Durry held the carriage door as Cordelia climbed in. They were to meet with Henry Wright, who was being held at Newgate Gaol, a prison looming just inside the city of London. Newgate Gaol housed the most hardened criminals, many awaiting trial but a few convicted and serving time. It also held debtors and lesser offenders, all packed together in the same airless stone corridors.
Durry bristled at the situation. Scheduling a meeting had been unusually difficult, with the keepers erecting obstacle after obstacle. This puzzled him since the system was straightforward—pay for access. Though the Crown appointed the master keeper, the prison operated as a private business, and like any commerce, money smoothed the way.
Cordelia''s presence further complicated matters. While women were allowed in Newgate Gaol, they typically entered as inmates—whether for petty crimes and unpaid debts or as companions hired by wealthy prisoners who could afford such privileges. It was a system where everything was accessible for the right price. Often, those who could pay but withheld found themselves in the vice of extortion, their cooperation elicited through pain and degradation.
Women acting in a legal role were frowned upon and often considered activists or reformers. As far as the keepers were concerned, the system worked perfectly well. The profitability, though well hidden and off the books, was significant, and a good portion of it flowed to powerful men who saw no need for change.
When they arrived at the front gate, he overpaid the driver, pressing a coin into the man’s palm.
“Wait here. We won’t be long.”
The driver studied the money, weighing the request, then gave a slow nod and pulled the carriage into position along the prison wall.
At the front desk, a clerk sat with a penny dreadful sprawled open before him. His gaze was fixed on the lurid text, and he seemed utterly uninterested in the world around him.
Durry stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“Edward Durham. Solicitor. I am here to see my client, Henry Wright. It is of the utmost importance that I speak with him immediately.”
The clerk didn’t move at first. Then, with the deliberate slowness of a man who had no intention of hurrying, he lifted his gaze just enough to acknowledge Durry. His eyes slid lazily to Cordelia.
“Who’s she?”
Durry turned slightly, gesturing to her. “Why, my good man, this is my estimable assistant, Miss Cordelia Greaves. She is my eyes and ears, essential in every way to my counsel for my poor client, Mr. Wright, who has been falsely and maliciously accused of murder.”
The clerk’s expression didn’t change. He studied Durry for a long moment.
“You know you can’t just show up whenever you like. We have schedules in place for a reason. ”
Durry insisted. “I understand, but I need to see my client immediately. I have new information and must question him before the details go stale. If I wait, I may lose my chance to prove his innocence.”
The man gave an unimpressed nod. “Can’t have that now, can we? They’re all innocent, if you can believe it. Nary a man or woman within these walls, not one guilty of any crime—least of all the one they’re here for.”
He tapped his fingers on the desk, considering.
"Mr. Wright is being held in the Capital Convicts section. He’s in solitary for his protection. Some of his neighbors don''t take kindly to child killers. He''s also under careful watch—no one wants him taking the easy way out, if you know what I mean."
Durry leaned in close, whispering. “Come now, Kenneth. I thought we had an arrangement?”
Kenneth spoke in a slow, hushed tone, keeping the movements of his mouth to a minimum.
“Relax, Durry. All for show.”
Durry leaned back, keeping his expression blank. It was likely they were being watched.
"All right," he said finally. "You''ll have to see him in his cell, which requires an escort. You won''t have much time or privacy. And I''ll require a donation for the privilege—five shillings ought to do."
"I''ll give you three, nothing more."
The man stared at Durry, but Cordelia couldn''t tell if this was all part of the act.
"Four shillings, or you and the pretty lady walk," he said.
Durry grumbled but reached into his pocket and placed the coins on the desk. The original agreement had been three shillings, but given the undercurrents surrounding Henry Wright, an exorbitant price was to be expected.
“All right then, I’ve arranged an escort,” the man said, the coins disappearing into a pocket. “Best you just follow him. He’s not the talkative type.”
Then he lowered his voice. “He’s going to leave you with a guard. Watch out for that one, nasty type. Special hire, specifically for Mr. Wright. All ears, if you know what I mean.”
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Then, with a wink, he added, his voice returning to normal levels, “Keep that coin handy. You’re going to need it.”
With that, he led them through the back door.
As they walked, Cordelia leaned in, brow arched. “You’ve a gift for making friends, Durry.”
Durry pinched the bridge of his nose. “That wasn’t friendship, my dear. That was negotiation.”
<hr>
The prison stank of damp stone and stale sweat, the air thick with the weight of too many bodies confined in too little space. The corridor leading to the holding cells was narrow, lined with rusted iron bars, and slick with condensation. Somewhere, beyond sight, a man groaned in his sleep. Another muttered fevered nonsense under his breath.
The guard escorting Cordelia and Durry barely spared them a glance. His boots struck heavy against the stone as he led them past cells filled with filth and misery, men slumped on benches or curled up on straw pallets, eyes hollow, faces drawn.
The escort stopped and pointed down a long hallway where a large man stood leaning against the wall.
The guard watched them approach with cold calculation, and when they neared, he rapped his truncheon against the bars. “Wright, on your feet.”
Henry Wright was at the end of the hall, his cell set far apart from the others.
For a long moment, there was no movement inside the cell. Then, a slow rustling of fabric, a heavy sigh.
Henry sat hunched in the shadows, his back against the cold wall, legs stretched before him. His clothes were the same ones he’d been arrested in, now stiff with grime and the stink of unwashed flesh. He looked up sluggishly, his beard grown in thick and uneven, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken. His lip was cut and swollen, and his face and neck were covered with bruises, both fresh and fading.
The keepers were notorious for using beatings and other cruelties as means of extortion. Methods meant to extract coin from those who could afford it. Henry Wright was a man of means, and if the beatings were any indication, the gaol keepers knew it and intended to extract their price.
“You have visitors,” the guard said, uninterested. “Be quick.” He stepped back, leaning against the far wall but remaining within earshot.
Durry turned to Cordelia with a slight frown. So much for privacy.
Durry stepped forward first. “Henry.”
A flicker of recognition, but no real reaction.
Cordelia studied him carefully. Although he was not yet a broken man, she could feel the weight pressing down on him.
Cordelia smoothed down the front of her coat and stepped closer to the bars. “Henry, my name is Cordelia Greaves. I am assisting Solicitor Durham on the investigative side of your case.”
The man in the cell did not respond.
“Can you stand?”
“I can sit just fine,” he muttered, voice hoarse from disuse.
Durry sighed. “We haven’t much time, Henry. We need to talk about your case.”
Henry exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand across his face. “My case,” he repeated, laughter like gravel in his throat. “My case is already decided, isn’t it?”
Cordelia exchanged a glance with Durry.
Henry gave a slow, humorless smile. “A father murders his son—that’s a story people like, isn’t it? No sense in complicating things with details. No need for truth when a lie will do.”
Cordelia’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t wrong.
Durry’s voice was measured, careful. “Then let’s talk about the truth. We know you didn’t kill Oliver. You were—”
“Drunk,” Henry finished flatly. “Passed out in front of the fire. I didn’t even make it to my bed. But that doesn’t matter. No one saw me there. No one can swear on a Bible that I didn’t climb those stairs.”
“You couldn’t have,” Cordelia pressed. “Not in that state.”
“Won’t stop them from hanging me,” Henry murmured. “Not when they need someone to hang.”
Durry took a steadying breath.
“We’re looking for other explanations, Henry. Someone else who might have had reason to harm you.”
Henry’s gaze flickered slightly, but his answer was firm.
“I had a good life, Mr. Durham—until I lost my wife. We lived a quiet life. I would work all day and then help Oliver with his studies. He was a good boy. He didn’t deserve this. He was a good son. Innocent. A child—”
Henry Wright began to break down, and though he made no sound, Cordelia could see his body wracked with sobs.
Cordelia thought of the boy, so soft and gentle—so innocent. Then the guilt crushed upon her. The thought of what she had done intruding upon the peaceful rest of a dead child. This man’s child. He would be horrified if he knew what she had done.
The guard cleared his throat. “The clock’s ticking, Solicitor. Best get on with it. Unless you''re willing to contribute more.”
He held out his hand, a wicked grin evident in his eyes, but his expression cold.
Durry ignored him.
Cordelia tried to focus, pushing thoughts of Oliver away.
“Mr. Wright, what can you tell me about your housekeeper, Henrietta Hampstead? Nothing is too small. Please, Mr. Wright. It’s important.”
The man looked up, and his eyes went cold. “Hetty.”
He rose from the bed, his legs unstable from disuse, and approached the bars. His eyes were fixed on the guard, who stood close, leaning against the wall.
The guard returned his stare, his face filled with contempt.
He addressed Durry. “Not here,” he hissed, eyes shifting toward the guard before returning to Durry to ensure he understood.
Then, he turned to address Cordelia.
“I see you’ve caught the scent. Right witch of a woman, if you ask me. I caught on too late—too late. Now I’m here, and Anne and Oliver…” He trailed off, shaking his head, the sobs audible this time.
Cordelia glanced at the guard, then leaned in, her voice a whisper.
“Are you implying that your housekeeper killed your wife?”
“I… I am.”
“Why? How? What was her motive?”
“Again, Miss Greaves, Not. Here.”
Then he spoke, more loudly this time. “This is a place where information is as valuable as coin. Our friends,” he said, meaning the keepers, “are always listening. Looking to profit.”
The guard, still leaning against the wall, interjected.
“Best tell her now, friend. Soon you’ll be swinging in the yard, noose tight around your neck.”
Then he gave a callous laugh.
Cordelia and Durry both glared at the guard but said nothing.
Henry Wright’s anger flared, and he lunged for the guard, slamming the bars.
The keeper stepped in, his sudden movement sending Durry and Cordelia back toward the wall. A sharp crack rang through the corridor as his truncheon struck the bars.
“All right then, Time’s up,” the keeper growled.
Sensing the need for more time, Durry reached into his pocket for a coin.
“Sorry, Guvna. Far too late for that. Meeting’s over.”
Henry Wright reached through the bars, grasping Cordelia’s sleeve, pulling her closer.
The guard stepped in, and Henry released her.
“Get back to your cot now, or so help me—” he said, the truncheon beating a steady, threatening rhythm into his palm.
Henry glared at the keeper but made no move to back away. Instead, he leaned in close to whisper in Cordelia’s ear.
“She’s not working alone, Miss Greaves. I can’t say more. Find the man she is working with.”
He lifted his chin toward the keeper, his lips curling in a bitter smile.
The keeper’s grip on the truncheon tightened—another beating was coming.
Then Henry stepped back into the shadows, his voice turning hollow.
“Do it, Miss Greaves. Do it for Oliver.”