Chapter Twenty-Five
CAMPBELL-ALLEN HAD missed his calling. Even following such extraordinary proceedings, the man could have been treading the boards at the Old Vic, not the Old Court.
Plainly, he lived for this moment, this grand opportunity to posture, to be the steady hand guiding the course of the law, unwavering and resolute.
And on what better stage could he wish to perform than with a duke, a marquess, an earl, and umpteen lords and ladies crammed into the audience, hanging on his every pronouncement?
“The dashing vicomte here has hugely entertained us with his tales, has he not?” the judge began, sweeping his gaze around the gallery. “But now we must resume the serious business of serving justice—our moral master—and consider the harsh realities of this case, one by one.”
He threw Valentin a hard, sidelong look.
“Let us not forget that his lordship, the Marquess of Talybridge, is held in high regard throughout the ton. He takes his seat in Parliament and supports many, many worthwhile causes. Whereas our friend, Beauregard, appears to spend much of his time in Europe attending phantasmagoria shows, so immersed in deception and illusion, he’s forgotten the taste of reality altogether. ”
“An’ it’s rubbed off on the marquess!” yelled a rough voice from the crowd. “He don’t know his own pockets!”
“That’s Arthur Brown,” hissed Tommy, as snorts of laughter abounded. “Benedict’s third groom. I’d recognise his dulcet tones anywhere. He’s usually drunk as a skunk by this time of day.”
“Order,” rapped the judge. “Order! The next wag who interrupts will be removed and held in the cells for a sennight.”
With a grim expression, he resumed. “Gentlemen of the jury. Do not allow the defendant’s attempts to portray himself as a misunderstood bystander fool you.
The man is an artisan of misdirection. He has weaved a haze of uncertainty and trickery.
Rumours of his exploits throughout the ton are well-established.
That the man is a crook, in some form or another, is indisputable. ”
“What?” If Rossingley wasn’t still clutching his arm, Mickey would have been up from his seat in protest. Nothing had been proven! Did the highest court in the land make its judgements based on hearsay?
“Didn’t half inch that there necklace, though, did he?” Arthur Brown hollered again, giving Rossingley a chance to tug Mickey back into his seat.
“Let Brown do the arguing,” Tommy warned as the groom was unceremoniously hoicked from the stand. “He’ll be very well recompensed for his troubles.”
Mickey twisted to look as two guards dragged Brown away. The groom seemed not the slightest bit put out.
“The truth, however”—Campbell-Allen’s slow, measured cadence resonated around the courtroom as the crowd settled down—“is never so pliable. I put it to you, gentlemen of the jury, that the marquess may indeed have merely mislaid his jewellery. He is not as young as he once was, and one could postulate that his mind has not been as it should since that extraordinary night. During an evening that should have been a celebration, he lost his fiancée to another man, and his portrait was viciously mocked by person, or persons, unknown. As a consequence, Beauregard here would have you believe the marquess’s actions were rash and ill thought through. ”
Once more, Campbell-Allen turned slightly away from Talybridge as though distancing himself.
How quickly his loyalty had shifted, thought Mickey.
He’d never been na?ve enough to believe folks received fair and honest trials, but if this was the workings of the scales of justice, then Mickey wanted no further part in it.
“The judge is making Talybridge out as a candidate for Bedlam,” whispered Rossingley delightedly. “And there is nought the marquess can do about it. He’ll have fled to the country by nightfall, mark my words.”
“Several lesser crimes remain to be considered,” Campbell-Allen pushed on.
“Do not forget that Beauregard also stands accused of damage to a window, fleeing from a room containing an open safe, and being found with a key to that safe about his person, which has been tracked as being stolen by a third party on Beauregard’s behest.” He treated Beauregard to another contemptuous look, which Beauregard returned with wide-eyed innocence, before muttering something to one of his guards.
“A thief is a thief,” declared Campbell-Allen, drawing himself up.
“Whether he steals priceless diamonds, a loaf of bread, or a piece of moss. May I remind you that a man’s property is sacrosanct.
English law states theft of items exceeding the value of twelve pence is considered Grand Larceny and, if one is found guilty, punishable by hanging.
Thus, gentlemen of the jury, the time has come for you to decide as to whether Valentin Beauregard of Verdille, France, is—”
“Christ Almighty! There’s a bloody piglet in ’ere!”
“Lord’s drawers! There’s a whole bloody litter of them!”
Frantic squeals sliced through Campbell-Allen’s sermonising.
Desperate, urgent shrieks punctured the air as women and children leaped to their feet.
Within seconds, the courtroom became a twisting labyrinth of scattered bodies and clothing.
And piglets! Scores of them scurried down the narrow aisle, skidded across the stage, and shimmied under benches.
A cacophony of screams rent the air as the unmistakeable scent of pig shit curled into Mickey’s nostrils, foul and sour.
Guards and officials hopelessly called for order, their voices and authority swallowed amidst the chaos.
Mickey tipped his head up to the high ceiling, half expecting to see knotted ribbons dropping from the rafters.
Wild boars. Wild bleeding boars. As pandemonium flared, an insane urge to giggle tore through him.
Rollo bloody Duchamps-Avery. Piglets. Mickey turned to look back across at Valentin, to share the ridiculousness of the whole thing with him.
But…Valentin wasn’t there.
The three guards weren’t there either.
Save for one man—Pearson—the dock stood empty.
Oblivious to the livestock and carnage spreading around him, the runner held a small object up to the light.
A silver tie pin. For a second, his eyes met Mickey’s.
Then Pearson’s lips shaped a curse before he twisted away, shoving past a swaying Talybridge and plunging through the chaos.
“The prisoner has escaped!” he yelled, though he might as well have been shouting into the ether. Pointlessly, he waved his wooden rattle high above his head. “The prisoner has escaped! Stop. That. Man!”
As news of Valentin’s disappearance spread, echoes of Pearson’s cries swelled through the gallery.
People charged en masse for the doors as guards and officials abandoned the marauding pigs to take up a blind chase.
Still squeezed between his friends, Mickey felt as if he was floating above it all.
The air, thick with the scent of shit, now tasted sweet, like the first rain after a summer drought.
Or the very first bite into a crisp, red, shiny apple.
Reaching his hands out, Mickey fumbled for Tommy’s familiar touch. “Valentin’s escaped.” His voice cracked. “Valentin’s escaped.” His knees buckled. “And I think I might need to sit down.”
*
MICKEY DIDN’T KNOW how much time had elapsed before he felt able to trust his legs again.
Long enough for the pigs to be rounded up and the courtroom to empty out.
Pearson hadn’t returned, and the gentlemen of the jury were still huddled together, probably awaiting instruction from Campbell-Allen as to what to do next.
Mickey imagined the judge hadn’t the foggiest idea either.
Ashington’s Eight had stayed, Rollo as happy as a pig in mud himself. Willoughby told him so, which had the two of them chortling. Fitzsimmons, Rossingley, and Kit proudly eyed the both of them as Ashington and Tommy clucked around Mickey, patiently waiting for him to pull himself together.
“I am recovered,” he said, his cheeks heating all over again. “Apologies for keeping you.”
“Not at all,” Ashington answered breezily. “The only piece missing from this entire fiasco was a man on the floor. You almost provided it.”
A shadow loomed over Mickey in the form of an irate marquess. “You!” Talybridge blustered at Fitzsimmons. “You did this!”
“Did what?” queried Fitzsimmons calmly. “This, you mean?” He handed Rollo his hat. Then, before anyone could stop him, he threw back his arm, formed a fist, and socked Talybridge on the jaw. The marquess went down like a house of cards.
Mickey blinked rapidly. Perhaps he wasn’t as recovered as he thought.
“See?” Fitzsimmons took his hat from Rollo and positioned it back on his head. “Man on the floor accomplished.”
“Ugh…” Talybridge groaned, clutching his bleeding chin. “You…”
With the tip of his highly polished boot, Ashington poked the prostrate marquess. “If you’re looking for blame, Talybridge, then I suggest you reach into your mouth and pull out your own name.” Stepping back, he rapped his cane hard on the floor dismissively. “Good day to you.”