Forty-Six

Clapped in Irons

The so-called Crypt compared to nothing better than its namesake, a place for interment of the dead. It was dark, dank, and fetid, redolent of offal. Its location, adjoining the dunghill where the bodily waste of hundreds of inmates was daily discarded, sent Philip retching toward the single tiny window where he gasped futilely for fresh air.

The room was no larger than five feet square and nine feet high, built of brick on all sides. A man of Philip’s dimensions would be hard-pressed to lie down, but the irons applied to both his arms and legs already inhibited any posture more recumbent than squatting.

This was the price he paid for invoking the turnkey’s wrath: beaten and now shackled. Philip had already known his tolerable treatment, dependent on money, would end when the money ran out, but by his actions he had hastened the inevitable.

He didn’t know how long he’d already languished in the hellish crypt. His throat was so parched that swallowing was nigh impossible. He was weakened from lack of food and near delirium from want of sleep, but the crypt was infested with rats.

Squeaking, scurrying, stinking rats that only chain rattling and wakeful diligence kept at bay, but now he’d grown weak and his eyes heavy. So very, very heavy.

When Philip closed his eyes and dropped to his knees, he wondered vaguely if he would ever wake back up.

***

“Where is he? Damn your eyes!” a familiar voice demanded. “I’m a Member of Parliament, I’ll have you know. I’ll bring down an investigation the likes of which you’ve not seen since Oglethorpe’s Fleet Committee!”

Philip awoke sputtering to a splash of foul water in his face.

“So you’re not dead after all!” George grinned. “Get those infernal irons off him!” he shouted to the jailer.

“How commanding you sound, Bosky. Didn’t know you had it in you.” Philip’s voice was a barely audible rasp. With the clink of the key releasing the irons, he fell to his hands and knees.

“Thank God I got here when I did, ol’ chap. You are the image of impending death.”

“Precisely how I feel,” Philip croaked.

“Don’t just stand there! Carry the man!” With George Selwyn taking command of the field, Philip was conveyed to a spacious, almost opulently appointed room on the fourth gallery. “Brought a few creature comforts,” George explained, “but hang me if I’ll let you infest the mattress with vermin.”

Philip was shocked at his image in the pier glass.

“Here, old friend.” George handed him a tankard of small beer that Philip gulped so desperately it ran down his face.

“Bring a barber and water for the hip bath,” George instructed his newly recruited minions, while tossing shillings right and left. “We’ll have to burn the clothes, of course,” he said to Philip. “And shave your head as well as your face.”

“I wouldn’t care if you dragged me naked through the streets. But who is paying for all of this?”

George laughed. “Why, you are, of course!”

“Pox on you, George! How do you think I got into that pit to begin with?”

“Assault with a deadly fork is what I heard.” He sobered at Philip’s obvious distress. “You’ve had a considerable windfall, my friend.”

“Dog’s bollocks!” Philip exclaimed.

“No, dear boy. Roderick Random.”

Philip looked his question.

“Remember my commission to take March to the Hastings stables? Well, you couldn’t expect a man to buy a horse without seein’ him run, could you? We took Roddy boy out to Newmarket, where Devonshire proposed a two hundred guinea match to trial a new runner of his, a chestnut colt got by Snip. When Roddy prevailed, March offered four hundred to buy him, and is considering Chance as well. Plans to make them his wheelers in his chaise match.”

“George, advise March he would be best to place Roddy and Tawny as the leaders. Neither likes running behind the pack, and they are well matched. Roddy would do well to regulate the speed of the team as he won’t quickly outrun himself as others might. Tell March if he has not yet decided on his wheelers that he might do well to consider Little Dan.”

“I will convey your recommendations. March is well pleased with the progress of the cartwright and anticipates setting the date very soon. And now you, my boy, are three hundred guineas the richer.”

“Three? I thought it was four hundred?”

“What, you think I took a cut?” George asked in an injured tone. “Spent the first fifty to get a decent Chancery lawyer on retainer and you can look about you for the rest.”

Philip looked contrite. “A thousand apologies. Not quite myself, you know.”

Ever amiable, George replied with forced cheer, “Don’t fret, my friend. We’ll see this thing through yet.”

“Is there any news from the Chancery?”

“I fear not, but no news is good news. At least while the Chancery deliberates, there is hope.”

While a favorable decision could assure his release, Willoughby had called it an unlikely eventuality. Payment of the debt in full was impossible, and negotiation of terms unfeasible with Weston bent on vengeance. If only he had means to raise the money.

He lived in daily torment knowing that one hundred thousand pounds had once been within his grasp. If only he had played out his life differently. Perhaps if he had dealt differently with Charlotte? But then again, he might have lost Sukey. Sukey. God, how he missed her.

“And Sukey, George? You’ve not spoken of her. Did you give her the necklace?”

“I did.”

“Did she say anything?” Philip prompted. “Is there any message? Is there any hope?”

George opened his palms in a helpless gesture.

“There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it? What did she say?” he demanded.

“She said it was over, that she had nothing left to give you.”

“After you gave her the necklace?” Philip regarded him with a look of astonishment. He had tried to make amends with her in the only way he knew how. He was sure the necklace would have conveyed to her all he’d always meant to say, but now he feared it was too little, too late.

Philip flung himself into a chair with a helpless groan. Her silence meant she was lost to him, and without her he feared he was lost as well.