“Why have you come here? If my husband were at home he would throw you out on your ear.”
“Mack McAsh has been charged under the Riot Act and committed to Newgate Prison. He will be tried at the Old Bailey in three weeks’ time. It’s a hanging offense.”
The reminder struck Lizzie like a blow, but she hid her feelings. “I know,” she said coldly. “Such a tragedy—a strong young man with his life in front of him.”
“You must feel guilty,” Gordonson said.
“You insolent fool!” she blazed. “Who encouraged McAsh to think he was a free man? Who told him he had rights? You! You’re the one who should feel guilty!”
“I do,” he said quietly.
She was surprised: she had expected a hot denial. His humility calmed her. Tears came to her eyes but she fought them back. “He should have stayed in Scotland.”
“You realize that many people who are convicted of capital offenses don’t hang, in the end.”
“Yes.” There was still hope, of course. Her spirits lifted a little. “Do you think Mack will get a royal pardon?”
“It depends who is willing to speak for him. Influential friends are everything in our legal system. I will plead for his life, but my words won’t count for much. Most judges hate me. However, if you would plead for him—”
“I can’t do that!” she protested. “My husband is prosecuting McAsh. It would be dreadfully disloyal of me.”
“You could save his life.”
“But it would make Jay look such a fool!”
“Don’t you think he might understand—”
“No! I know he wouldn’t. No husband would.”
“Think about it—”
“I won’t! I’ll do something else. I’ll …” She cast about for ideas. “I’ll write to Mr. York, the pastor of the church in Heugh. I’ll ask him to come to London and plead for Mack’s life at the trial.”
Gordonson said: “A country parson from Scotland? I don’t think he’ll have much influence. The only way to be certain is for you to do it yourself.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“I won’t argue with you—it will only make you more determined,” Gordonson said shrewdly. He went to the door. “You can change your mind at any time. Just come to the Old Bailey three weeks from tomorrow. Remember that his life may depend on it.”
He went out, and Lizzie let herself cry.
Mack was in one of the common wards of Newgate Prison.
He could not remember all that had happened to him the night before. He had a dazed recollection of being tied up and thrown across the back of a horse and carried through London. There was a tall building with barred windows, a cobbled courtyard, a staircase and a studded door. Then he had been led in here. It had been dark, and he had not been able to see much. Battered and fatigued, he had fallen asleep.
He woke to find himself in a room about the size of Cora’s apartment. It was cold: there was no glass in the windows and no fire in the fireplace. The place smelled foul. At least thirty other people were crammed in with him: men, women and children, plus a dog and a pig. Everyone slept on the floor and shared a large chamberpot.
There was constant coming and going. Some of the women left early in the morning, and Mack learned they were not prisoners but prisoners’ wives who bribed the jailers and spent nights here. The warders brought in food, beer, gin and newspapers for those who could pay their grossly inflated prices. People went to see friends in other wards. One prisoner was visited by a clergyman, another by a barber. Anything was permitted, it seemed, but everything had to be paid for.
People laughed about their plight and joked about their crimes. There was an air of jollity that annoyed Mack. He was hardly awake before he was offered a swallow of gin from someone’s bottle and a puff on a pipe of tobacco, as if they were all at a wedding.
Mack hurt all over, but his head was the worst. There was a lump at the back that was crusted with blood. He felt hopelessly gloomy. He had failed in every way. He had run away from Heugh to be free, yet he was in jail. He had fought for the coal heavers’ rights and had got some of them killed. He had lost Cora. He would be put on trial for treason, or riot, or murder. And he would probably die on the gallows. Many of the people around him had as much reason to grieve, but perhaps they were too stupid to grasp their fate.
Poor Esther would never get out of the village now. He wished he had brought her with him. She could have dressed as a man, the way Lizzie Hallim did. She would have managed sailors’ work more easily than Mack himself, for she was nimbler. And her common sense might even have kept Mack out of trouble.
He hoped Annie’s baby would be a boy. At least there would still be a Mack. Perhaps Mack Lee would have a luckier life, and a longer one, than Mack McAsh.
He was at a low point when a warder opened the door and Cora walked in.
Her face was dirty and her red dress was torn but she still looked ravishing, and everyone turned to stare.
Mack sprang to his feet and embraced her, to cheers from the other prisoners.
“What happened to you?” he said.
“I was done for picking pockets—but it was all on account of you,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“It was a trap. He looked like any other rich young drunk, but he was Jay Jamisson. They nabbed us and took us in front of his father. It’s a hanging offense, picking pockets. But they offered Peg a pardon—if she would tell them where you lived.”
Mack suffered a moment of anger with Peg for betraying him; but she was just a child, she could not be blamed. “So that was how they found out.”
“What happened to you?”
He told her the story of the riot.
When he had done she said: “By Christ, McAsh, you’re an unlucky man to know.”
It was true, he thought. Everyone he met got into some kind of trouble. “Charlie Smith is dead,” he said.
“You must talk to Peg,” she said. “She thinks you must hate her.”
“I hate myself for getting her into this.”
Cora shrugged. “You didn’t tell her to thieve. Come on.”
She banged on the door and a warder opened it. She gave him a coin, jerked a thumb at Mack and said: “He’s with me.” The warder nodded and let them out.
She led him along a corridor to another door and they entered a room very like the one they had left. Peg was sitting on the floor in a corner. When she saw Mack she stood up, looking scared. “I’m sorry,” she said. “They made me do it, I’m sorry!”
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.
Her eyes filled with tears. “I let you down,” she whispered.
“Don’t be silly.” He took her in his arms, and her tiny frame shook as she sobbed and sobbed.
Caspar Gordonson arrived with a banquet: fish soup in a big tureen, a joint of beef, new bread, several jugs of ale, and a custard. He paid the jailer for a private room with table and chairs. Mack, Cora and Peg were brought from their ward and they all sat down to eat.
Mack was hungry, but he found he had little appetite. He was too worried. He wanted to know what Gordonson thought of his chances at the trial. He forced himself to be patient and drank some beer.
When they had finished eating, Gordonson’s servant cleared away and brought pipes and tobacco. Gordonson took a pipe, and so did Peg, who was addicted to this adult vice.
Gordonson began by talking about Peg and Cora’s case. “I’ve spoken with the Jamisson family lawyer about the pick-pocketing charge,” he began. “Sir George will stand by his promise to ask for mercy for Peg.”
“That surprises me,” said Mack. “It’s not like the Jamissons to keep their word.”
“Ah, well, they want something,” Gordonson said. “You see, it will be embarrassing for them if Jay tells the court he picked Cora up thinking she was a prostitute. So they want to pretend she just met him in the street and got him talking while Peg picked his pocket.”