Die I Will Not (28 page)

“It belonged to the mistress. Her pocketbook where she kept her accounts and memoranda.”

“Open it, please. Do you recognize the handwriting?”

“It is Mrs. Leach's hand.”

“Thank you.” Taking the pocketbook back in his hand, Buckler bowed and retreated.

Then Penelope entered the courtroom. Dressed in a black silk gown, she glided forward at a deliberate pace, her head held high and her countenance serene. After she was sworn in, she delivered her responses in a clear voice that carried to the corners of the courtroom, turning her gaze frequently toward Lewis Durant to emphasize her belief in his innocence. Knowing her, Buckler saw what it cost her to be the focus of hostile attention, but he also saw her courage. He could never doubt his love for Penelope Wolfe, but on that day he learned how much he admired her.

When he was finished establishing her parentage and domicile, Quiller said, “Your husband is not in court with you, madam?”

“He has left London.”

“Isn't it true that a warrant of commitment and detainer has been issued against him? If he shows himself, he will be arrested for debt.”

“Yes, that is true.” She spoke firmly, with dignity, but her voice sank a little, and her eyes inadvertently sought Buckler's. He tried to smile, but his lips felt stiff.

“Unfortunate—and yet it seems you are more fortunate in your friends? We've heard of the Runner John Chase, who, I believe, was recently dismissed from Bow Street for disobedience of the magistrate's orders. And I'm told you also call my learned colleague Mr. Buckler your friend? I'm sure you will correct me if I'm wrong, madam, but I believe I read something of the sort in the papers.” With a lift of his brows, Quiller indicated Buckler, who felt the jury's eyes on him. At his side, Thorogood gave him a nudge of his elbow, and Buckler busied himself writing notes he didn't need.

“Indeed, sir,” Penelope said, “I am very fortunate. My friends work to free my brother, who is innocent of these terrible crimes.”

Moving on to inquire about Eustace Sandford's activities at the time of the treason trials, Quiller easily drew forth that Penelope's father had owned to being the original Collatinus. And, when asked outright, she did not deny her father's participation in a scheme to blackmail influential men.

“Political motives, you say?”

“Yes, on his part. He thought society had grown corrupt and selfishly indulgent, uncaring of the common man. He believed that Mrs. Durant had been wronged by the men using her for their pleasure.”

“Wronged? A courtesan? A prostitute? A strange way to speak of a female in such a position. Few would agree with you.”

“Perhaps they should reconsider, sir.”

“What did your father tell you of Nell Durant's murder?”

“That he had led her into danger.”

“He was responsible for her death?”

“I think he meant he should have tried harder to protect her. And after Mrs. Durant died, my father was blamed. Which is why I went to the
Daily Intelligencer
to see Mr. Leach. I wanted to discover the identity of the new Collatinus.”

“But you have no proof of your father's innocence?”

“My brother told me so. Mrs. Leach believed it.”

“Your brother. You refer to the defendant? When did you learn of this relationship?”

“When Mr. Chase told me about Lewis, and I visited him in Newgate Prison.”

“You had no contact with Lewis Durant before his arrest?” His tone, almost nonchalant now, conveyed clear disbelief. “And yet you were in the Adelphi Terrace on the very night Mr. Leach died of his injuries and his wife was brutally slain. We've heard testimony that Durant was seen in the vicinity too. Why were you there?”

“Because Mr. Rex had asked me to visit his daughter.”

“For what possible reason? I'm told you'd not seen her since you were a small child. It seems, if you don't mind my saying so, rather odd of Mrs. Leach to summon you, a woman practically a stranger, to a house newly cast into mourning.”

“We cannot ask her, can we?” Penelope shot back. “I am sure she wanted to tell me about Lewis and share her secrets before it was too late. I only wish I had been in time to stop her from leaving the house.”

“Secrets, madam? A respectable woman can have no secrets of this nature. For shame, you imply ill of a woman who died tragically.”

She looked away, struggling to retain control. After a tense silence, she said softly, “Whatever Mary Leach did, I bear her no malice.”

Quiller snapped his fingers, and an underling brought forth a volume bound in dark leather, which was placed before Mr. Justice Worthing. “The christening register from St. Marylebone parish church, my lord,” said the serjeant smoothly. “It records the birth of a baseborn son to Nell Durant and Eustace Sandford. Mrs. Wolfe's father.”

He turned back to Penelope. “You've heard the wicked rumors Mrs. Durant circulated about the parentage of her babe?”

“I've heard the speculation that the Prince of Wales was the father.”

Now Quiller pointed at Lewis, who stared back at him haughtily. “And yet you call this man brother—Nell Durant's child grown to manhood and accused of sedition and murder. It seems you are right, Mrs. Wolfe. The christening record is proof these rumors were foul lies. You own this bond of blood freely?”

“I do, sir.”

Quiller withdrew, satisfied.

***

Buckler kept Penelope's cross-examination short, wanting to get her off the stand as quickly as possible. He emphasized Eustace Sandford's status as a respectable scholar and pointed out that, after all, Sandford had not returned to his native shores in years. He could hardly be guilty of any nefarious plots from so far away, nor had scandal ever before tainted his daughter. Through further questioning, Buckler also introduced Penelope's theory that Mary had summoned her to reveal the existence of her brother Lewis Durant.

Next on the stand, Samuel Gibbs, printer of the
Free Albion
, produced several closely written pages. “Here they are, my lords. The Collatinus letters.”

Quiller half turned his body toward the jury and spoke in a deliberately restrained tone, somehow managing to convey a sweeping accusation. “Whose hand brought them to you?”

“Lewis Durant's, sir.”

“The same letters you published in your newspaper under the Collatinus pseudonym?”

“The same.” Gibbs, a fine representative of the gutter press, was said to have made a fortune out of his chapbooks and ballad sheets, many of them capitalizing on the theme of Princess Caroline as wronged mother. He was an imp-like creature with hair, gray and matted with dirt, and nose, red and veined from drink. As he answered the questions, he glanced around the court like a child, eager to please.

“Did Durant admit to authoring these letters?”

“'Course, he did. He quoted 'em at me.”

“You knew who he was? The son of the radical Eustace Sandford and Nell Durant?”

“I'd not be publishing his letters else,” said Gibbs earnestly. “We meant to introduce him to the world as Collatinus, son of Collatinus. We'd have made some gingerbread with that one, I can tell you. Only he got nabbed.”

“Did Durant tell you where he got the information for the letters?”

“Why, from his mother's book. The one she used to record her doings when she spread her legs for fine gentlemen.”

Buckler heard several gasps of horror punctuated with shouts of laughter, and Worthing snapped, “Mr. Gibbs, you will curb your tongue.”

“Sorry, my lord. It's just, that
is
what he said.”

“About his own mother?” Quiller injected the right note of dismay into his tone. “Did you see this book, Mr. Gibbs?”

“He kept it close. He told me his foster mother had given it to him when he was a boy. He knew its value.”

“Value? You mean that Durant hoped to profit. Blackmail, in short.”

“Why, of course, he did. Old secrets, mind you, but still worth a bit to keep
sub rosa
. He'd send a begging letter or two; maybe he did it already for all I know. I told him I'd have naught to do with such wickedness.”

“That, then, was the purpose of the letters?”

“And to take a poke at the nobs what never gave him nothing. He hated His Royal Highness like poison, he did. He'd say anything about him; he called him a pig and spit out the side o' his mouth when he said his name. Blamed him for his mother's death, in truth.”

Quiller picked up one of the letters to quote, “
This PRINCE—this monster of rapacity, this enemy of mankind…
” He paused for effect. “Who is the author of this sentiment, sir?”

“Lewis Durant. Without a doubt.”

Buckler rose to his feet. “I object to this, my lords. Mr. Gibbs is an interested party, bent on evading punishment. We must ask what reward he was promised for this testimony.”

“The defendant's counsel grows impatient, I see. No matter. I am finished. You may ask this witness any questions you like.” Quiller gave his polished bow.

Buckler approached the witness box, and for the second time that day, presented Mary Leach's pocket memorandum book, open to a page in the middle. “Do you recognize this hand?”

Gibbs gaped at him, perplexed. “How should I?”

“Do me the honor of comparing the hand in that book to the first Collatinus letter.” As he made this request, his palms were sweating. If Gibbs were to pick up the
last
published letter—the one Lewis had actually written—Buckler's maneuver would fail. Thanks to John Chase, there was only the one.

Suddenly Quiller was at Buckler's side. “My lords, my honored friend outdoes himself with this feint. What does he mean by it?” He plucked the book from Gibbs' nerveless fingers, holding it aloft to decipher the neat script. “
This day I trimmed my white chip hat with some old gauze.
” Quiller smiled at the jury. “We must admit that Mrs. Leach sounds a right villainess in these pages.”

Laughter erupted again, and Buckler felt his face flush. “The hand is the same. Allow Gibbs to make the comparison, if you please. You've heard Mrs. Wolfe's testimony about Mrs. Leach's note to arrange the guardianship of her children. Something had gone seriously wrong in her life.”

Quiller swept an expansive arm to invite the judges, the jury, and the spectators to share his outrage. “Is it not enough the poor woman should be murdered? No, you seek to rob her of character and virtue. You deprive her of reputation, the jewel of her soul.”

Buckler's gaze went out over the gallery to find Horatio Rex, and their eyes locked. “You are right, Mr. Serjeant Quiller. But I cannot see an innocent man hanged to protect her. Mrs. Leach was caught in an evil not of her own devising and swept along by events. If she did evil in her turn, we must temper our condemnation with mercy.”

***

Fish everywhere. They perched on shoulders and decorated the officers' hats. They slid into pockets and plunked on the pavement. The old woman, whose precious stock lay around her like corpses on a battlefield, began to wail. “My fish! You 'ad no call ter do that. Who's goin' ter pay?” Tears pouring down her withered cheeks, she began to retrieve the casualties, dusting each one on her filthy apron before replacing it in her basket.

“You will be compensated,” said Chase as he went to Malone's assistance.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Malone had kicked back with his heavy boot to catch one of his captors in the stomach. Off balance, the man slipped on some scales and fell. Above, the agent in the brown felt hat held grimly to the prisoner's lapels, but Malone, with another kick and a mighty wrench, broke free. He too would have fallen to the ground had Chase not stepped forward to steady him. Chase drew Malone away from the coach, a firm arm encircling his neck.

“Angel?”

“Here, sir,” said the costermonger. Glancing over his shoulder, Chase was surprised to see that the sweet-faced fish-seller bore a distinctly menacing aspect. He stood, fists raised, ready to charge into the fray should fraternal obligation require.

The jarvey had descended from his box to join them. “What do you think you're doing? You interfere in police business.”

“I am the police,” said Chase.

The jarvey looked confused.

The agent in the brown felt hat jumped down to confront them. “He's lying. Help us get this man back into the coach.”

In reply, Chase retrieved his Bow Street tipstaff from his pocket and addressed the jarvey pleasantly. “John Chase, Bow Street. These officers are acting illegally. Ask them to produce their warrant.”

“I ain't done nothing wrong,” said Malone, appealing to the jarvey, man to man.

Chase looked at Malone. “You'll come with me voluntarily? You are needed to answer some questions. A summons has been issued for you to tell your story in court. You are likely the only man in London to have seen the masked man who killed Dryden Leach.”

“Are you mad?” said the agent in the brown felt hat. “I'll see you locked up for this, Chase.”

“For helping you locate a witness who is wanted by the Crown to testify today? I should think you would thank me. I assumed you had the same intentions as I in regard to this man. By what authority do you detain him?”

“Mr. Conant must interview him.”

“And so he shall. I'll escort Malone to Great Marlborough Street myself after the trial. You may follow us to the Old Bailey if you wish, gentlemen.”

Malone, chalk-white and sweating, took a step back. “I'll go nowhere with none of you.”

In the end, Conant's officers, uneasily eyeing the vociferous crowd gathered around the coach, agreed to terms. One of them would follow Chase and Malone to the Old Bailey, while the other would proceed to Great Marlborough Street to learn Mr. Conant's instructions. As for Malone, Chase overheard Angel saying to him, “You'd best go along, Peter. What's ter do? Go and tell yer story. Then yer'll be safe belike.” That seemed to decide the matter, and when Chase had recompensed the old fishwife for her stock, they were ready to depart.