EPILOGUE
Clerkenwell police court is a drab, windowless box with stained plaster walls. The occupants are trapped inside a maze of partitions built of dark, grimy wood—the magistrate in his bench between shelves of law books; the clerk at a desk below him; reporters in a pew. I sit among the spectators, between Barrett and Sally, on a bench behind the wooden barrier that separates us from the court proceedings. The room is chilly, the air pungent with the smell of wool coats wet from the rain. Gas hisses from light fixtures on the ceiling. Chatter from the audience quiets as a constable leads my father into the room.
My father’s white hair is mussed, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes puffy and dark-shadowed after a sleepless night in jail. He plods, hampered by the shackles on his wrists and ankles. I’m sick at heart, my mouth dry and bitter as if I’ve eaten ashes. It’s the moment I’ve been dreading ever since my reunion with my father, the moment he’s been dreading for twenty-four years. His gaze finds Sally and me and he turns away, ashamed to have us see him in such disgrace. He bows his head as the constable puts him in the dock—a platform enclosed by black iron rails, in front of the barrier. He slumps, facing the magistrate, his back to us. Sally’s face is tight with misery as she stares at him. I clasp her gloved hand. She firmly withdraws it and won’t look at me.
It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, an hour after Sally interrupted my vigil in Hugh’s hospital room to tell me she’d found our father. She said she’d gone back to the Gladstone Arms, and a customer had seen the police arrest him in the street the day he went missing. She hasn’t spoken to me since she broke the news. There’s nothing I could have done to change the course of events, but Sally hasn’t forgiven me for deserting her and doubting his innocence. The withdrawal of her affection is more hurtful than if she’d slapped me.
“State your name,” the black-robed magistrate says to my father.
“Benjamin Bain.” His voice is a dull monotone, devoid of hope.
“You are charged with the rape and murder of Ellen Casey, which occurred on the twenty-second of April, 1866.”
Barrett holds my hand. Constables stationed around the room look at him as though he’s strayed from their flock to join the ranks of the criminal classes. He gazes back at them, his head high and his expression defying their pity and scorn. I think that for him, this will be the ultimate test of our marriage. His father-in-law on the hook for murder will do his police career no good.
“I will now hear the evidence,” the magistrate says.
Inspector Reid strides into the room. Of course he was behind the arrest. That day we drank together at the pub, he must have known where my father was, must have been looking forward to this day. How he must have enjoyed his secret and my ignorance! My hatred for him has never been more bitter or more furious. My muscles tense with the urge to lunge at him. I may have exorcised the ghost of my mother, but I’m still her daughter.
Seated in the witness box, Reid gives his name and rank. “Benjamin Bain was the last person to see Ellen Casey alive. He’s admitted that she was in his house, modeling for photographs, the day before her body was discovered. The investigating officers identified him as the primary suspect. The fact that he’s been on the run for twenty-four years is strong evidence of his guilt. I revived the investigation and hunted him down.”
His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel his attention on me like the hot, focused, bright beam of a police lantern. I don’t need to be psychic to read his thoughts: If I can’t get you, I’ll settle for your father.
“You may speak in your own defense,” the magistrate tells my father.
Sally covers her mouth with her trembling hand. Her face is pale, grayish. Our father mumbles, “I didn’t do it.”
His voice is weak and sheepish instead of ardent with conviction. Barrett grips my arm to warn me that defending my father and making a scene will get me in trouble, not get my father out of it. I don’t move; my tongue is numb. The faith behind my quest to exonerate my father has worn thin, and his poor showing only adds fuel to my doubts.
“You are hereby remanded to Newgate Prison to await your trial.” The magistrate bangs his gavel.
As the constable leads him out of the dock, my father gives Sally and me a last glance that brims with love and despair. My love for him, steadfast during all the years he was gone, collides with my doubts. I’m the ground in a battle between my childhood self, who wanted nothing more than her father to return, and the older, skeptical, distrustful woman I have become.
Sally runs out of the courtroom. Barrett and I hurry after her. We catch up with her in the rainy street, where she bends over and vomits into the gutter, retching and sobbing.
His face wears a strange, sad smile, as if his victory is sweet but he regrets that our feud is over. He says, “I told you that you would wish you’d taken the deal I offered. I’ll see you at your father’s trial.”
ALSO AVAILABLE BY LAURA JOH ROWLAND
Victorian Mysteries
The Woman in the Veil
The Hangman’s Secret
A Mortal Likeness
The Ripper’s Shadow
Sano IchirÅ Series
The Iris Fan
The Shogun’s Daughter
The Incense Game
The Ronin’s Mistress
The Cloud Pavilion
The Fire Kimono
The Snow Empress
The Red Chrysanthemum
The Assassin’s Touch
The Dragon King’s Palace
The Pillow Book of Lady Wisteria
Black Lotus
The Samurai’s Wife
The Concubine’s Tattoo
The Way of the Traitor
Bundori
Shinju
Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë
Bedlam
The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Laura Joh Rowland is the award-winning author of the samurai detective Sano Ichiro mystery series set in 17th century Japan, as well as a historical suspense series starring Charlotte Bronte. Her work has been published in 21 countries; nominated for the Anthony Award, the Hammett Prize, and the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers Award; won RT Magazine’s Reader’s Choice Award; and been included in the Wall Street Journal’s list of the five best historical mystery novels. Laura holds a Bachelor of Science and a Master of Public Health degree from the University of Michigan. She is a former aerospace scientist, a painter, and a cartoonist. She lives in New York City with her husband Marty.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Laura Joh Rowland
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-472-4
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-473-1
Cover design by Melanie Sun
Printed in the United States.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: January 2021
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Laura Joh Rowland, Portrait of Peril