Die I Will Not (10 page)

Chapter IX

Chase would do no such thing. The next morning saw him up betimes and well rested, his neighbor having kept quiet for a change. After breakfast, he walked up St. Martin's Lane to the rookery around Seven Dials, where seven streets came together in a poor, criminal district even a prigman like Packet might hesitate to enter. Chase wanted to locate Samuel Gibbs, editor and printer of the
Free Albion
, but this was easier said than done. Fly-by-night printers tended to pack up and move their premises whenever they feared the weight of authority might descend on them with an indictment for seditious libel.

He finally found the office on Monmouth Street, but the shutters were fastened, no one answering his knock. And when he attempted to interview a neighboring dealer of pigeons, fowl, and other more exotic birds, the man could—or would—tell him nothing. After trying the rag-and-bone man and the dealer in old iron with similar results, Chase walked the streets. He kept his hand on the pistol in his pocket and his Bow Street baton conspicuously displayed as he asked questions of the men leaning against doorposts and the women sitting on steps. There was little to see but gutters choked with refuse and rows of shabby buildings with endless lines of broken or patched windows. He decided to take himself back to civilization.

Then he was off to the hackney-coach registry office in Essex Street to see about tracing the suspicious coaches. Again showing his Bow Street ensign, Chase gave the clerk the plate numbers and was soon in possession of the drivers' names, as well as the names of the yards where they stabled their horses. On the other hand, without a plate number, he was unlikely to trace the hackney coach that had transported Dryden Leach back to the Adelphi. He would have to hope Packet discovered something by inquiring at the coach stands in the vicinity of the Strand, and Chase had also asked him to check the coaching inns in case Peter Malone had been spotted leaving town.

At the first coach-yard, Chase found the driver himself, sitting over a tankard of ale in the taproom. Scanning his features, he did not believe this to be the same jarvey from Greek Street, a conclusion confirmed when the man took him outside to display his coach: a battered specimen with a faded coat of arms and a broken door fastened by a peg. It was not the same coach he and Penelope had ridden in the day before. After silencing the man's curiosity with a generous tip, Chase went on to the second yard but was informed that this particular coach had been out of service for a week due to the driver's illness. When Chase asked if the vehicle happened to be a particularly handsome equipage, the landlord laughed. “If you're fond of mud, broken springs, and doddering horses, sir.” So there it was. The number plates had been falsified.

Last night, Chase had asked the harlot with the baby to show him the porter's lodging in Feathers Court, but a suspicious neighbor told him Mrs. Malone and the children had stepped out. Upon his return today, he was not terribly surprised to learn that the family's belongings had been removed. They were gone; no one in the court would admit to knowing where. And Chase's mind moved again to Mary Leach and her desperate vigil over her dying husband. What had really happened at the newspaper office?

As he left Feathers Court, he barely noticed the dreary drizzle of rain soaking his hat and coat, for he had much to digest. Suddenly he recalled Farley's tattle about the Runner Victor Kirby and his involvement in a secret investigation of Princess Caroline, and he remembered that the wounded journalist Dryden Leach was a sycophant, a word-man for hire, who polished the reputation of his royal master with fawning paragraphs in his newspaper. Surely, the Home Office men had no reason to attack Leach, though they might have an interest in knowing who did. Possibly, Peter Malone had seen the masked man, and the government either wanted to obtain this information, or prevent Malone from revealing it to anyone else. Yes, that could be true, Chase thought, particularly if the watchers were not in the pay of Horatio Rex, after all. Chase would have a word with Kirby.

But what in heaven's name could an inquiry into Princess Caroline have to do with Penelope Wolfe? Was it possible the Home Office was watching Penelope's movements because she was suspected of being connected to Collatinus, who was a threat to the Regent? Though Chase had kept a sharp eye out today, he had not observed anyone following him. Which told him yesterday's watchers had been more interested in Penelope than in him. Nothing added up, and instinct told Chase that the stubborn darkness of this inquiry would not readily yield to enlightenment.

For much of the afternoon he toasted his boots in front of a small fire at Bow Street, waiting to see if Victor Kirby would appear, and was rewarded for his patience when the Runner strolled in about five o'clock. A man of medium height with ropy arm muscles and pleasant, nondescript features, Kirby walked to the table, picking up a copy of the
Hue and Cry
. He greeted Chase respectfully and began to flip the pages.

Chase rose to join him. “I hear you've been working out of Great Marlborough Street these days.”

Kirby kept his attention on the gazette as if absorbed in its descriptions of stolen property and felonies committed. “I'm sure you'll pardon me, Chase, but I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter. Magistrate's orders.”

“Look, I know there's a to-do with letters written by a radical hack called Collatinus, so don't pitch the gammon with me.”

“It's not that I don't want to tell you,” said Kirby awkwardly, “but my career won't be worth a jot if I blab. Maybe after it's all over—”

Chase studied him. “Let's try this. I speak; you listen. Just say me yea or nay.” He paused, keeping his eyes fixed on the other man's face. “Well then, you have been told to examine the private affairs of the Princess of Wales to prepare the way for the Regent's divorce. Maybe like the last investigation? Interviewing her servants, noting her movements, maybe even inspecting her linen and reading her love letters?”

The younger man's expression remained stony, but a little color crept up his cheeks. Chase smiled, allowing the silence to stretch before he said, “I wonder, Kirby, whether you've seen the Collatinus letters? They allude to the Regent in no respectful terms. Have you and your new colleagues been charged with the task of finding this scribbler and stopping his mouth?”

At this Kirby looked angry. “I have no idea what you're talking about, and, even if I did, I can't tell you, as I've made plain.” He tossed the gazette back on the table. “I'll take myself off now. Business to attend to.”

Chase stepped in his path. “One moment, Kirby. Skinny man in a brown coat, name of Peter Malone. He's the porter at the
Daily Intelligencer
. You know him?”

There was no reaction except that Kirby's defiance seemed to harden. Then the door opened, and one of the clerks thrust in his head. “John Chase? Mr. Read needs to see you right away.” Kirby shoved past the clerk and went out.

***

Chief Magistrate James Read had pulled a lamp close to him on the desk in order to work in the gathering gloom. Light flickered over his austere features, illuminating the fleshy pouches under each eye and the wrinkles on his heavily lined forehead. He drew himself upright, readying himself for yet another unpleasant task in an already long day, and indicated a chair in front of the desk. Taking a seat, Chase waited for the magistrate to speak.

“You've been poking your nose where it has no business to be. Oblige me by steering clear of this Collatinus affair.”

“Who gave you the word, sir?”

“None of your business, Chase. Let's just say I heard it from those you would do well not to cross and leave it at that. What's your interest in the matter?”

This was not an easy question to answer. If he said he was trying to find the author of the letters, Read would wonder what possible reason he could have. If he said he was trying to find a masked assailant—whose supposed victim had never even reported the crime—Read was likely to question his sanity. Chase answered carefully, “A friend of mine, a lady, is in trouble and has asked for my help.”

“What trouble?”

“I won't betray the lady's confidence at present, except to say that the inquiry relates to a journalist, stabbed while sitting alone in his office. The man is not long for this world, and yet no notice has been taken by anyone. In fact, everyone seems deuced eager to pretend the attack never happened! I didn't think you'd wish me to ignore foul murder, sir.”

“That would depend, Chase. I gather some unpleasantness is afoot, but I've been told the Home Office has the matter well in hand and affairs of state are at stake. No call for your interference. Who is guilty of the crime, do you think?”

“A masked man, supposedly, but I find I credit his existence less and less.”

Read's look seemed a curious mixture of amusement and disapproval. “You say you aim to help a lady?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This wouldn't be she, by chance, whom you met at Mr. Horatio Rex's rout?” He gave a sour smile at Chase's start of surprise. “I suppose you think I do nothing but nurse thieves and molls in court and bury my head in papers the rest of the time, but I do like to know a thing or two about the men on my staff.” Reaching over to one of his neat stacks of correspondence, he extracted a single sheet. “Let me see, I think I have the letter here.
Rascal. Interloper. Rudesby.
Would that be you, Chase?”

“Rex sent a letter of complaint. I should have known he would.”

“Yes, you should.” The smile was gone from Read's eyes. “Some of the fashionables may like to have a Runner attending their fancy parties, but in future you will wait to be invited. You were trespassing, as Mr. Rex charges with perfect justice.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Chase didn't bother to imbue his speech with false contrition as he believed Read would not care overmuch to indulge the complaints of a moneylender, however plump in the pocket the “gentleman” might be.

The Chief Magistrate brushed aside this apology with a wave of his hand. “I don't doubt you've been after Victor Kirby too. You leave him alone, Chase. Indeed, this must all stop immediately, and you'll return to your other duties. I would assume you have some? Otherwise, I may start to think Bow Street has outlived its usefulness.”

Chase grinned. “I can find a trick or two to keep me busy, sir. But is there nothing you can tell me about the Home Office's interest in this case? A valuable witness to the attack on the journalist has disappeared.”

“Not a thing. The matter is out of my hands. They haven't told me much, though I know enough to be glad I'm well out of it. It seems Conant over at Great Marlborough Street has taken the lead.” He paused, then added reflectively, “Ambitious man is Conant. He'll be nipping at my heels.”

“I trust not, Mr. Read.” This time Chase was sincere. While he knew next to nothing about Read's life outside the office, Chase had always been impressed by the Chief Magistrate's refusal of the knighthood that traditionally accompanied the magistracy of Bow Street. It seemed Read cared more for the substance of his job than for worldly advancement.

Read stretched his shoulders, glancing down at his papers. “We're finished here. Do I have your assurance you'll let the matter drop?”

They looked at one another, and the only sounds in the room were the carriage wheels and street cries from outside. Chase finally said, “No, sir. You don't.”

Thunder descended on the magistrate's brow. “You are insubordinate. Cross me in this, and I can't be answerable for the consequences. You won't like to lose your situation.”

Chase did not answer.

“Blast it. I don't have time for this. Do as I say, or you'll be sorry. Tell your lady-friend, with my apologies, to find someone else to fight her battles.” Turning away, Read picked up his pen, and Chase left the room.

He walked home in the twilight under roiling clouds that weighed upon the city. There was no question in his mind about whether he would continue his investigation, but he supposed he would have to be more circumspect in the future. He must proceed in a more private capacity without resorting to the convenient authority of Bow Street.

As Chase picked his way through the crowd of pickpockets, low women, and pleasure-seeking gentlemen in the market square, Packet suddenly materialized at his elbow, motioning him into a shop doorway. Chase was not surprised to see him since his line of business often brought him to the square, which provided enormous scope for his talents. Tonight the thief wore his rusty, old coat again. His eye was still black and blue, but the swelling on his face had subsided.

“Got news,” he hissed.

“Let's hear it,” said Chase. “But be quick. It's about to rain.”

With a quick look up at the threatening sky and another look around to make sure no one overheard, Packet murmured to Chase's cravat, “I asked about Leach's surgeon, fellow called Fladgate. Nothing. He were well greased in the fist to keep quiet, I warrant. But I got a chambermaid as says she found her mistress' muddy boots and soiled skirt on the morning after Leach was hushed. Seems Mrs. Leach went out in the night, and there ain't no one to say just where she went.”

“Did you inquire among the molls on the Strand? Anyone see Mrs. Leach?”

“Not for certain, except for one interesting thing. One of them gals says as how she saw a veiled woman a-running down the street, like the hounds of hell were after her. Might a been Mrs. Leach, might not, but strange all the same, eh? You reckon she were hand in glove with the masked man?”

“No, I think she made him up.” Chase dropped several coins in Packet's hand and walked away.

At home he found an unexpected invitation from the lawyer Ezekiel Thorogood to dine the next day as well as a coyly urgent note from the journalist Fred Gander, seeking fresh intelligence on the inquiry. Chase would have to get rid of Gander somehow. As he ate his dinner with Mrs. Beeks and the boys, Chase kept his attention on his plate, dimly aware that he hurt Leo's feelings with his monosyllabic replies to a stream of eager questions. Leo's brother, William, a much more self-contained and reserved child, thankfully paid Chase no mind.