Page 51 of A Duchess of Mystery

“We have her here, Mr. Dawes, sir,” Constable Hooper said. “As requested.”

So this was Mr. Theodore Dawes, one of Newbury’s magistrates, and a colleague of Colonel Jarvis, who’d attended on the day of Marcus’s death. She would not think of it as his murder. No, it had been more like the putting down of a rabid dog.

Mr. Dawes gave a slight bow to her, perhaps intimidated by being in the presence of a duchess, even though she was his prisoner. He was an elderly man whose sizeable paunch was straining the buttons of his waistcoat in an alarming fashion. His plain face was notable in the main for the size and color of his nose—a sort of mottled purple resplendent with livid veins. Not unlike Colonel Jarvis’s own proboscis. Isabella knew the signs of a heavy drinker when she saw them. Perhaps being a magistrate inclined one in that direction.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Dawes said. To do him credit, he appeared to be more than a little discomposed at having to take a duchess into custody. “I’m sure we can sort this little misunderstanding out with alacrity.”

That sounded promising. Her spirits rose a little and the feeling that she might be about to disgrace herself by collapsing in a heap lessened. She lifted her chin.

To her right, Barker stiffened. “We have a witness, sir, what says as she was seen in the act of killing her own husband. You know we have. A witness as is prepared to swear to it. On oath.”

Mr. Dawes nodded, his lack of conviction evident. “That’s as may be, but she’s a duchess. I can’t try a duchess. Not for murder.”

Mr. Barker had this under control. “We thought as much. She’ll have to go to London and stand trial at the Old Bailey. I already sent for the Bow Street Runners to come down and take charge of her before we even made the arrest. They should be here in the morning. Meanwhile, she needs to remain secure under lock and key, lest she does a runner.”

Isabella bit her lip. How dared this upstart order a magistrate about in this way? And yet, Mr. Dawes seemed inclined to be obedient. She’d had no prior dealing with magistrates, apart from Colonel Jarvis, so had no idea if this was the normal way of doing things. Instinct told her it was not.

Isabella fixed Dawes with a hard stare but his eyes slid sideways as though he was too embarrassed to look at her. Had they paid him off?

“Very well,” he said, resignation in his voice. “Hooper, take Her Grace to one of the cells. Neither is occupied. She’ll have to remain there overnight.” He turned away, like Pontius Pilate washing his hands of Jesus. Considering she was pretty certain forty pieces of silver or their equivalent had changed hands somewhere, a Biblical comparison was not out of place.

There turned out to be two cells in the Guildhall. The best thing anyone could have said about them was that they were large. And empty of other inhabitants. Human ones, at any rate. Considering it was September, the one Isabella was consigned to was both damp and cold. The stink made her gag as Constable Hooper pushed her inside the door, but she fought to control herself. Nothing would let her show distress to either of those bullies. She’d had ten years to practice hiding distress.

The door banged shut behind her and the key grated in the lock. She was shut in.

The source of the worst stink turned out to be the privy in the corner. She could only hope she wasn’t going to need it, because nothing would induce her to go near it. However, the one good thing was that the cell possessed a window in the back wall. Grimy, barred, and covered in cobwebs, it nevertheless let in light so she wasn’t confined in total darkness. At least it possessed glass, although cracked and missing here and there, so it kept out the worst of the cold.

When night fell, though, she would be in darkness, so she’d best explore the cell while she had the chance. Its size indicated it was meant to house more than just the one prisoner, and half-a-dozen pallet beds suggested a maximum of six. Was Newbury the sort of town that might have to house so many felons at one time? It had always seemed so peaceful whenever she’d ventured in. Thank goodness she was the only one here right now.

What was that? She froze, eyes straining wide as she scanned the cell. Something was scuttling across the floor. Something black with legs. Good heavens. A cockroach. And not just one.

Isabella shivered. The thought that, when night fell, she wouldn’t be able to see any of the creatures with whom she might be sharing this cell horrified her. But she’d stood worse. Well, not cockroaches, nor rats, which she didn’t even want to think about, but worse treatment than she’d had here. She could do it. If she could survive Marcus nearly killing her, then she could survive anything. She sat down on one of the pallet beds and, leaning forward, rested her chin in her hands.

The most frightening part of this was that things were only going to get worse, and she could see no way out of it without implicating Dora. And she would never do that.