Peter Fallon smiled to himself as he watched Max in
conversation with Sir Ivor. Sir Prig, as the reporters had
named Sir Ivor, had allowed his stiff upper lip to soften
into something like a smile. He'd aroused a good deal of
sympathy at first. Not only had his son disappeared, but
his only other child, a young daughter, had died of lung
fever some years before. He'd seemed like a tragic figure,
but his air of superiority, his pride and arrogance, had
soon dispelled that impression. He was more of an avenging
angel than a grieving father.
"Prince Charming does have a way with him, does he not?"
Fallon recognized the drawl and grinned at the gentleman
who had joined him. Jameson of the Times, fortyish,
portly, sweating and crumpled, had a caustic wit that
Fallon rather enjoyed.
"Prince Charming?" said Fallon.
"Lord Maxwell. He has Sir Prig tamed to his hand."
"Well, you know how it is with the aristocracy. They talk
the same language."
"Oh, yes. I know how it is. Bluebloods must stick
together."
Fallon laughed. "You sound envious."
"You're mistaken, Fallon. I'm not envious. I just wish
Prince Charming would do what he's supposed to do."
"Which is?"
"Marry a princess, carry her off to his castle, and live
happily ever after. Then we lesser mortals might get the
recognition we deserve."
Fallon laughed, but he was well aware that Jameson's
remarks were prompted by pique. Though Lord Maxwell was
too likable, too genuine a character to arouse real envy,
it did seem unjust that a young man of thirty, a man who
had everything to start with, should also possess more
than his share of good luck.
Max Worthewas heir to his father, the Marquess of
Lyndhurst. There really was a castle, only fifteen miles
from Winchester. A castle, a house in town, a life of
wealth and privilege--what more could a man want?
The fates had also blessed him with good looks. His fair
hair was cropped short; his square jaw added a manly touch
to a face that might have been considered too handsome. He
was tall, an inch or so under six feet, and every trim
inch was as solid as granite. It was no secret that Lord
Maxwell's favorite pastime was boxing, and it showed.
Six months ago, he'd bought the Courier when it was on the
brink of bankruptcy. Everyone thought it was a joke, the
whim of a bored aristocrat, and predicted the Courier's
demise within a matter of months. Fallon, himself, at four-
and-twenty, and the youngest reporter on staff, was sure
that his days on the Courier were numbered, and he began
looking around for another position. He'd listened to
those who should know. Lord Maxwell was a novice, they
said. He didn't know the first thing about producing a
newspaper. It was true that he published a periodical, the
London Review, but that came out once a month and was
devoted to literary works or essays by well-known wits. A
newspaper was a different matter entirely. The competition
was fierce. The Times was firmly established as London's
leading paper, and most of its competitors had gone to the
wall.
Lord Maxwell, however, had not taken the Times as his
model. The first thing he did was take the parliamentary
report off the front page and replace it with stories with
a more popular appeal. Murders, tragedies, natural
disasters, scandals--that's what sold papers. What the
Courier had lost in prestige, it had made up in a dramatic
increase in circulation.
Peter Fallon was not one of those who begrudged Lord
Maxwell his success. As the Courier's fortunes had risen,
so had his. He admired Lord Maxwell; he studied his
manners, his habits, his preferences, and tried, as far as
was in his power, to emulate his mentor.
Jameson said consideringly, "I suppose he eats like a
bird?"
"Actually, he eats like a horse."
Jameson sucked in his stomach. "You know, Fallon, if I
really put my mind to it, I think I could muster a
thorough dislike of your Prince Charming. But let's not
quibble. Tell me your impressions of Miss Carstairs."
Half an hour later, the jury room bell sounded, and there
was a flurry of movement as spectators reclaimed their
seats. Max could not ignore how tense he felt. His mouth
was dry; his heart was pounding. He'd expected the jury to
take longer to reach their verdict, and he didn't know
whether their early return was a good or bad omen.
When the court had reassembled, Max turned to look at the
dock. A moment later, Sara Carstairs emerged from the
trapdoor and took her place. Nothing in her demeanor
betrayed the least nervousness, yet, thought Max, she must
know that if the verdict went against her, she would go to
the gallows. If she didn't feel the gravity of her
situation, he did.
Her gaze, once again, was fixed on one of the junior
attorneys who assisted her leading counsel. A look passed
between them, but it did not linger. The jurymen were
filing in.
The next few minutes passed as though they were hours. The
clerk of the court slowly called each juryman by name.
When the foreman was asked to give the verdict, an
expectant hush gripped the spectators.
"Not guilty."
An instantaneous burst of applause erupted throughout the
courtroom. Sara Carstairs looked frozen, as though this
was the last thing she expected. The prison matron took
one of her hands and openly wept.
What in the name of Hades is the matter with the woman?
thought Max irritably. The prison matron was weeping;
spectators were cheering; he was shaking; and Sara
Carstairs sat there like a cold, unfeeling block of marble.
The applause subsided only when the irate chief justice
ordered two wildly enthusiastic young men to be taken into
custody. When the court was adjourned, the reporters in
the crush elbowed their way toward the exits. They would
be chasing Miss Carstairs down, soliciting a comment for
the next edition of their respective newspapers. Max was
in no hurry. Peter Fallon had been one of the first out
the door, and if Miss Carstairs was willing to give a
statement, which Max doubted, Fallon would take care of it.
The verdict left him feeling less than satisfied. He'd
wanted her to be acquitted for only one reason: He
believed that capital punishment was a barbarous practice,
and he could not condone it under any circumstances. Now
that she'd been acquitted, however, and could not be tried
again for the murder of William Neville, he intended to
use the considerable means at his disposal to get at the
truth, no matter how many witnesses had to be interviewed
or how long it took.
But only Sara Carstairs could lead him to William
Neville's final resting place. That's what he wanted, of
course. To be ahead of the pack. To be the first to print
the whole story. He was a newspaperman now, and made no
apology for it.
It had taken him by surprise, this fascination with the
Courier. He'd taken it on because he liked a challenge,
and people said it couldn't be done. In proving them
wrong, he'd become caught up in the excitement of the
thing. The newspapers of the day were deadly dull and were
mostly read by an educated minority of men. His mother had
pointed him in the right direction. She never picked up a
newspaper, she said, because there was nothing in it to
interest her. What she wanted were stories about real
people, and that was only to be found in the tawdry
broadsheets that his father would not permit in the house.
So, without sacrificing integrity, he'd changed the
Courier's direction to appeal to his mother, and in so
doing, he'd turned the Courier around.
Now he had his eye on his next challenge, the Manchester
Post.
When he came outside, he found that the crowds who had
been waiting patiently to hear the verdict had gone wild
with excitement. People were shouting, dancing, throwing
their hats in the air. Only a week ago, they'd wanted to
see Sara Carstairs hang. Her youth and beauty, thought Max
cynically, had served her well.
Peter Fallon pushed his way through to Max. He was short
of breath. "No one knows where she is," he said. "They
stopped her carriage, but the woman who was
wearing her clothes was not Miss Carstairs. She could be
anywhere."
Max chuckled. "I bet that junior attorney set things up
for her. It's what I would do in his place. No need to
look so glum, Peter. She'll turn up, and when she does, I
have it in my mind to make the acquaintance of Miss Sara
Carstairs. Now let's go back to the hotel and get that
article in shape. We may not have a quote from Miss
Carstairs, but Sir Ivor gave me an earful. That ought to
keep our readers happy--'The grieving father'--you know
what I mean."
In the next edition, the Courier doubled Sir Ivor's
reward, but no one came forward to claim it. Max had no
luck with Sara Carstairs either. She had gone into hiding
and, as he soon discovered, all the means at his disposal
failed to find a trace of her.
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