Vanessa Croft

CHAPTER ONE

Central Criminal Court, London. 1885

Two fifteen-year-old boys stood in the dock of the Old Bailey’s Courtroom Number Four, and they were in a great deal of trouble. One, named Baden Lambourne, was fair of feature, whereas his co-accused, James O’Collins, was nut-brown in hair and eyes, and though they were opposite in appearance, when they were young these differences had meant nothing to them. When they were little, they had been as close as kin. Now, and it pained James to realise it, now they stood side by side before the law and not much else.

It was February, and an ill wind rattled the windowpanes. This bleakest of days, in this bitterest of months, it matched James’ temperament perfectly. Sentencing was about to commence, and proceedings had not favoured them. He gripped the balustrade, slick with sweat, and made himself face the judge.

Foreboding had struck him dumb, and beside him, Baden had also been quiet for some time, though it wasn’t resignation that stilled his tongue, James knew, but rather an arrogant expectation that this was the moment he’d be pardoned. Baden too, waited to hear.

In their elevated position, the two boys proved welcome entertainment for the huddled audience crowding the public gallery, many there only in preference to the keening wind outside. Readying for the judge’s speech, they unwrapped their parcels of lunch or hushed their crying babies and turned their attention to the man opposite, in full wig and robes, seated thronelike on his bench.

Earlier the gallery had been informed that these were not the variety of youth that commonly stood on trial. Normally, the accused would be poor and perishing, and the crimes would be those acts that come naturally to the abandoned who are squashed through the seams of a vast, uncontrolled city.

"But not so today!" the prosecutor had announced, with a flourish at the dock. "Take note of their London Best. Baden Lambourne is successor to Warminster's Carneath Estate, and James O'Collins has resided in the same grand house since seven years of age, raised alongside his brother in all but name! They insist on their innocence, as though having privilege takes them above the law, as though consequence cannot attach itself to cashmere or silk, nor conscience be tarnished by negligence. I say nay – I say--” the eloquent barrister had indeed said, “that James O’Collins and Baden Lambourne are responsible for the death of young Gilbert Montgomery who was simply trying to save the horses he loved. Should Montgomery’s death go unmarked? Unrecognised? Unrestituted because he was of the labouring classes? Or, more to my point, would these two walk free because they are not of the labouring class? To that I profoundly declare: nay!”

The jury had evidently agreed and forthwith found James and Baden guilty of manslaughter and property destruction for their part in causing the stable fire that ultimately killed the stable boy Montgomery, as well as several of Carneath’s best warmblood mares.

The defence barristers were invited to close but shook their heads. They had been unconfident throughout. "The boys are but fifteen, m'lud, and mean well," said a different man in a similar wig appointed to defend them, and who looked despairingly at a sobbing veiled lady in the gallery. She was Montgomery’s aunt and dressed entirely in black crepe. A murmur of disapproving voices from the public had arisen in sympathy for her.

James had stared hard at the defence lawyer, willing his thoughts into the man’s head. Tell them I loved the horses every bit as much as Monty. Tell them why I was there—the night was windy and the mares are restless when the doors bang. Monty heard something, Baden was there before us, Baden had a lantern, his sleeves were rolled up, he was glaring, he was ferocious, he told me to get out!

But no. The lawyers had nothing further to say and the judge cleared his throat in preparation. He addressed James and Baden with beetled brows. “Do you wish to say anything before sentence is imposed?”

Those in the gallery shifted to hear the answer. James said in a small voice: “I didn’t start a fire. There was something in the stable, something Monty – I - needed to…to…save…” He knew only that it was more precious than even the horses, but he couldn’t say what it was, he hadn’t found it, he hadn’t been able to tell the investigator nor the lawyer, it eluded him even now. His forehead throbbed with the intensity he felt, and he touched the fresh scar at his hairline. “I’m innocent! I swear it!”

"Contain yourself," intoned the judge. "This will not help you. You have been given a fair trial and have not denied the events or the evidence. You do not deny that an innocent youth has been killed in the prime of life attempting to redress the consequences of your careless actions. You amused yourself in the stable. You sought mischief, misadventure. With nary a concern for your wretched, widowed benefactor and father, or indeed even for the priceless horseflesh contained in that building, you brought about catastrophic events – that barely even begins to describe it."

The wretched father in question, Sir Lambourne, current heritor of Carneath Estate, sat behind the lawyers. He was still and mute. His face, which even on normal days had a hangdog aspect, with jowls and eyelids obscured under a landslide of skin, was now forlorn and only rarely lifted to look at the two boys he'd raised alone for years.

The judge narrowed his eyes at James, so that they became little more than slits. "And yet you argue it still." He shook his head, both condemning and contemptuous. "You demonstrate all too clearly that you and your generation may well be beyond salvation. You are so addled with fripperies and self-preservation you cannot even accept in good grace when you have fallen. I fear for this great nation's future."

He took a heaving breath, his cheeks aflush. "Young Lambourne – anything to say?"

"This has been a mistake, your Honour," Baden declared without hesitation. “I have said so all along. I should not be here.”

The judge glowered and quivered and muttered under his breath. The gallery rumbled, and Enoch Lambourne shook his head, his drooping features struggling to convey his earnest disapprobation.

"I’ve heard enough, the court will proceed to sentencing," returned the judge. "Here is my final ruling. You boys do not deserve the honourable and righteous association of Lambourne. Your father works hard and has built a solid name and reputation, however in these events you have gone too far – a promising young man has been cost his life, and I for one am not convinced that a standard repertoire of discipline will stem this tide of irresponsibility, or reinstate your common sense. No, the time and age for that has passed, and now you are both fifteen, you must be severely and lastingly punished to accept properly the consequences and to do penance for your reckless crimes. Therefore, you will see the insides of a reformatory school, and the walls of that reformatory will remain your home until such time as I receive a probationary report from the Governor. The report must endorse your ability to conform to societal expectations of upstanding men and citizenry. You are sentenced to a minimum of three years in Storjo—"

A swell of charged commentary arose in the gallery at this, and beside him, James sensed a tremor pass through the stiffened frame of Baden. But he hadn't issued the groan James heard. That sound had come from the seats, it was from Sir Lambourne, who'd lowered his head to his chest.

Where? thought James, as panic began to mount. Storjo? What was that? Where was that – a reformatory? He'd heard of those all right; the schoolmaster at Carneath, Mr Edwards, frequently referred to them; always as the place of last resort, a final destination for the unsalvageable.

The judge demanded quiet and continued his speech with some irritation: "--after which time Master Lambourne may be released. Master O'Collins - if you have failed to prove your new character by the time you are eighteen years, you will be resentenced to an adult penitentiary.

You shall reside in the holding cells at Newgate with the others until the train for Edinburgh tomorrow," said the judge with finality. "Supervised visits only. Court is adjourned."

The judge rose.

"No!" said James at the same time as all those in the court stood, and the dock warden took this moment to claim his charges. The observers had erupted with chatter at the scandal of two gentry boys being sent away from home like common clay. Sir Lambourne pressed his fingers to his eyes, refusing to watch the warden seize their wrists to clamp the manacles. James turned in disbelief to Baden whose head was hanging, his pale hair lank from constant wringing and sweeping. "Bade? Reformatory – they're sending us to reform—"

"I know!" snapped Baden. "This is an outrage!"

"Storjo, eh?" chuckled the warden. "That'll wipe the smirks off."

"What's Storjo?" James asked, feeling the cold iron press home. "Where is that?"

"You'll find out, mark my words," said the warden, grinning to reveal two missing front teeth, and pulled on the chain that now connected them. "I done me time there. Made me what I am."

Before the gleeful onlookers, at the point of the warden’s cudgel, they were marched from the courtroom, Baden yelling to his father as they went. "Come for me! Come for me!"

Beneath the Old Bailey was the passage to prison - a fearsome, one-way journey for thousands. James and Baden had lapsed into a mute terror as they stumbled through a brick tunnel with sloping, flagstone floor. The warden brought them to a standstill at a solid wood door and, up at the barred partition, banged on it with his cudgel. Apparently satisfied, it was opened by a turnkey from the other side and they were shoved through.

Newgate Prison. It was dark inside, a combination of sombre stone, wood and black iron. The effluvium of confinement and neglect was visible in the halo of meagre light from the gas lamps and a cacophony assaulted every ear. "Holding cells only – these are for Storjo," their warden said to the one waiting on the inside, whose job was to process incomers and who, after glancing at the boys, wrote things in elaborate script on a ledger.

As they waited, James leaned closer to Baden. "Where d'you think they're sending us?" he half-whispered, striving to be heard. "Have you heard of Storjo? Do you think it's in Australia?"

"Shut up! This is all your fault," Baden snapped. "Father will get me off, but I hope you rot wherever they send you. And it's not in Australia – the judge said a train to Edinburgh."

James blinked in surprise, then gathered his wits. "It's your fault! You were holding the lantern—"

"I said shut up! We wouldn't be here if it weren't for your stupidity!"

"Your father will get me off as well!"

"I'll tell him not to bother. You'd be better off in Storjo or whatever it's called."

James fleetingly wondered if Sir Lambourne would do such a thing, would save Baden at the expense of him and toss him like bycatch. He remembered how father and son had turned to look at him while the stable fire raged, their shadowy figures contrasted with the blaze, and their hardened expressions had revived so much guilt in him. Sir Lambourne owed him nothing but had always treated both boys the same regardless. At least until now.

"Do you see me?" Baden whispered harshly. "I am the son of a gentleman, a long line of Lambournes, inheritor of Carneath! If I am to be punished for Monty, then so be it, I don't shirk my penance. But my kind do not go to reformatories. My father will see to it that I can continue my duty."

James gazed at him, open-mouthed. "You jest, surely? Continue your duty? What duty?"

"I have responsibilities, you fool. Things you wouldn't understand." Baden's pale blue eyes had flared in that warning way James had come to recognise as lightning before a storm, and he stepped back, entirely unconvinced any such conversations had occurred. Baden's time at Carneath comprised almost exclusively of leisure and self-indulgence; he spent more effort avoiding responsibility than accepting it.

Despite that, James felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Baden was right, and there were yet ways for Sir Lambourne to exercise his social standing and override the judge's decision, or at least circumvent it - a missed loophole that he and the lawyers would discover at the eleventh hour. His own recollection of what happened that night was so frail it was probable he'd missed an all-important clue, a witness, a shred of evidence that proved he had only been there to help...to save something...something precious...

When the documentation was finalised, their photographs were taken and cell keys procured, the warden then shunted them forward toward the prison proper. "Quiet! Step short, straight ahead, follow my orders."

James and Baden were marched across filthy paved floors to a holding cell. Above them were the galleries of Newgate holding hundreds of prisoners, each landing patrolled by uniformed guards. They reached an iron-studded door and their warden opened it onto a rectangular room, lit only by daylight through a high, recessed window reinforced with bars. The cell was already occupied by two other boys around their own age. Before James had time to absorb his surrounds and his cellmates, the guard removed the manacles and said: "Train leaves in the morning." He then withdrew, banging the door shut and turning the great lock and bolts.

"Alright mate?" asked a quiet voice. James turned to it and saw the two other boys had stood aside and watched warily. They were thin, dishevelled, and prone to scratching. The shorter of the pair, the one who had spoken, had a peg leg.

"No. I'm not alright," James replied, swallowing down a slight tremble in his voice. "I've just been put in prison for something I didn't do. And I'm going somewhere I don't know, for I don't know how long. Are you alright?"

In the reproachful silence that followed James looked about the cell. There was some rolled up bedding, two straw-filled mattresses and a chamber pot. A Bible rested on a corner shelf and framed on the wall were the Newgate Prison Rules. Baden had gone to the door, trying to see out of the partition.

"Will Sir Lambourne come here?" James asked him with urgency. "Will he see us before we're sent to Storjo?"

"He'll come to save me," retorted Baden, rubbing his wrists. "I'm sure of it."

"Then he'll save us both."

"No, he won't!" Baden turned and knuckled James hard in the upper arm. "You're not coming home with us. It's not your home."

"It is my home!"

"Your home is a pile of cinders! Carneath is my home!" Baden raised another fist, but James caught it, surprising himself.

"Your father told me I may always call it home. He said I was as good as a son to him!"

"He was just being nice!" Baden spat, but still he backed down. He snatched his fist away and scowled.

"Storjo?" asked the taller boy eventually, as James rubbed at his left arm and looked about him. “That’s where we’re goin’.”

"Yes. Storjo. And what in the Devil's fresh hell is that?" asked Baden.

"A reform'try school," answered the boy. "On a island. Off Scotland. Ain't you never heard of it?"

"It's the meanest of all the reforms," added the shorter boy. "I heard lots of lads die there. No boy's the same after."

"Well, I'm not going," retorted Baden. "I'm returning home as soon as my father gets here. He'll be on his way now with our lawyers."

The taller boy's eyes widened even further. "You rich then? You can buy yourself out of here?"

"No," snapped Baden irritably, "I shan't be relieved of a single farthing. I am going home because I'm innocent and the judge made a mistake. My father will explain."

"All of us here reckons we're innocent," said the short boy looking unperturbed. "I'm innocent too."

"How long have you been here?" James asked tightly.

"Four days or thereabouts. Saw't beak on Monday. And tomorrow we're due to journey. I got chats already," said the tall boy. "The name is Herbert Pemble. An' this is Jack. Jack Twifoot – which is funny, owing to his leg."

Baden glanced at them both disparagingly before turning back to the door of their cell. "Please stop talking. I don't need to know your names, and you needn't know mine."

James offered a small smile. "I'm James and he's Baden."