“I don’t handle matters.”
“I think this one you should.”
“MacGill, get him out of here—”
“I imagine missing prisoners would interest you greatly.” Simon spread his legs. “If not you, perhaps the magistrate—”
“MacGill, leave us. Lucan, you too.”
The young, muscled blond—likely a turnkey, judging by the cudgel at his side—lifted his plate with a glower. He exited the taproom behind the Scotsman.
Wiping ale from his beard, the warden stood. “Today, I have overseen the hanging of four men, I have discovered the dead body of a prostitute in one of the quadrangles, and I have lost the keys to my own chamber, though only the devil knows where.” His sharp, bloodshot eyes narrowed on Simon. “What quandary have you brought me?”
“Nineteen missing prisoners.”
“From Newgate?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“Huh.” The warden swiped two fingers through the mush on his plate, licked them, then wiped the front of his black coat. “Give me names.”
“Friedrich Neale, Reginald Brownlow—”
“Never heard of the first. But then again, I don’t make it a habit to memorize every bleeding name and face that walks in here.”
“And the second?”
“Brownlow killed a woman. Rather bloody affair. All over the newspapers. I believe, if memory serves me, he cut her body in pieces, placed her back into her own bed, and heaped her with quilts so that she was undiscovered until the next morning.”
Simon’s stomach churned at the vulgarity of such a crime. No wonder Patrick Brownlow wanted his brother’s name unspoken. “Did you not find it strange when Brownlow disappeared?”
“My only surprise was that the man did not meet his fate sooner.” Another wipe through his food. Another lick of his fingers. “He died in his cell last May.”
“He died in Marwicktow, North Carolina, five months ago. I killed him.”
“Impossible.”
“Eighteen other prisoners arrived with him. I don’t have more names, but they were there and they were all—”
“Prisoners die in this establishment every day. I don’t inspect their bodies. I don’t count the remaining heads when they’re gone.” The warden leaned forward, his breath rancid, his weathered face twisted with a scowl. “But I can swear to the devil this, mister. No one gets out of this place unless they’re set free by the Crown or carried out to the deadhouse. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.” Simon worked to control the hot rush of anger pumping through his veins. “Something I have obviously not succeeded in doing.” He turned—
The warden seized Simon’s coat, jerked him back, leaning over the table between them. “Listen, mister. You better not take this Banbury tale outside of these walls. The last thing I need right now is anyone breathing down my neck about something I know nothing about.”
“Then you better find out about it.” Simon pried away the sticky fingers. “Because I intend to.” With one last warning look, Simon exited the room, nearly tripping over the Scotsman and turnkey, who had been lingering outside the door.
Listening, no doubt.
Good.
Maybe they would assist the warden in finding out about nineteen missing prisoners. Unless they all knew already.
Simon showed himself out of the stone prison walls, his lungs rejoicing at the odorless March air and the sunlight on his face. He pressed back into the crowd. He’d left his carriage on a distant street, as the current lane was impassable because of the throng of people.
Maybe he should not have come.
Not today.
