I found myself meandering through the gardens, quite alone, and lost track of my route. As a consequence, I happened to stumble upon a dead end in the form of a high wall running around the perimeter.”
Again, that glint of mischievousness. “I have a fondness for drystone walls and this one was a particularly fine example.”
The public gallery erupted. Even Mickey almost smiled.
“Tempted to scale it, were you?” Talybridge scoffed.
“Indeed, my lord,” agreed Valentin lightly.
“If I hadn’t been dressed in my finery, I might have been.
As it was, I spied a rather splendid example of fox-tail feather-moss creeping along the top edge, and—” He raised his voice over the guffaws.
“—as I contemplated removing my evening coat and procuring a sample, I was suddenly accosted by several gentlemen and servants, accusing me of thievery!” He spread his arms wide and open.
“The very audacity of it! Me, an upstanding French vicomte! Unless, by thievery, they were referring to the small patch of thyme moss, which I hadn’t been able to resist scraping off and depositing in my—”
“Preposterous!” exclaimed Talybridge over further rounds of uproarious laughter.
Next to Mickey, Tommy chortled. The court official vainly called for order.
“This man is not fit to hold forth! Is he foxed?” Talybridge added.
Only when Campbell-Allen banged hard on his desk several times over did the crowd fall silent.
“Mr Beauregard,” he said calmly. “May I remind you that this is a court of law, and that you are accused of serious crimes. Any more of this nonsense and I shall have contempt added to your list of wrongdoings.”
“Understood.” Valentin’s green eyes sparkled. “I merely outlined an innocent, alternative explanation for my dawdling in the garden.”
“With a safe key, not moss, in your waistcoat pocket,” the judge responded, dry as sand. “Not only are you wasting my time, but that of Lord Talybridge.”
Valentin performed a deferential bow. “Then I shall waste it no longer and will call upon my first witness.”
Campbell-Allen heaved a sigh. “Is this charade necessary? May I remind you that several reputable men have reassured us all that you were seen running from the scene of the crime? You have confirmed yourself that you were the man in the garden they accosted. Any more tall tales, Beauregard, and I shall bring matters to a close.” Wearily, he sighed again. “What witness?”
“I’d like to question my accuser, if I may.” Valentin’s words rang out across the chamber, clear and sharp as silverware. “The Marquess of Talybridge.”