The boys, peering around Kit, Sylvia, and Smiggs, sniggered at the sight of Nunsworth, with his expression enraged, his color high, and ashes in his hair and in streaks down his face and dusting his shoulders and chest.
The boyish sound drew Nunsworth’s attention.
He glared at the boys, then noticed Smiggs. Nunsworth looked at the magistrate. “I want to lay charges against those boys and, I believe, that man there.” He nodded toward Smiggs. “They attacked me and tied me up and subjected me to a humiliating experience. I’m a man of the cloth!”
Quigley, an older gentleman Kit judged to be the sort frequently referred to as the backbone of a county, studied Nunsworth, then succinctly replied, “No, you’re not. If you recall, it was I who allowed myself to be persuaded by the good reverend here and his bishop to allow you to be defrocked and run out of the parish rather than send you for deportation as your stealing from our villagers warranted. It seems I have lived to regret that decision.”
With his hands still tied behind him and his feet, also tied, before him, Nunsworth scowled, uttered a sound very like “Pshaw!” then stared straight ahead at the floor.
After regarding him for several seconds, Quigley raised his gaze and surveyed those gathered inside the door. “Very well. Now, which of you would like to start telling me what this is all about? Just the facts, if you please.”
“It started,” Kit said, “when Miss Buckleberry sensed that someone was watching her.”
Quigley took the cue and looked inquiringly at Sylvia. In a clear, steady voice, she recounted the various incidents and what she’d thought at the time—that the person was watching her with malevolent intent.
“But you never saw who the watcher was?” Quigley asked.
“No,” Sylvia admitted.
Kit then explained that he’d mentioned those incidents to his business partner, and that Jack had overheard. He glanced at the boys. “That led to Jack, Ned, and Ollie deciding to spend their spare time trailing after Sylvia, trying to spot who it was that was watching and unnerving her.”
Quigley demonstrated his sound sense in the way he drew the boys’ information from them. In short order and with surprisingly little extraneous detail, they’d related all they’d learned about the man others living near his lodgings knew as Nunsworth—the same man who had accosted Sylvia, calling himself Mr. Hillary.
The magistrate paused and looked at Nunsworth. “Well, Hillary Nunsworth, do you deny anything these boys have said?”
Nunsworth didn’t look up. “It’s all lies—every last word,” he spat. “I deny everything!”
Quigley was unimpressed. He moved on, drawing out all that Smiggs, Kit, and Sylvia had to report.
Nunsworth’s only contribution was to loudly and frequently proclaim his innocence, insisting that he knew nothing of the events the others described.
Several times, Sergeant Jenkins was moved to cuff Nunsworth over the head to silence him.
Kit, Sylvia, Smiggs, and the boys told all to the point of them tying up Nunsworth.
Quigley nodded sagely, then asked, “Does anyone have anything more to add?”
To everyone’s surprise, Gibson called, “Aye—I have.”
They all turned to where the watchman still sat on the bench along the wall.
“Seems to me that having a local’s word on it won’t hurt. That blackguard”—Gibson nodded at Nunsworth—“knocked me out when he arrived, right enough, but like I said, I’ve a hard head. I came to m’senses—enough to hear and see—as he finished tying Miss Buckleberry to the railings. I couldn’t lift me head to save meself, mind, but I heard and saw everything that followed, and it was exactly like these people have told you.” Gibson’s gaze rested heavily on Nunsworth, who made no attempt to meet it. “If it hadn’t been for Miss Buckleberry getting one hand free, enough to avoid Nunsworth’s first blow, and if the gentleman hadn’t arrived and flung himself in front of her... Well, Nunsworth would have had his way and left nothing but tragedy behind.”
That, Kit felt, was an excellent summation and final word.
Quigley seemed to think so, too. He nodded to the watchman. “Thank you, Jake.”
Then Quigley looked down on Nunsworth—at the top of his head as Nunsworth was still belligerently staring at the floor. “Hillary Nunsworth, currently of Bristol, I’m binding you over to the next assizes, where, without a shadow of a doubt, you will be judged guilty of kidnapping and attempted murder.” Quigley paused, then gestured to Sergeant Jenkins to haul up his prisoner. “Take him to the cells. We can keep him there until the judges arrive—the assizes is only a few weeks away.”
The sergeant bent and cut the rope tying Nunsworth’s feet.
Quigley waved the others to precede him back into the open air. Gibson waited until the sergeant passed, dragging his uncooperative prisoner along by main force. Then Gibson doused the lanterns, pulled the door closed, and joined the small crowd outside.
Reverend Buckleberry had arranged for Jack and Ned to squeeze into Kit’s curricle; he turned as Gibson came up. “Come along, Jake—I’ll drive you home. Your wife will be glad to see you.”
Gibson grinned. He directed a bow at Sylvia, Kit, and the others, then addressed the reverend. “Aye, I’m thinking to make the most of the lump on me head. Just as well if you come along and vouch for how I got it.”
With smiles and chuckles, everyone dispersed. While Jack and Ollie squeezed onto the box seat with Smiggs, Sylvia shooed Ned into the curricle. Then Kit helped her up and, reins in hand, followed.