Two secure carriages were parked on the thoroughfare in front of the Great Gate to the Great Court. Joe Murray had hired one of them to carry the Professor home to Newstead, where his calm demeanor and steadfast resolve would make him a fine companion for my mother during the difficult months that were surely ahead of us as I faced trial for murder. Fielding Dingle had procured the second from a gentleman several towns over who was an acquaintance of Angus the Constable; a prison carriage, specially built for use in transporting criminals to remote courts to stand trial. It was a solid box constructed from thick planks of lumber, with only narrow slits near the roof to let in a little light and even less air. It was quite unlike other stagecoaches I’d hired, which usually had big open windows that offered riders access to cooling zephyrs and fine views of the countryside. “What in seven hells do you think you’re doing?” Archibald Knifing asked Dingle, who was half-dragging me out of the student residence building and toward this monstrous conveyance.
