Sharon Penman - The Queen Man

Justin looked puzzled by Luke's skepticism, but Jonas understood all too well. "We've both seen men walk away from the gallows when we knew they were as guilty as Cain," he explained to Justin. "But not this time. That fool Sampson murdered a man in full sight of more than a dozen witnesses, including the victim's own wife and a parish priest. No, this is one knave who'll get exactly what is coming to him — a short dance at the end of a long rope."

"When can we question him?" Justin asked. A pity they could not wait until after the trial. Sampson might be more inclined to talk once he knew there was no hope. But if he was tried and found guilty, it would be too late then, for executions were almost always carried out immediately. Only pregnant women could count upon a delay. If convicted, Sampson would be taken at one to the gallows.

"We can go to the gaol this afternoon." Jonas then gave voice to Justin's own unease, saying, "But he may not be willing to talk with you. Why would he? He can always hope for a miracle — a jury so blind, deaf, and dumb that they might not indict him. Or he could balk out of sheer spite. So it may well be that you'll have no better luck with him than we did with the Fleming."

Justin felt a chill of foreboding, for this was his last chance to learn the truth about the goldsmith's murder. But Luke was shaking his head. "Leave that to me," he said, "for I know Sampson. I'll get him to talk." And when Justin asked how, he would say only, "You'll see," with an enigmatic smile.

~~

Newgate was one of London's most strategic gatehouses, guarding the approach from the west. It was an impressive stone structure, several stories high, tracing its origin back to a time when London was known as Londinium and under the rule of ancient Rome. Newgate had been rebuilt five years ago, and was no used as a city gaol. It did not have a sordid history like the prison by the River Fleet, did not hold as many ghosts or echoes of past pain. But it, too, was a bleak, sad place, at once formidable and forlorn. And the stench was the same. It hit Justin in the face as soon as they were escorted inside. Familiar odors of confinement and crowding, and that most pervasive stink of all — fear.

The more fortunate prisoners were kept in the upper chambers; the lower a man's status, the lower down he was lodged. The worst and most dangerous of the lot were held in the underground dungeon called "the pit," and when Sampson was shoved into the guards' chamber, it was obvious that he'd come from there, for he was blinking and squinting even in the subdued lamplight.

Sampson was as broad as he was tall, heavy in the torso, but not sloppy fat. He would be a nasty foe in any alehouse brawl, and an even deadlier one on a dark, deserted street. This was Justin's first close encounter with Sampson, and he found himself marveling at the reckless courage of the slain Good Samaritan. Sampson was younger than he had expected, not more than five and twenty. But the pale blue eyes were ageless. They darted around the chamber, drawn irresistibly to the shuttered and barred windows. Only after Sampson had satisfied himself that the room offered no opportunities for escape did he turn his attention to the men. His gaze moved from Justin to Jonas with indifference. But hostile recognition blazed across his face at sight of Luke.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was low pitched, so hoarse and guttural that the words emerged almost as a growl.

Luke smiled blandly. "I decided to treat myself, Sampson. I'm here to watch you hang."

Sampson gave the deputy as lethal a look as Justin had ever seen. Reaching for a chair, he settled himself as comfortably as his irons would allow, tilting the chair back until he could prop his feet upon the table. The obscenity he then flung at Luke was a common one, but he invested it with enough venom to overcome his lack of imagination. Luke glanced across at Jonas, and nodded, almost imperceptibly. Jonas said nothing, and Justin was not sure if he'd caught Luke's signal. The serjeant had been leaning against the wall, arms folded. But suddenly he was in motion, lunging forward and, with one well-aimed kick, sending Sampson's chair crashing over backwards.

The outlaw went down, sprawling in the floor rushes in a tangle of chains, for he was both manacled at the wrists and shackled at the ankles. Spitting curses, he struggled to regain his feet, and for a moment, Justin thought he would launch himself at Jonas. But as their eyes met, he changed his mind, and instead righted the chair with what dignity he could muster.

"Why'd you do that?" Sampson protested, sounding more querulous than defiant.

Jonas did not bother to respond, resuming his stance against the wall. Justin had never seen a man look so relaxed and yet so redoubtable, too. This was uncharted territory for him, and he was content for the time being to watch, to let Luke and Jonas blaze the trail.

Luke claimed a chair for himself. "I was not totally honest with you, Sampson, when I said I was here to see you hang. Mind you, I plan to stay for the hanging. I'd not miss that for all the wine in France. But your arrest was an unexpected bounty. What actually brought me to London was that cutthroat friend of yours, Gilbert the Fleming."

"Who?" Sampson started to tip his chair again, glanced over at Jonas, and thought better of it. "Who?" he repeated, smiling as if pleased by his own cleverness.

Luke was smiling, too, a smile shot through with mockery. "Do not waste your time with such pitiful denials, Sampson. You have so little time left, after all. We know all about you and Gilbert. He confessed to the killing out on the Alresford Road."

"Did he now?" Sampson scoffed. "When was that, over drinks at the local alehouse?"

"No… I believe it was in the city gaol, after a long night's interrogation. You look taken aback. Did I forget to tell you that, Sampson? We caught Gilbert on Friday out at the Smithfield horse fair. Mayhap we can work it out so that both are hanged on the same day, for old times' sake."

"You're lying," Sampson said, but he did not sound at all certain of that.

"Why are you so surprised? Sooner or later, the Fleming's luck was bound to run out… just as yours did. Of course you tripped yourself up, whereas Gilbert was done in by a woman, but both roads still lead to the gallows."

"A woman?" Sampson's jaw dropped. I told him he could not trust that Irish whore, I told him!"

Luke's eyes shone in the lamplight, cat green and gleaming. "He ought to have listened to you."

Sampson was quiet for a moment, mulling over his partner's ill luck. "What a fool," he said, with a notable lack of sympathy. "I'd never have let a slut hoodwink me."

"No," Luke agreed, "you needed no woman to foul yourself up. You managed that all on your own."

Sampson glared balefully at the deputy. "You never got a word out of the Fleming about any killings. Let me tell you about Gib. If you were drowning, he'd throw you an anchor. If you were dying of thirst, he'd not even spare you a cup of warm piss. Gib would never talk to the law, never. He d save his confession for the Devil and his best curses for the likes of you."

Justin exhaled a breath held too long. His disappointment all the keener because he'd let himself hope that Luke's bluff might succeed. Glancing toward the deputy, he was startled by the other man's aplomb. Far from being flustered by Sampson's challenge, Luke was grinning.

"Well, you cannot blame a man for trying," he said, so cheerfully that Justin realized he'd never expected to dupe Sampson with this concocted confession of Gilbert's. Reassured and curious, Justin settled back in his seat to watch the rest of the performance.

Sampson was caught off balance by Luke's candor; in his experience, sheriffs were rarely so forthright. "You admit you lied?"