Page 58 of Guardian
I nodded.
“I don’t blame her, you know,” she said. “I never blamed her.”
I wasn’t sure whether to believe it.
“We were at Simonson’s,” she said.
She’d been caught at Simonson’s?
My heart gave a thud, and I had the uncanny feeling of having trod in Maggie’s footsteps—and Ma’s.
Maggie shook her head, as if she’d followed my thought. “Remember, ’twas back when the shop was still in Northampton Square.”
“Of course,” I said.
“They didn’t have the locks and safes and mirrors back then, but I was caught all the same.”
“By a constable?”
The skin around her eyes tightened. “No. By the son, the bloody ratbag.” She raised the glass and sipped, holding the whiskey in her mouth before she swallowed. “He took me to the back room and said if I gave up the jewels and let him fondle me a bit, he’d let me go. He wouldn’t even call a constable, provided I was willing.”
My spine pressed against the wooden slats of the chair, dreading what came next.
“I’m not a fool, and I’m no fish.” Her fingertips went to her lips, rubbing from one side to the other and back, as if wiping away a kiss. “I knew he’d want more than fondling, but I’dneverbeen taken so. He covered my mouth and shoved me up against the safe, so I could hardly breathe. I fought back, biting his hand and clawing his face, but he was too strong for me. I still remember the cold metal on my back. The knob jabbing into my spine.” Her voice thickened. “And he laughed and kept saying in my ear how nice and soft and warm my pocket was. He was so bloody strong. The arms on him. The weight of him. He was twice my size.” Her eyes flicked up to me, held. “When he finished and finally called for the police, it was a blessing.”
With a chill, I began to understand. This dodge had never been about the Hargrave necklace. It had only ever been about the jeweler. The man who had been brutally vicious to Maggie was no doubt the same who had been mundanely cruel to the clerk. “I’ve seen him,” I said hollowly.
“He told the constable he’d caught me thieving, and I’d fought back. Made himself the victim, pointing to his face and showing the teeth marks on his hand, with the constable grinning the entire time. The pig passed him some coins—he didn’t even trouble to hide it—and I was thrown into a cell in Newgate, with nary a bed, moldy bread to eat, and only a metal pot for pissing. The next day, they walked me into the Old Bailey.” She paused. “Have you ever been inside?”
“No.”
“It’s bigger than you’d think, with a balcony up above crammed full of people watching, dozens of benches on the floor, the jury under the windows, and a witness box, perched up in the middle so everybody can see. Just before me was a thief who’d killed an innkeeper’s wife, and I think it put the judge in a mood to come down all the harder on me.” She sniffed and gave a small shake of her head. “Simonson climbed up into the witness box and gave evidence, most of which was the scratches on his face, and I swear he’d scratched himself twice over to make it look worse. Then the constable got up and said his bit. The judge didn’t even call me.” Her eyes narrowed. “You mightn’t understand, but it was a lesson for me. To realize that a villain can make himself out a victim by turning facts around.”
“It wasn’t fair,” I said.
“No,” she said. “So twenty years later, when I finally made it home, I bought some fine clothes and visited his new shop.” An audible exhale flared her nostrils. “He didn’t even recognize me. Can you believe the like?” Her mouth pinched in bitter wonder. “Tried to sell me some pearl earrings.”
“This scheme of yours will hurt him back,” I said.
“Not near enough.” Her eyes flashed. “He shouldhang, but he’s rich, so he won’t. But this will do. He’ll suffer longer.”
I couldn’t say I blamed her for wanting revenge.
“You’re sure it was him?” I asked. “It’s been years.”
“I knew him straightaway. He’s portlier now. The skin under his chin is wobbly, though he tries to hide it with a beard.” Her voice was thin, precise as a blade. “And yes, it’s been years. But God knows, Swan River taught me patience.” Her green eyes held mine. “Call it revenge if you like, but before we die, we must all balance the scales if we want to die in peace. The reason I didn’t die in Swan River was because God left me alive to do it. Do you understand?”
The set of her jaw reminded me of men who doubled their bet when they were behind. Maggie had dragged this revenge around with her for so long, it had a heft of its own, a weight, a value. Perhaps she couldn’t set it down now, not without feeling a fool.
I made one last attempt to convince her. “Maggie, I understand you wanting revenge. I would, too. I’d want to slit his throat and let him rot in some back alley. But ...I’mthe one who would be taking the risk, along with whoever you sent with me.”
“Are you frightened?” Her voice was edged with disdain.
“I’m not a coward, but I’m not a fool, either. Chances are, we’d be caught. The family lives upstairs. What if they hear? What if they come down? What if they have pistols?”
“My men’ll keep you safe.”
Men? Two? Or more?
