To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 35

Prison was not, in fact, positively charming. Timothy and Sam followed the prison guard down a dark, damp, cobwebby hallway, past cell after cell of hollow-eyed prisoners, and finally to one at the very end directly across from a slit of a window in the wall. The watery light filtered in and stopped just short of the iron bars as if misery had formed an invisible barricade to all good things.

When the guard left them, Timothy began to wish they hadn't come after all. There was so much suffering! It was inescapable. He wished he could creep away before Mr. Webb saw them, but there was movement in the corner.

The prisoner's chains rattled like the ghosts of old sin, preventing him from reaching the bars. His hair was ruffled, his clothing crooked, and the starvation of hope burned in his eyes. "You!" he hissed. "Not more of you news rats! I've had it with the lot of you. Go away. You've done enough. Soon I'll hang from the gibbet for a crime I didn't commit, and I hope you're able to sleep at night."

Timothy flinched, drawing back involuntarily. He and Sam had no reason to be guilty, but the sickness gnawed at him all the same. Someone must have shown him Mr. Graham's article. "We're not here in the capacity of the newspaper," he told him, wishing he didn't sound as uncertain as he felt. Mr. Webb's behavior was a far cry from the gentility with which he'd once welcomed them into his house—but what else should a man driven to desperation do?

"You didn't murder her," Sam said, quietly.

Mr. Webb's eyes flashed, and then he crouched on the floor of the cell, arms pinned back by the chains. "Murder her!" he exclaimed, looking up again in furious pain. "I loved her! How could I harm her? We were engaged to be married, once, but we were young and it wouldn't have lasted so she broke it off. By the time we were both ready she'd met Robert, and it was all over between us. And oh, God, now she's dead and they blame me!"

He broke down in rasping sobs, and Timothy felt sick. They shouldn't have come. There was too much pain here, too much misery—and what did he, Timothy Wright, think he could possibly do about any of it?

"We'll help you," Sam said, and Timothy looked at him sharply. It was cruel to give Mr. Webb false hope—couldn't Sam see that? "But first," Sam went on, "we have to know what really happened that night, and why you were there."

Mr. Webb sat down on the floor of the cell, far enough back that he had the free use of his hands. He rubbed his face, fingers trembling, and repeated Sam's question to himself as if trying to make sense of it. "Robert Armstrong is my cousin," he said at last, seeming to think it a detail worth mentioning. "We were often together growing up, and our friendship held strong even after—" he swallowed. "So it was natural that we continued to see much of each other. But when Louise began to speak for the end of child labor, we were both asked to support her—he as her husband, and I as her campaign manager."

Timothy wasn't sure how much more of this he could bear.

Mr. Webb went on, talking more to himself than Timothy and Sam. "We went to La Fantaisie because Louise thought the public support of the Lancasters was an event worth celebrating. When dinner was over, she and I went outside while Robert paid the bill, and exchanged a few innocent jests such as any old friends might." Here he looked up again, as if daring them to contradict his honor. "After a minute or two I set off for home—and that's where—that's where they found me." His voice cracked.

Timothy instinctively shrank from Mr. Webb's story as something bad, as something horrible not to be mentioned in polite society. But how could a man so easily uproot the woman he'd once expected to marry from his heart? A sickening sense of pity welled up in his chest.

"Sam," he whispered, pulling him aside for a moment. "How do you think we can help him?"

"We write an article listing all the reasons he must be innocent," Sam said, as if it were obvious.