The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

rid of him, even if only for a time, in order to complete their nefarious deeds.”

Charles nodded, his hands gripping his thighs under the table.

Mr. Allard rocked on his heels, surveying the room. “At this time, I would like to recall several of the witnesses who have spoken against Lord Rothwell.”

One by one, he put the witnesses on the stand. Though some were defiant, his questioning was so skillful, he picked apart their stories as if his words were a seam ripper.

When the Revenue officer took the stand, Mr. Allard was in fine flow. “Sir, who brought you the note you thought condemned my client?”

“An informant.”

“His name, if you will, sir.”

“I’d rather not say. If folks knew he was an informant, he’d be no use going forward.”

“Sir, a man’s future and liberty are at stake. You will tell me your informant’s name and find another source for your leads. And going forward, as you put it, I pray you will find one more reliable than your current talebearer.”

The officer looked at the prosecuting barrister, and then at the magistrate, but there was no help for him there. “Porter MacFie, butcher in Gateshead Village. He brought the note in the middle of the night. Said he’d found it on the floor of the assembly rooms after the social when he was helping to clear away.”

Was that possible? Charles had thought and thought about how they might have gotten the note, and he could remember only showing it to Grayson. Then Reverend Dunhill had intervened, and Charles didn’t remember seeing the note after that.

“And you assumed without investigating that the note was genuine and that it could only refer to my client?”

“I had no reason to doubt it. We’ve been watching Gateshead for some time, and this seemed to prove what we suspected, that the estate was involved in smuggling.” The officer leaned forward. “All the pieces fit.”

“And yet is there a date on the note? Is there any way to know if that note was written to the current earl, his uncle, perhaps his grandfather?”

“The paper looks new,” he said, frowning.

“Ah yes. And if you were going to frame a new earl, putting this crime on his head, wouldn’t you write the note on newer paper?”

Charles sat straight in his chair, fascinated at this line of defense. It was like watching a drama in a London theater. Or it would be if his entire future didn’t rest on the outcome.

Allard commanded the attention of the room, and the witnesses responded to his demands. The audience remained quiet. Charles had to hand it to his brother-in-law. He had brought the best barrister in the country to defend him.

The man who had testified about the flag took the stand.

“Sir, are you a resident of Gateshead Village?”

“No. I live in Seaton, down the coast.” His hands were big, gnarled, with swollen knuckles, and his clothes were plain and heavy.

“And how do you make your living?”

“Fisherman.”

“I see, and that’s how you came to see the flag on the Gateshead cliffs so often?”

“That’s right. I fish all along that bit of coast.”

“Have you witnessed the Shearwater making rendezvous with a ship off the coast at a time when that flag has been displayed?”

“I have.”

“Have you ever seen my client aboard the Shearwater when she met this ship?”

“No, sir. But I never got too close. I didn’t want anything to do with whatever they were up to. I keep my nose out of other people’s business, I do. Wouldn’t be here now if the bailiff hadn’t said he’d bung me into a cell if I didn’t show up and tell what I saw.”

“When did you first see the flag and the corresponding boat activity?”

He scratched his bulbous red nose. “Don’t know exactly.”

“Did you ever see this behavior prior to six weeks ago?”

“Oh yes. Been going on a long time. All last summer, and the summer before. Funny thing though—it dropped off lately. Haven’t seen those boats together since June, if I recollect.”

Charles thumped his fist on his thigh. Allard was making good progress.

“So you’re saying you saw this peculiar activity before my client’s arrival at Gateshead, but you haven’t seen it since he arrived?”

A small disturbance caught the magistrate’s attention, and heads swiveled toward the door. Allard stopped and glanced back, as did Charles. It was Marcus, but Marcus unlike Charles had seen him before. Dusty, travel worn, and carrying a disreputable cloak—that somehow looked familiar. Where had Charles seen something like that before? In Marcus’s wake, a dignified man of perhaps fifty strode in.

“Sir, if you will give me a moment?” Allard asked the magistrate as Marcus came to the rail. They whispered together, and Marcus produced a folded document and gave it to the barrister. Then he motioned to the austere man beside him.

Allard’s brows rose, and he bowed to the stranger, clearly recognizing him. Then he read silently the pages Marcus had given him. A smile spread across his face, and he turned back to the magistrate.

“Sir, I pray you will forgive me. I’d like to introduce to you the Right Honorable Sir Winston Pierpont, president of the King’s Bench. Would it be possible to find him a chair near the proceedings? He’s come to watch this trial.” Allard trod heavily on that last word, as if he thought travesty might be a better name for what the court was putting Charles through.

A ripple went through the room. Charles studied the man as a chair was brought and placed at the end of the defense table. Who was the president of the King’s Bench? He must have considerable influence, because the magistrate looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue.

“Also, I’d like to present to the court documents procured by His Grace, the Duke of Haverly. My client has been accused of smuggling French wines and spirits and secreting them at his property. That contraband was discovered by the Revenue officer when executing a warrant to search his holdings. The cases were clearly marked as