The Lady and the Locksmith (8 page)

Now, at last, the ruthless questioning was over. He was back in his cell. There was one high window that let in a solitary shaft of light.

Carl shivered. He sang a few miserable snatches from the ballad he’d sung to her the day they met, but it didn’t help. His last act before he went to sleep was to write a letter to the Brodericks, who deserved an explanation for his disappearance. He wrote first of all to beg their forgiveness, for they had always been kind. Then he told them the whole story of how he found Susannah, and the misery of her life under lock and key. ‘If I am to be punished, for trying to help her, then I have no regrets. She is all I care about, and to exist without her is punishment indeed.’ The tears fell onto the page as he wrote, and he swiped them away with the back of his hand.

‘She lived like a lonely songbird, locked up in a tiny cage. I could not leave her there,’ he wrote, ‘for she holds the key to my heart.’

It took days to think out what to do, but by Tuesday morning, Susannah had a plan. She was up and dressed early. She did her hair with great care, allowing little curls to escape and frame her face in a most becoming fashion.

She opened the door of her bedroom, and the young man who was guarding her door turned in alarm. Susannah gave him a warm smile, and lowered her lashes. If there was one thing that being with Carl had taught her, it was to recognise the effect her pretty looks had on the opposite sex. The young footman coloured up in the most gratifying way.

‘Toby?’ she said, giving him what she hoped was an appealing, doe-eyed glance. He seemed pleased that she’d remembered his name.

‘Yes, Miss Fortescue?’

‘Take me downstairs so I can have a word with Dr. Finnegan.’

‘Yes, Miss. Come with me, Miss.’

Susannah began to wonder if all one really needed to succeed in life, was a packet of hairpins and a winning smile. But Finnegan might prove to be a more formidable adversary than poor Toby, of course, and she had to get to Finnegan first, before her father did.

Downstairs, she marched into the room where the great man sat, stroking his beard, behind his mahogany desk.

He looked powerful and impassive; a raised brow was the only indication that he was ready and waiting for her to speak.

Susannah stood before him, took a deep breath and did some negotiating on her own behalf.

She began with a bold enquiry. ‘Have you ever considered how much your professional reputation would be enhanced, Dr Finnegan, if you were to have a few successes?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Dr Finnegan. If some of your patients were to get better, it would do you a lot of good,’ she explained patiently, as if he was a small child with limited comprehension. ‘Word would get round. You’d be seen as a man who could work miracles. You could charge fat fees in the future.’

Finnegan looked nervous, embarrassed even. But his eyes began to widen.

‘People would beat a path to your door. They would demand to see you and only you and they would be prepared to pay dearly for a even few minutes of your time.’

The doctor swallowed.

‘If I got better, for example, it would solve my father’s problems. Carl will take me far away, if I ask him to, and all the embarrassment will be over.’

Finnegan had a strange look on his face – as if he had just been offered a plate of chocolate truffles. ‘There is some … lucidity in your arguments,’ he said pleasantly. ‘But what about your illness, my dear?’

‘I am convinced that it was only my grief over my mother’s death that made me seem so … troublesome. But it has been four long years since she died, and though I still miss her, I’m ready to enjoy life again – more than ready - if only I could be given the chance.’

She knew she was persuasive. She could see that Dr Finnegan was tempted - she offered him a way out with honour.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘You are your father’s daughter after all.’

He telephoned Fortescue and put the idea to him. He spoke hastily, eagerly, as if he himself was seized by the plan. But Fortescue was adamant. Susannah heard her father’s response, loud and clear, though she was sitting on the other side of the desk.

‘Never!’ he cried, in a hostile tone.

The telephone call ended abruptly, and the doctor sighed.

‘I am sorry, my dear. I tried.’

Susannah gave an exasperated sigh and went over to the fireplace and put her hands over her face. She knew the tears would soon follow, and when they came there would be no stopping them.

‘Your father thinks a stay in a special place might be the best solution – a place where they have all kinds of new treatments on offer…’

Susannah trembled, her bright hopes fading and her confidence dissolving into the tears that brimmed in her eyes. She knew all about the lunatic asylum in her home town. It was the place where poor mad John Clare ended his days, mourning his long lost love.

Then, there was a knock on the door.

Finnegan looked at Susannah questioningly, but she shrugged. It was very early for visitors and this was none of her doing.

The parlourmaid admitted a grey-haired man with a large moustache, and a woman in a long brown travelling coat and an exceptionally overloaded hat.

‘Broderick’s the name,’ the man said tersely, ‘and no, I don’t want to sit down. We are here to plead the case of the boy who means more to us than a son!’

‘You are Carl’s employer,’ said Susannah, rushing forward to greet them, and then hesitating in the middle of the room. ‘And … I am the cause of your pain.’

‘Miss Fortescue! We’ve heard so much about you,’ the older woman exclaimed. The plumes on her hat fluttered in excitement, as she clasped Susannah’s hand.

‘Have you?’ Susannah said, with a sinking feeling in her heart. Her reputation as the town freak seemed to follow her everywhere. ‘From whom?’

Mr Broderick smiled. ‘From Carl, my duck. He says you’ve stolen his heart.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Broderick. ‘The boy is in love.’ She turned and looked sternly at Dr Finnegan. ‘And when, may I ask, was that made a criminal offence?’

Mr Broderick went to stand right in front of Finnegan’s desk. ‘We’ll not stand by and watch an innocent man suffer for the woman he loves! We know all about Mr Fortescue’s basement, and the bars on the windows there. I have a letter here that Carl sent us, and it tells the whole sorry tale. The poor boy pours his heart out like a poet – and he’s only a locksmith, you know.’

Mrs Broderick leaned forward urgently. ‘Poet or not - it shows Mr Fortescue in a very poor light. A very poor light indeed. Fancy keeping a young girl locked up like that! For four long years, if you please! And
you
, Dr. Finnegan, you knew all about it! Scandalous, it is. We’ll go to the police if we must.’

‘No, not the police,’ said Susannah resolutely, surprising even herself. ‘We’ll go to the papers, instead. They will want to read Carl’s letter, and we could give them permission to reprint it in full.’

Three faces turned and stared at Finnegan, and he went a little pale.

Susannah smoothed her skirt, and looked up, lifting her chin. ‘Well, that’s how it works, isn’t it? Me, my story, it’s a commodity to be bought and sold.’

Finnegan grimaced, as if he was suffering from toothache.

‘Just one more thing, Doctor,’ Susannah said, tilting her head on one side. ‘How long must a woman wait before she can be sure she is … with child?’

‘Oh my dear!’ exclaimed Mrs Broderick, and touched Susannah’s arm.

‘Nice one, Carl,’ Mr. Broderick murmured, beneath his splendid moustache.

Finnegan’s face bristled with anger, which he endeavoured to control. ‘You people leave me no choice.’

He lifted up the telephone receiver and asked to be re-connected to the number he had requested only a few minutes ago.

C
ARL MUST HAVE FALLEN into a restless sleep, for he thought he heard Susannah’s voice.

Then, he heard footsteps outside his cell, and the rattling of keys. He decided that if they had come to bully him again about making a confession – this time he might as well sign.

He heard her voice again, and this time he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

She was here, in this miserable place, his charming, crazy girl.

She was talking brightly to the prison guard, as if they were on the promenade at the seaside. Carl sat up and ran a hand through his hair.

‘Keys are such lovely things, aren’t they? So bright and shiny?’

She sounded excited and happy, but what did that signify? Carl leapt to his feet, all the same.

The guard was right outside the door. ‘Your fellow’s in here, Miss. So they tell me.’

‘Yes, yes! Here he is!’ she replied. ‘Can I ask a special favour, sir? Can I unlock the door?’

The keys jingled and the door swung upon.

And there she was, all smiles, standing in his cell.

Carl fell upon her and hugged her ravenously, leaving kisses on her soft smooth neck. ‘What’s all this?’ he said delightedly, nuzzling her ear until he noticed that the guard stood right beside them, grinning in amusement.

 
‘I am sent with news of your release,’ she said. ‘If you will only agree to the terms.’

Carl cocked his head to one side. ‘What terms might they be, lady love?’

She pushed him backwards, and gave him a level gaze. ‘People have been telling me all week, that if the charges are dropped – as they should be – you’ll disappear as soon as you’re free, leaving me and my reputation in tatters.’

‘Never.’

‘They say that all your claims to care for me are just a ruse, and you have been sent by one of my father’s rivals to ruin his chances in the election.’

Carl frowned, and rubbed his face. ‘You didn’t fall for that one, I hope.’

She gave just the slightest hint of a smile. ‘It has even been suggested that you are- in fact - a supporter of my father’s cause, and you have done all of this to get his name, and yours, in the papers.’

‘The author of that pack of lies was never in love,’ Carl pointed out. ‘Never in love in his life.’

That pleased her, he could tell. Her eyes sparkled with hope. ‘But people need to be convinced, Carl…’

‘Then tell them to fetch the prison chaplain, and I’ll marry you today!’

So they were married in the prison chapel – after a special licence had been obtained. It was a grim, joyless place for a wedding, and yet there was happiness and excitement in the air.

The chaplain obliged with a reading, about the duties of a husband to his wife, while Carl stood wide-eyed with surprise. Normally the chaplains words fell on deaf ears, and his prayers were for the souls of desperate men, hardened by London crime. Today he had wrapt attention, from a couple deeply in love.

Carl looked across at his bride. She held a bunch of fresh roses, and she looked like the sweetest, purest thing that he had ever seen. She wore a lovely dress in a soft pale beige, which showed off her trim little waist. Silently, Carl counted the buttons down the front. A dozen buttons – and he looked forward to undoing each and every one – as soon as they were wed, right and tight.