Die I Will Not (16 page)

“We do not observe the ceremonies of the modern Israelite. Mary was wed to a Christian. She had turned her back on her upbringing as I advised her to do and as I did myself, though I've never renounced my religion and never would. But I should have kept her safe with our people, who, I have always believed, are favored by Divine Providence. One more regret. I can't help thinking that if I'd kept to my first wife—a good Jewish woman—none of this would have happened. And, even if it did, maybe Mary's life would have been happier.”

Rex had returned to gazing over the river, but Chase decided it was time to stop dancing around. “What happened to the child Nell bore?”

“He died soon after his mother. A pity, but what future would he have had?”

“And the recent Collatinus letters? Blackmail again?”

“Perhaps. They seem intended to vindicate Nell Durant.”

“If Nell sold her memoirs to someone, where do you think this new Collatinus obtained the manuscript? The letters seem to contain extracts.”

“I cannot tell you.”

“You are an obvious suspect to have revived these letters. You knew Nell. You published the originals. You have reason to seek revenge on your own account.”

“I am not Collatinus. Do you think I would take such a chance a second time? My wife is not in robust health. As it is, she has been distressed by this business and looks on Mrs. Wolfe with disapproval, unfairly perhaps. Now I must tell the Countess about my poor Mary.”

“Did your daughter mention the letter she received yesterday?”

“She never said a word, but then there wasn't an opportunity for much conversation. Her husband was dying, Chase.”

“What time did you leave her last night?”

“Around ten o'clock. Leach wasn't going to last more than another hour or two, and Mary wanted to be alone to pray for his soul. I was to bring Mrs. Wolfe to her in the morning.”

“Why didn't you wait?”

“Mary seemed so desperate. I thought it might comfort her to talk to Mrs. Wolfe, relieve her mind of a burden. I couldn't bear the idea of leaving her on her own, to tell you the truth.”

“You went home after you left the Adelphi the first time? Your coachman or your wife can vouch for your movements?”

“Damn you to hell! Do you think I would beat my own child to death? No, I didn't go home until later. I took a long walk, then made my way back to Fitzroy Square to rouse my coachman. You know the rest.”

Chase stared at him, eyes narrowed. Was Rex so depraved as to take his daughter's life? It was possible, especially if Mary had become a threat to him, as it seemed Nell had before her. Horatio Rex had sacrificed his heritage to claw his way to respectability, and if Mary had endangered his business interests or his position in society, he might have struck out in self-preservation. Her killer had felt strong feelings for her, must have hated her, in fact, to hurt her so viciously. Mary's father might have considered it his right to control his child and chastise her for her rebelliousness, and he could have staged the scene with Penelope as an elaborate charade to give himself a sort of alibi. On the other hand, Chase supposed that one of the other men in Nell Durant's life could have killed Mary.

“I need names, Rex, names of the men you and Sandford blackmailed along with the names of Nell's protectors.”

“It's been nearly twenty years! Some of them are dead. Others have risen high in their careers. You'll never touch them.”

When Chase didn't respond, Rex finally gave the information, his reluctance obvious. Chase was careful to keep the reaction from his face. These were men of enormous power and influence: a government minister, a fashionable gentleman, a wealthy aristocrat who owned vast property in London, and a rakehell who had recently wed a young heiress. Chase would be lucky to gain access to their secretaries, let alone the men themselves.

“This George Kester. He was in attendance at your rout party the other night?”

“He's an old friend. Part of the Carlton House set, a crony of the Regent.”

An old friend Horatio Rex had blackmailed, but Chase let this inconvenient fact pass. “Mrs. Wolfe also mentioned meeting Mr. Hewitt. It was he who helped you evade arrest back in the '90s?”

Rex laughed shortly. “He's a sort of cousin to my wife, but, make no mistake, Hewitt didn't offer his aid out of any regard for me. He owed me a great deal of money. I was forced to forgive the debt in exchange for services rendered.”

“Tell me,” Chase said, keeping his tone even, “did your daughter use Nell's pocketknife to stab her husband? Did she do it to forestall Leach's next revelation in the paper? She was shielding someone, or she wrote those letters herself.”

“You say that to
me
? You lower yourself to spread such filthy slander? A masked man murdered Leach, and there's an end to it. Very likely it was this new Collatinus. You cannot deny he had reason enough to hate Dryden Leach. You find him and leave Mary out of it.”

“I won't lie for you,” said Chase.

***

He spent the rest of the morning, trying to find anyone who might have seen Mary Leach or her murderer, but had no luck. Next he knocked at the door and questioned the Leach servants, including the footman Albert. Albert repeated his story about the letter Mrs. Leach had received, adding only that it had been addressed in a neat hand. No trace could be found of this correspondence—or indeed of any letters or papers except Mary's memorandum book and some innocuous household documents in Leach's study. Chase questioned the lady's maid (rude and contentious) and the chambermaid (flighty and evasive). The former acted as if he were accusing her of negligence when he inquired about the button and stated positively that it hadn't come from anything Mrs. Leach owned. The latter was the girl called Susan who had gossiped to Packet about finding her mistress' wet cloak and boots on the night of Leach's attack. When challenged, Susan burst into tears and denied the story.

“Don't be afraid. Just tell the truth.” Chase kept his voice gentle.

“I am telling you, sir. I never said so.”

“Has someone instructed you to keep quiet?”

“Who would do that? I never said a word about my poor mistress. I'd never tell a lie about her.”

No matter how hard he pressed, the chit only cried all the harder, and he couldn't get a word of sense out of her. He had no doubt Horatio Rex had made sure she wouldn't talk. Similarly, he thought it would do little good at this point to interview the prostitute who'd told Packet she saw a veiled woman running down the street—for what did this prove, after all? The prostitute had caught only a glimpse of a fleeing form, and she hadn't seen where the woman went. No, Packet had gleaned whatever information was to be had from that source, but Chase would ask him to keep looking for other witnesses.

He managed to get a few words with Miss Elliot, the governess, by requesting that she step out of the nursery into the corridor. Pale and distracted, she barely concentrated on his questions and repeated several times that the children would wonder what had become of her.

“Did you speak to Mrs. Leach yesterday?”

She was gazing over his shoulder, but at this she turned her terrified eyes to his face. “No…I mean…yes, she visited Thomas and Emily.”

“How did she seem?”

“I will never forget the way she kissed them.” She shuddered and fell silent, tears welling up and trickling down her cheeks.

“What did she say, ma'am?”

“Why, nothing. I…I am not myself today. I beg you to excuse me.”

Instinct told him she knew something. He felt the knowledge in the tension crackling between them—the governess was a remarkably poor liar, he thought. He persisted in his questioning. “Mrs. Leach did not confide in you, ma'am? If I am to discover who committed this deed, I need your help.”

“Mr. Chase!” Isherwood, the butler, bustled up to challenge him, the footmen in his wake. “You are in a house of mourning. I must request that you leave at once, sir. This is not the time for such inquiries.”

“This is precisely the time before the trail goes cold.”

“Mr. Rex gave me instructions to deny you. Indeed, as he departed this morning, he warned me you might become a nuisance. You have no authority here.”

Unfortunately, this was true. Chase stared down the sanctimonious butler for a moment, then decided to give in before the stalwart footmen did him some violence. “I'll come back later.”

Isherwood bristled “Don't bother. You will not be admitted, sir.”

Though Chase's knee ached fiercely and he longed for his bed as a repentant sinner yearns for salvation, he turned his steps toward Bow Street, where word of the murder had been received. There he waited for two hours in a small, uncomfortable anteroom until the Chief Magistrate was ready for him. This time Read did not offer a chair but kept Chase standing in front of the desk.

“I take it you're tired of your employment at Bow Street?” the magistrate said without preamble. “Otherwise, there's no accounting for your blatant disregard of my instructions.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I did tell you I would pursue the inquiry.”

“Now we have two corpses on our hands instead of one. Dear God, what were you doing at the Adelphi last night? How were you the one to find the body?”

“Mrs. Wolfe summoned me to search for Mrs. Leach.”

“Mrs. Wolfe again. I won't have it. How dare you, Chase? I told you to stay out of this mess. If you think I will stand for your bringing this office into disrepute, you've chosen the wrong man to cross.”

“Disrepute?”

“I've had a word dropped in my ear. It seems your Mrs. Wolfe's father was a traitor, a blackmailer, and likely a murderer. And I don't doubt she is cut from the same cloth. Damned disreputable, I say, sir. Damned disreputable. A connection of mine at the Home Office says this woman and her husband are being looked into as possible conspirators in the Collatinus matter. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if Mrs. Wolfe's husband turns out to be the one putting on fancy dress and sticking knives in people.”

“They are innocent, Mr. Read. At all events, I don't believe in the masked man.”

“How can you be so sure? Mrs. Wolfe could be a pretty face playing you like the fool you are and ruining your prospects into the bargain. If Graham didn't speak so well of you, you'd be on the street by now. As it is, you'll do just as I say. You'll have to testify at the coroner's inquest tomorrow, but when that's done you'll stay quietly at home for a week or two and hope this thing dies down or the authorities make an arrest. Don't show your face here for a while.”

“I must seek Mrs. Leach's murderer and find Collatinus.”

“One and the same, Chase. Everyone says so. You stay home. God knows, you look like you need a rest, and the Home Office has the matter well in hand without any more interference from you. Disobey me this time, and you're out.”

Bracing himself, Chase said, “I'm sorry to disoblige you, sir, but I won't abandon a friend.”

Read held out a peremptory hand. “I am sorry too, but it seems you've made your choice. Give me your tipstaff.”

Chase slipped a hand in the pocket of his greatcoat, bringing out his ensign of office, the baton with the brass crown that represented the authority vested in him by the British Crown. For a moment he let it rest in his palm, remembering the dissatisfaction that had acted like a slow poison in his system for the last year. At the Brown Bear when this investigation began, he had reflected upon the emptiness of his life, and now he would have to find a new way to fill it. This was a daunting prospect. For a decade he'd been an officer of Bow Street. For two decades before that, he had served in the Royal Navy, and before that he'd been a poor clergyman's son, a boy who hated his father, wishing him dead for inflicting a cold religion and a crop of dead babies on his mother. A daunting prospect, indeed, to find out what real emptiness might feel like. Chase laid the tipstaff on the desk and thanked Mr. Read for his time.

Chapter XV

If Chase had been able to see below the Adelphi Terrace while talking to Horatio Rex, he might have observed the sign of a shabby public house. The Fox-under-the-Hill could only be approached through a closed-in, narrow passage called Ivy Bridge Lane that led to a landing on the Thames, where passengers embarked on boats bound for London Bridge. On the next afternoon, the pub's back room was the site of the coroner's inquest into the deaths of Dryden and Mary Leach. With the cooperation of the parish authorities, Rex had offered an enormous reward for information leading to the capture of his daughter's murderer, and in the various police offices around the city, suspects had already been questioned, though whether any of the men who happened to possess black cloaks and domino masks had the slightest connection to the crime was doubtful, at least to John Chase.

As he had foreseen, a storm of reaction had erupted. Two corpses: a staunch government loyalist killed defending his country from a traitor and a helpless woman caught in a wicked conspiracy. All London was talking about the masked assailant known as Collatinus, who must be apprehended if people were to sleep peacefully in their beds. Crowds roamed the surrounding streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of the jury on their return from seeing the bodies laid out in the Leach residence, and at the Fox-under-the-Hill, journalists plied the Leach servants with pints of porter to elicit fresh details.

This story had almost but not quite trumped the latest news in the Princess of Wales scandal. Reformist MP Samuel Whitbread had gone on the attack in her defense, challenging Lord Castlereagh, leader of the House of Commons, and lambasting the Tory press for its slanderous statements against the Princess. Whitbread referred scornfully to Carlton House editors given license to sit in judgment on the innocent, even as they raked in honors for publishing perjured depositions. As Chase waited his turn to testify, he found his thoughts returning again to Dryden Leach and his connection to the Prince. Leach had stood to profit from the Collatinus affair, but his wife had put a stop to that—and to him.
What a vile world we inhabit, and then we dwell with the worms
.

In their testimony, the surgeon Thomas Fladgate and Horatio Rex repeated the tale of the masked man. Sidestepping ticklish questions about why he had kept Leach's true condition a secret, Fladgate asserted that Mrs. Leach had begged him to be silent because her family was in danger. Predictably, Rex corroborated this evidence and spoke of escorting Penelope Wolfe to visit Mary and discovering his daughter's absence. Fladgate also described the injuries of both victims in graphic detail, with those of Mrs. Leach evoking grimaces and head shakings from the crowd.

Soon it was Chase's turn in the witness box. Aware of Penelope and Buckler watching him from the back of the packed room, he also felt the mocking, baleful regard of Fred Gander, sent his way from the specially designated area for journalists near the front.

“According to the footman, Mrs. Leach could not have gone out by the front entrance,” Chase told the jury. “The butler found the kitchen door unlocked about midnight and secured the bolt. I assume Mrs. Leach stole out of the house unseen, intending to return the same way. It appears she carried her husband's pistol on her person, probably to defend herself.”

The Coroner showed his disapproval. “Why on earth would she go out of doors alone so late?”

“Her husband had just died under tragic and mysterious circumstances,” Chase replied carefully. “A note was delivered to her earlier in the evening. I take it she had urgent business.”

“What of this Mrs. Wolfe we've heard about? Mrs. Leach stepped out to meet her perhaps?”

Chase did not look in Penelope's direction. “No, sir. She believed her father would bring Mrs. Wolfe to her the next morning.”

“Mrs. Leach would hardly go voluntarily to the Dark Arches, Mr. Chase. Which makes me question whether the villain somehow broke into the house and abducted her!”

“No sign of forced entry. The house was full of servants. It seems logical that she went out to meet someone and this person is responsible for her murder.”

“Well, sir? What do you think happened?”

“Whether or not she went on her own to the Dark Arches, her life ended there in a hidden place where the crime could be perpetrated.”

“Indeed, the poor soul stood no chance. This Collatinus likely held a knife to her throat. It wasn't enough to silence her husband, but the villain must also slay an innocent woman.”

Sitting up straighter, Chase delivered his next response in a ringing tone. “We have no evidence that Collatinus murdered either victim. Neither is there evidence that the same person killed both Dryden and Mary Leach.”

“Of course it was Collatinus. Do you suppose we have two masked assassins roaming the streets of London at one time? I believe we've not yet come to that in a civilized country.” The Coroner laughed at his little joke, then turned a sneering look on Chase. “You are singularly uninformed, sir, for a Runner.”

He lost his grip on the fraying ends of his patience. “You asked me what I think happened. I believe the murderer sought information from Mrs. Leach. Her clothing was soaked. He pushed her head down in a water trough to make her speak. Possibly, she refused to comply, so he beat her to death. Is that enough information for you?”

“What
lady
's knowledge is of interest to an outright devil?”

“She knew a murder victim called Nell Durant. Perhaps Mrs. Leach could identify Mrs. Durant's murderer—or she had found out who Collatinus was.”

“You cast aspersions on a poor murdered lady? You saw what that monster did to her with your own eyes!”

“A vagrant boy came upon a gentleman in the Arches sometime after midnight. We must find this man.”

“No gentleman in this case. 'Tis plain enough. Mr. Leach had enraged Collatinus with his courageous replies to these infamous letters”—here the Coroner rustled the pages of newsprint in front of him and slapped his hand on the table—“and the wicked brute attacked Mr. Leach in his own office. When he feared Mr. Leach had named his attacker, Collatinus went after Mrs. Leach too.”

“The porter Peter Malone was a witness to the attack on Leach. He has disappeared. If you are right, sir, where is Malone? Why hasn't he come forward? Moreover, Mrs. Leach wrote a note in her memorandum book, which suggests she knew her danger. The note designates a relation to care for her children—the tone is desponding, that of a woman who meant to put herself in harm's way or take her own life.”

“By asking a murderer to pummel her to death? You dishonor her memory.”

It was no good. The Coroner maintained his obtuse hostility, and the panel merely stared at Chase, horrified by the possibilities his testimony raised. The jurors wanted the simpler explanation, the one with the most dramatic appeal. They did not want to imagine that people of wealth and influence had done anything to deserve this tragedy. Far easier and more entertaining to believe in a masked villain.

After the inquest ended with the expected verdict of “willful murder against person or persons unknown,” Chase caught Buckler's eye, nodding toward the door. They should escort Penelope home without delay in case the journalists, especially Gander, had observed her presence. She allowed her friends to take an arm on each side as they walked briskly up the steep passage leading toward the Strand. But they had not gone more than a few yards when a voice called, “A word with you, Chase. My, you're in a hurry. I'll take but a minute of your time.”

They halted, and Buckler directed a worried glance at Chase. Slowly, Chase turned to face Fred Gander who hovered a few feet away, his face wearing a gleeful expression. “Not now, Gander. I'll speak to you later at the Brown Bear.”

“That won't do. Besides, I see you've got your friend Mrs. Wolfe with you. As it turns out, I've a few questions for her.”

“I said not now, Gander. We are late for an appointment.”

“No, no. You won't fob me off. The public has a right to know. You've done me a scurvy turn, Chase. You took my money and left me high and dry.”

Releasing Penelope's arm, Chase opened his pocketbook to extract several notes. He strode over to Gander and shoved the wad in the journalist's coat pocket. “There's your money and a bit more for your trouble. Come to the Brown Bear tonight. I'll see you satisfied.”

Gander pantomimed moral outrage. “Hush-money? It won't work. The public won't like to hear of a principal officer of Bow Street stooping so low. Consorting with a suspect in a murder inquiry too.”

“You don't know what you're talking about. Stop making mischief.”

“I don't, eh? I might have tumbled to your game sooner but for the uproar over the Princess of Wales. But this masked man story will round out my pamphlet delightfully. I see just how to do it. I'll make a heroine of the Princess—a woman, like poor Mrs. Leach, beset by an unscrupulous man. Not content to hound his poor wife almost to madness, the Prince Regent gets himself involved with a woman who turns up dead. Twenty years later, her friend is killed too! I've been reading the Collatinus letters, old and new, and having a few interesting conversations with my sources. It's been suggested I cast the Prince as victim of this piece, but I'm not having that version.”

“You may rip His Highness' character to shreds for all I care,” said Chase. “Leave Mrs. Wolfe out of it.”

“You see, I had to ask myself, why did Mrs. Wolfe visit Dryden Leach on the very day he caught a knife to the chest? And I had no answer until it was whispered to me that her father was the original Collatinus and this N.D. was a celebrated courtesan in league with the Jacobins! And the Prince's lover. Too, too delicious, my friend. All too opportune for those of us taking up Princess Caroline's cause.”

Buckler said to Penelope, “Stay here.” Approaching the journalist, he seemed to loom over him. Though the barrister was not a tall man, he could give a good five inches to Gander, and the shadows playing over Buckler's face in the dim passageway made him look markedly dangerous. “Watch yourself,” he said. “You don't want a libel suit. You have plenty of meat to offer your readers without dragging Mrs. Wolfe's name through the muck.”

“Mr. Edward Buckler? I've seen you plead in the Old Bailey. Here's another deliciously interesting question: Are you Mrs. Wolfe's knight
sans peur et sans reproche
? I should think a married lady would stand in no need of such defense.”

“Buckler.” Chase laid a hand on his friend's arm.

But Buckler shook him off, eyes alight with a cold fire that made him look like an altogether different person. He leaned forward to grasp Gander by the lapels of his coat.

“I grow tired of being manhandled by you and your friends, Chase,” the journalist observed in a plaintive tone. “It ain't polite. Tell Mr. Edward Buckler to release me.”

By this time Penelope had joined them. “Let him go, Mr. Buckler. If I agree to speak to him, he may at least report the truth.”

“No,” said Chase, “you do not know this man. He will twist your words out of recognition.”

“A sensible lady,” approved Gander. “Would you care to tell me why you went to Mrs. Leach's house on the night she was killed? Strange, isn't it? You always seem to be on the spot for a bit of villainy.”

Penelope addressed him like a teacher scolding a rather dimwitted student. “She was an old friend of my family. You don't understand, Mr. Gander.”

He smirked at her. “I understand one thing, madam. If we are looking for the new Collatinus, we must consider you a prime candidate. But in that case, who is the masked man?” His gaze scanned insultingly over Buckler, who stared back into the gloating face with its avid eyes and twitchy mouth.

Before the journalist could say more, Buckler's fist had struck him in the nose. Blood spurted out and dripped down Gander's chin to land on the hand still holding the journalist's coat. With an exclamation of disgust, Buckler let go and, reaching in his pocket, took out his handkerchief. Deliberately, he wiped his fingers clean and turned away in disgust.

“We're leaving,” said Chase.

Gander smiled through the blood staining his teeth red. “Mr. Edward Buckler,” he said thickly, “you may be sure your blow will be repaid with interest.”

***

Two spots of color rode high in Penelope's cheeks. She twisted her gloved hands in her lap and tapped her foot on the floor of the coach. “It was foolish and wrong of you to strike the journalist.”

“Yes,” Buckler admitted ruefully. He avoided Chase's sardonic eye, instead meeting her severe one. To give him a chance to make his excuses, he had insisted on escorting Penelope home. He noticed that Chase had shunned the first hackney stand they came to, but now they were settled in an appropriately shabby coach bound for Greek Street.

“Mr. Gander will only shout his lies all the louder. He'll sling his filth in your direction too.”

“Let him try, Mrs. Wolfe.”

“I have enough to worry about. I don't wish to have you on my conscience as well.” She folded her lips tightly together and turned her head away to gaze out the window.

“I can only say how sorry I am,” said Buckler, his spirits sinking low. Almost of its own volition, his hand stretched out toward hers; then he retracted it quickly. He was amazed at his own folly. What had possessed him? He had risen to Gander's bait with a vengeance. In his profession, he had learned to exert a rigid control even in the face of extreme provocation from opposing counsel, such control being necessary if he intended to triumph in a cause. But today he had acted like a green boy or a lovesick swain.

His back to the horses, Chase sat listening to this exchange and looking amused. “It doesn't matter, Buckler. If you hadn't given Gander material for his paragraphs, he would have simply invented it. I believe you gained a measure of satisfaction in return.”