Die I Will Not (4 page)

“What happened to her?” inquired the clerk in ready sympathy.

Buckler affected a groan. “Do not encourage him, Bob.”

“Livy says she plunged a dagger into her heart to cleanse her shame, but that was not the end of it. While the king was away fighting a campaign, Collatinus and Brutus, the king's nephew, raised a mob and locked the gates of Rome against its rulers. They established a republic, and Brutus and Collatinus became joint consuls. A triumph for the people.”

“You've forgotten the end of the tale,” said Buckler. “Sandford's choice of name seems rather ill-omened when one remembers that Collatinus was soon ejected from his consulship. The people didn't care for the royal blood in his veins, and even Brutus didn't remain loyal to him. Collatinus became an exile, rather like Sandford, strangely enough.”

Thorogood looked grim. “With an indignity suffered by a lady at the root of it all. What if this N.D. was wronged and Sandford sought to avenge her honor?”

“Possible, I suppose. In any case, if the author of these new letters realizes Mrs. Wolfe is Sandford's daughter, she may be at risk.”

“What motive can Collatinus have?”

“It may be political, or he may intend blackmail.” Buckler drained his glass and set it among the other dirty cups on the table. He felt a pleasant languor he hoped would take him into a restful sleep untroubled by dreams of Penelope Wolfe. “A touch too much rum this time, Thorogood.”

“Nonsense. The punch was perfect.”

As Thorogood prepared to depart, wrapping himself in his fur-lined cloak and muffler, Buckler said, his voice low, “I want to help her, Zeke. Mrs. Wolfe should not face this business on her own, and he is not the sort to care for anyone but himself.”

Thorogood had no need to ask who “he” was. “We will do all in our power, of course. Buckler, be careful.”

“Do you suppose N.D. was her father's mistress? It must make Mrs. Wolfe unhappy to suspect her father of infidelity, whatever else he got up to while he was in London.”

“Yes, she is awkwardly placed, and I suspect history repeats itself in her own marriage.” Thorogood plucked his white hat from the stand and faced his friend squarely. “But I was cautioning
you
, as you are well aware.”

A frigid gust of wind hit Buckler as he turned away to open the door. “That bastard Wolfe does not appreciate his good fortune,” he said.

Chapter IV

“A word with you,” said Fred Gander. John Chase, sitting at his usual table in the Brown Bear tavern, did not immediately reply. Instead, he exchanged a derisive look with fellow Runner Dugger Farley, who stood nearby, casually holding the arm of their prisoner while he conversed with an acquaintance and quaffed ale with his other beefy hand. Farley loomed over the culprit, a man about forty years old, hunched over, defeated, with mud on his trousers and a deep rent in his shabby coat. Desperate eyes gleamed from his haggard face.

“As you see, I am occupied.” Chase did not care for the journalist Gander, who made frequent sport of the Bow Street men in the press. In his last effort Gander had developed his witticisms around the theme of “bulldog” Runners drawing “badger” malefactors into the open and seizing them in an obstinate grip. The point being that there was nothing to choose between them in terms of “animal propensity”: the one fiercely grasping his portion of the forty-pound reward for a capital conviction, the other clutching his illegal gains.

Chase turned his eyes toward the door. To Farley, he said, “The prosecutor should be here soon. Put the prig at a table and let's see if he can identify him.”

“Why bother? We got what we need.” Farley held up the packet of fine muslin handkerchiefs they had pulled from the thief's trousers after dragging him into a corner of the tavern to search him to the accompaniment of drunken shouts of encouragement from the tavern's customers.

“Just do it.”

Obligingly, Farley took the prisoner to a table and sat him down, ignoring the protests of two men whose raucous drinking song had been interrupted.

Gander still hovered at Chase's side. “I will await the completion of your business.” After pausing to exchange a few words with Farley, the journalist moved away to stand in front of the taproom fire. He ordered a pint from a barmaid.

Ignoring him, Chase nursed his own drink and tried to feel more interest in the proceedings. Of late he'd been troubled by a lingering sense of boredom and discontent. He stood guard for the Regent on state occasions, attended the occasional ball to lend protection to the nobles, raided disorderly houses, or chased down culprits from the never-exhausted fund of petty thieves who peopled the streets. He sometimes went out of town employed on private inquiries, which helped to break the monotony. But he knew it was not really dissatisfaction with his job bothering him. Rather, it was the growing realization his life was empty. Upon this thought, he touched his coat pocket where reposed a letter from Abigail, an American woman who had nursed him after the battle of Aboukir in '98 and borne him a son named Jonathan. She had not wanted to marry him; instead, she opted to return to Boston to raise their child in more affluence than Chase could offer.

Now she had sent word that Jonathan had joined the crew of a privateer as cabin boy to sail the seas in search of fat British birds to pluck—merchant ships carrying valuable cargos. For Chase, a former first lieutenant in His Majesty's navy who had become a cabin boy at the same age, this was unsettling news. Pride in his son was uppermost. Yet he worried for Jonathan's safety and wrestled with the knowledge that his own flesh and blood served the enemy. Since the Americans had almost no navy of their own, they relied on privateers to conduct the war, with unanticipated success. The many stings inflicted by these rampaging pirates could not sit well with an Englishman. So on this gloomy March night Chase was in no mood for sly, slinking Fred Gander.

The door opened, and the shopboy, radiating triumph, preceded his master into the taproom. He had served his employer well, first in trailing the thief to his hole in a ramshackle building, then in fetching the Runners to arrest him. He brought the linen-draper over to Chase's table.

“Here's Mr. Scoldwell, sir.”

“You have recovered my property?” The linen-draper Scoldwell wore a neat, black suit and an unhappy expression, clearly knowing himself to be out of place in the taproom's low company. Old age had rounded his shoulders and carved lines of weariness around his mouth. He moved with hesitant steps, leaning for support on a cane decorated with a roaring lion's head.

Farley spread the wares on the table for him. “Yours?”

Scoldwell ran one finger down the material. “Yes, this is my property. Where is the thief?”

With a quelling glance at the ever-helpful boy who looked about eagerly, Chase said, “Have a look, sir, and see if you spot him.”

The linen-draper's eyes traveled around the crowded taproom. Voices clamored, glasses jingled, and loud laughter rang out as he made his careful inspection. After a moment he lifted one bony finger. “There, sitting at that table.”

“That's it then. I'm off to play nursemaid at the Theatre Royal,” said Farley. He motioned to the landlord, who was watching with a complacent eye as the drama unfolded. The Runners were his regular customers. Though plans were afoot to expand Bow Street's premises across the way, the public office had long suffered from a lack of space. As a result, the Runners often used the tavern to conduct their business, stow stolen goods, and hold prisoners temporarily. This thief would remain in lockup at the Brown Bear until he could be brought before a magistrate.

After dismissing the prosecutor with instructions to appear in court the next day, and seeing the prisoner disposed in his cell, Chase and Farley were ready to depart.

Farley pointed across the room. “Gander's waving at you. You mean to speak to him?”

“Not if I can help it. I'm going home.”

The journalist cut him off at the door. “A word with you, Mr. Chase? I wouldn't be so hasty. I might have something to say for your profit, a private matter.”

“You mean a private matter between me, you, and your legion of readers.”

“No, no. Let me buy you a drink, Chase. You'll want to hear the news of your friend Mrs. Wolfe.”

Chase lifted the journalist by the shoulders and propped him against the wall. “Mrs. Wolfe had better not appear in one of your paragraphs, Gander. Do you understand me?”

Gander blinked back, alarm making his body go rigid and his booted feet twitch against the wainscoting. “No need to take me up like that, sir. I thought you'd want to know she might be in a bit of a fret. Friendly intentions, I assure you.”

“You will explain yourself.” Chase set Gander down, gently, and strode to his corner table without looking to see whether the journalist followed. A man who had appropriated Chase's seat took one look at him and scurried away.

Joining him, Gander made eye contact with the barmaid, held up two fingers, and contemplated Chase, his good humor restored. “Perhaps I can sweeten your temper, sir. What would you say to a job? For the usual fee, of course.”

Chase just looked at him and waited. After reflectively smoothing his collar and taking several long pulls from the tankard the barmaid set in front of him, Gander said, “I want you to look into a bit of havey-cavey business I chanced upon just before the curtain descended on an interesting scene. I'm sure you've noted, and given due honor, to my humble contributions in the
London
Daily Intelligencer
? Last night I stopped to have a word with an editor fellow there by the name of Leach, but he was suddenly taken ill. Bundled off home, no questions asked. Deuced odd, all the way around.”

“Why odd?”

“He'd run out of the building before he swooned. I arrived to see our porter practically carrying the poor fellow to a hack, and there was Leach waving his arms to keep everyone at bay. I caught a glimpse of him, and he looked like death.”

“So the man was sick. Maybe he didn't want people gaping at him. What's your theory, Gander? I take it you suspect some sort of foul play, but what reason could there be to conceal it?”

“That's what I don't know. I thought you'd poke around, maybe ask a few questions. The place to begin is with the porter. I had a word with him, but he's not opening his budget to me. I'm too well known to him, see, and he won't risk losing his place. You try him, Chase. He'll blow the gab with you if you treat him handsome.”

“What's your interest in Leach?”

Gander grinned. “The story, what else? Deuced smoky that the editor of a major daily newspaper disappears with no real explanation and no announcement as to when he might be back. Leach is well paid for his loyal support, which, I can tell you, is needed now that Prinny has turned his back on his Whig friends. I've seen the Prince's man around lately—there's bound to be something in the wind.” He added judiciously, perhaps to show he intended plain dealing, “I don't mind telling you I've another interest in this business. Have you been following the noise in the papers about the Princess of Wales?”

“Who can escape it?”

As all the world knew, the Prince Regent's long-estranged wife, Caroline, had sent him a letter protesting her separation from her seventeen-year-old daughter Charlotte, heiress to the throne, even though Caroline had been acquitted of adultery in an earlier investigation. When the Regent twice declined to read this missive, Caroline submitted it a third time, only to be told he'd been informed of its contents and did not choose to respond. Then the letter made its way to the papers, sparking a national uproar, a debate in the House of Commons, and a meeting of the Privy Council, which ruled that the Regent's restrictions on his detested wife's contact with Charlotte must be upheld. Now the clamor had increased in volume as many championed the injured mother's claim that she was the victim of “suborned traducers”—those paid to commit perjury, according to the explosive phrase used in her letter.

Gander leaned closer. “You've heard of
The Book
, Perceval's report of the inquiry into Her Highness' conduct back in '06? The ‘Delicate Investigation' aiming to pin a by-blow on her to get the Prince of Wales his divorce? Well, the boy living with her truly was an adopted son, not a cuckoo in the royal nest. Perceval destroyed most of the copies of his defense of the Princess in a big bonfire when he got himself in office, but a few escaped the flames. The Prince tried to buy them up, but it seems he missed some. It may be I have one in my possession.” His eyebrows did a little wiggle that made Chase want to smack him.

“You bought one, eh? I suppose you seek a return on your investment. Publish it then. The time is ripe.”

“I tried once before, but an injunction from the Lord Chancellor soon put paid to that. Never fear, I won't let anyone steal a march on me, especially since the Regent himself is said to have leaked Lady Douglas' testimony to the papers. She's the shrew who falsely accused the Princess, you know. Maybe the radicals will get Lady D. for perjury in the end.”

“What's this to do with Leach?”

Gander looked smug. “That's what I mean to know. A big defender of the Regent is Mr. Leach, and he's been striving mightily to refute some base insinuations leveled against His Royal Highness in letters written by a radical hack named Collatinus. Leach uses his replies to Collatinus to attack Caroline's fitness as a mother and general unsuitability as a wife. He even implies Collatinus is one of her supporters. I want to know the real story, Chase, to spice up my pamphlet.”

“What exactly does Leach say in these letters?”

“Oh, the usual rant. He calls Collatinus a coward who fled in disgrace in '94 when the authorities were forced to take strong measures. Says he hopes they'll crush the malefactors now in wartime. Trots out the sacred honor of the royal family and His Highness' rights as a father.” Gander pursed his lips to convey his dismay at the depravity of the modern era. He allowed Chase a moment to absorb his words, then added, “Leach was about to reveal the identity of Collatinus, though I suppose this treat is no longer in store for us.”

“How does Mrs. Wolfe figure here?”

“That's for you to find out, isn't it? I'll tell you two things, though. Her husband is an intimate of a man called Horatio Rex, father-in-law to the journalist. And, strangely enough, Mrs. Wolfe paid a visit to Leach on the very day he took ill. What do you suppose she wanted?”

Chase kept his face blank, but inside his thoughts churned. He had heard of this Horatio Rex. Some years back, Rex had been questioned at Bow Street on charges of assaulting two prostitutes. Though the two victims had quickly recanted their testimony, Rex was later convicted at trial. Had these women attempted to extort money with a false accusation, or had he paid them off to silence them? Whatever the truth, and despite his hard-won social position, Horatio Rex had a murky reputation. What was Mrs. Wolfe embroiled in this time? Chase knew her for a woman honorable to a fault but prone to heedless impulse. “I'll look into the matter,” he said.

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Gander pulled out his watch. After consulting it, he grinned. “I thought you might agree. Then you're sure to enjoy the show at Mr. Rex's rout-party this evening. Just say you've come to guard the family jewels.”

***

Horatio Rex and the Dowager Countess of Cloondara resided in Fitzroy Square, a newer terrace of houses faced with Portland stone just south of the New Road and north of Oxford Street. The square itself had been built only on the east and south sides, for the work had been halted upon the breakout of the war when trade stagnated. It had an air of aspiring to big things in a location not quite promising enough to deliver them. Two or three hundred people were there to guzzle Mr. Rex's excellent champagne and revel in the overpowering grandeur of his drawing rooms. At the head of the stone staircase, Mr. Rex, a slim man of sixty dressed with restrained elegance, waited to greet his guests, the Countess at his side. In recent months, Mr. Rex had been eager to offer Penelope and Jeremy his friendship, but Penelope, not liking the banker's circle of dissolute gentlemen and worried that Rex encouraged her husband in idleness, had done her best to stay aloof. However, Jeremy nourished hopes of preferment; it had even been hinted he might be introduced to the Prince Regent, a noted connoisseur of the arts.