The Kingdom of Bones

FORTY

Sebastian hadn’t been gone for more than a couple of minutes when Calvin Quinn and his nameless friend exchanged a glance and then quit the scene. Only Tom Sayers waited, along with the dead stranger. By the light of the lantern, he searched the rooms for some further sign of Louise. He found none.

Sebastian returned a short time later with a police party. He showed them the body and gave the best explanation of the circumstances that he could.

Over the Pinkerton man’s protests, the officers arrested Sayers.

As they were taking him away, Sebastian called out, “Quickly, Sayers. Where’s my money?”

Sayers, in handcuffs for the second time in his life, looked back over his shoulder and said, “Get me out of this and I’ll tell you.”

They took him to the Richmond City Jail, where he spent the night sharing a common cell with all the drunks, thieves, and vagrants that the night watch had scooped up in the course of their shift. They booked him as a suspect found in the presence of a murdered man, unable to give a satisfactory account of himself. He sat on the hard floor of a communal cell with his back against the wall, and he did not sleep. He hoped that Becker might appear and somehow get him released, but the hours passed without any sign.

The next morning, all were put in shackles and walked out in a shuffling procession to a wagon that would take them to city hall.

Richmond’s city hall was a building that, on the outside, resembled the Gothic whim of a mad Bavarian king. The shackled prisoners were marched down into the basement where the police court was held. Sayers was herded into a pen at the back of the room with all his overnight fellows. They shared no sense of fellowship.

When the clerk of the court instructed all to rise, Sayers realized that the presiding judge was none other than the man whose name had caused such awe in the doorman that previous evening.

Justice John Crutchfield proved to be a spare, thin-lipped man in a black string bow tie. He set about the business of the day with a terrifying if somewhat erratic efficiency.

After reading over the charges against the first prisoner to be called before him, he looked up and said to the man, “Where you from, nigger?”

“North Carolina, sir,” the prisoner replied.

“I thought as much,” the justice said. “Thirty days.”

It would be a while before they got to Sayers. So far, he’d had no access to counsel. The only lawyer he knew hereabouts was Calvin Quinn. He doubted that Quinn would be prepared to come forward.

Sayers had good reason to fear investigation. In England, he remained a wanted man. The very information that might save him from these charges would condemn him on the old ones.

Crutchfield’s courtroom was like a marketplace with continuous through traffic. The corridor outside of the swing doors was raucous; in here it was more restrained, but still a fast-moving zoo. Justice John seemed able to stay focused on the case before him without losing his awareness of everything else that was going on around him, in sight or just out of it.

Tom Sayers heard his name being called, and the bailiff prodded him to move forward. The judge was reading some notes as Sayers took his place before him. “And what’s this about?” he said, looking not at Sayers but at his clerk.

The court was told that the man found in the wall had been identified as Jules Patenotre, a native of Louisiana. He owned extensive property there, but he lived alone and kept a suite of rooms in Murphy’s Hotel. There was some confusion over when he might have disappeared; the housemaids said that he’d definitely been seen around, but the desk staff said that he hadn’t been picking up his key.

Now Justice John looked at Sayers. “Well?” he said. “What have you got to say about it?”

Before Sayers could speak, there was a movement at the other side of the courtroom, the scraping of a chair, a voice calling out, “I’m here to speak as counsel for the prisoner, Your Honor.”

Sayers looked around in surprise. He was not alone; most heads in the courtroom were turning, too. Only the other prisoners were showing no interest at all.

Those who looked toward the public gallery saw a big man, bearded, in rugged tweeds and with his hat in his hand.

The judge said, “I saw you sneaking in there about half an hour back. And who the hell might you be?”

“Abraham Stoker, sir. A longtime friend of the prisoner. As to my qualifications, I was called to the bar in London, England.”

“I know where London is. This is Richmond, Virginia, and you’re in my courtroom. I hope you’re not going to spoil my morning with a heap of legal argument.”

“Not unless you particularly want me to, Your Honor,” Stoker said. “As far as I’m aware, my client merely discovered a body and awaited the arrival of the police. I don’t see the crime in that.”

Bram Stoker?

Sayers was dazed, and finding all of this hard to take in. His sleepless night in the cells hadn’t helped his powers of concentration. On the other side of Stoker, he could see Sebastian Becker, seated, and himself looking as if he’d skipped a night of bed rest.

The judge was sucking in his cheeks and considering Stoker. “I’ve met you before,” he said. “Have I not?”

“You have, sir,” Stoker said. “The Men’s Club gave a dinner to honor Sir Henry Irving on his last American tour. I was with him then.”

At that, the judge’s face lit up. “You’re Irving’s man!” he said, and then a hint of disappointment. “And a lawyer as well?”

“I am, sir.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect. What can you tell me about this case?”

“Nothing at all, Your Honor. I arrived in town less than an hour ago and I’ve had no opportunity to consult with my client. But I know the defendant, and I can say with personal certainty that this man is no criminal.”

Justice John’s eyebrows went up. “That how they do things at the English bar?” he said. “Some lawyer stands up, says he doesn’t know a damn thing about it, but swears that his client is aboveboard?”

“I’m a lawyer in that I passed the bar exam, sir, but I’ve never taken silk.”

“Say what?”

“I’ve never practiced.”

“That’s more like it. We’ve got more than enough lawyers in this world, and I see far too many of them in this courtroom.”

The judge studied his notes.

“Sayers,” he said. “According to this, you had just shy of a thousand dollars on your person when they took you in.”

“In a money belt,” Sayers said. He didn’t dare look at Sebastian Becker. “They took it from me at the jail.”

“Care to tell me how you came by it?”

“No, sir.”

Crutchfield looked up with his eyebrows raised and his pale blue eyes wide with an innocent wonder that Sayers knew he’d be a fool to take at face value.

“No?” he said.

But Sayers stuck to his word. “I prefer not to speak of it, sir. Don’t I have a right to that? I believe it’s in your constitution.”

“In my courtroom,” Crutchfield said, “you’ve got whatever rights I choose. You don’t want to account for your situation here and now, fine. But account for it you will. I’m setting your bail at one thousand dollars. Bailiff, get him out of here.”

Bram Stoker and Sebastian Becker walked out of the courtroom together. As they ascended from the basement into the ornate tan, cream, and gold four-story atrium of the city hall, Stoker said, “Our Justice John is a rum one. But at least Sayers has the means to cover his bail.”

Sebastian said, “It’s not his money, Mister Stoker. It’s mine.”

“Yours?”

“Why do you think I’ve pursued him all the way from Philadelphia?”

“I can’t believe he’d ever steal from you,” Stoker said. “Has he changed so much?”

“He didn’t steal from me. He stole from the Pinkertons, and I had to make good the loss, or suffer in consequence. I don’t doubt that he intended my family no harm, but harm was the outcome. It’s this obsession of his. It blinds him to all else. The deeper Louise Porter sinks, the more she drags him after. Let’s see what a spell in jail will do to his edge.”

“You don’t mean to leave him there?”

“I do.”

A jangling of chains announced the approach of the prison party, shuffling up the stairs on their way to the transport. Each had been dealt with, and none looked any happier than before.

Sebastian looked the men over and then said to the guard alongside their column, “Where’s Tom Sayers?”

“The Englishman?” the guard said. “He signed over his money and the judge signed the order. He’s long gone.”