by S K Rizzolo
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 year
s 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.
The Countess of Cloondara, some years her husband’s elder, held herself like a much younger woman, though wrinkles were scored over the remains of a striking beauty to form a cracked mask. Jeremy received a smile as he lifted her hand, spotted and twisted with age, to his lips. To Penelope, the Countess murmured a polite greeting. Gazing into her still vivid eyes, Penelope was taken aback to discern a flicker of dislike, though for what reason she could not fathom. Her father had mentioned that the Countess had been kind to her when she was a child.
Penelope turned away to allow the next guest to approach, accompanying Jeremy through the glittering throng of ladies and gentlemen, laughing and chatting under chandeliers that blazed with light. Whatever her host’s personal history, he had done well for himself, she reflected. Softly, she asked Jeremy how Mr. Rex had come to wed an Irish Protestant peeress in the Anglican Church, but he merely laughed. “You mean, if they really are married. They’ve been a devoted couple for over thirty years, so I don’t suppose it much matters anymore.”
While Penelope made inconsequent conversation, she felt a growing impatience. She must use this opportunity to discover if Mr. Rex would tell her something of N.D. and Collatinus. Her father’s old friend was the obvious person to ask; he must know a great deal about the letters he himself had published. In fact, it was possible Rex himself had been the one to resurrect Collatinus. He seemed an obvious suspect, but, then again, so was Penelope herself, particularly if someone knew her father had penned the originals. She was a radical’s daughter, after all.
Dutifully, Jeremy remained at her side, bringing her a glass of champagne and introducing her to a government minister named George Kester and a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Hewitt. She had heard these names before, for Jeremy had been enthusiastic in his praise of his new acquaintances’ stature in society. Penelope was less impressed. An aging beau in a too-tight coat, Kester was clearly bored with the company. Similarly, Hewitt, a balding, good-humored man, smiled and nodded at acquaintances in the crowd as he listened to his wife’s prattle with only half an ear. For her part, Mrs. Hewitt couldn’t take her eyes off Jeremy.
“We’ve just heard the most shocking rumor, Mr. Wolfe. Mr. Rex’s son-in-law Dryden Leach slain in his own office. I vow it terrifies me to think of it. Mr. Rex won’t confirm the rumors, but I had it from the Countess—”
“We don’t yet know the truth of the matter,” said Hewitt.
George Kester shook his head. “A strange business. If something did happen, it wasn’t reported in this morning’s paper. And what of this masked man?” Leaning toward Hewitt, he lowered his tone. “Is the masked man Collatinus, do you think? These letters have caused concern in some quarters.”
Ralph Hewitt gave a crack of laughter. “You mean, with half the men in London terrified of finding themselves the subject of a paragraph in the newspaper? You include yourself, I take it?”
Smiling blandly, Kester steered the conversation into a new channel. Penelope raised her brows at Jeremy, hoping he would encourage further discussion, but he ignored the message. After a while, Penelope tried again. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Leach?” she asked Hewitt.
“We all are. I believe your father is also an old friend of the family? You are the daughter of Eustace Sandford, Mrs. Wolfe? I met him once. He is quite celebrated in his way, though I don’t claim to have read any of his books.”
She grew uncomfortable under his ironic assessment. “My father has not returned to his native country in nearly twenty years, sir. Though I visited England with him when I was a small child, I was raised abroad.”
This drew Kester’s wandering attention. His eye lingered over her face and moved lower. “You must have been a mere babe. I must say you have matured delightfully, ma’am.” He exchanged a smirk with Hewitt that made her suddenly angry.
“She has indeed,” said Hewitt. “Where have you been hiding her, Wolfe?”
“Oh, I’m afraid my wife doesn’t approve of the fashionable scene.”
Penelope stiffened. “You make me sound a Puritan.” She paused. “Has Mr. Leach been successful in the newspaper business, Mr. Hewitt?”
“There were lean times at the start, I believe, but he made a name for himself at the Daily Intelligencer. It didn’t hurt to have Rex’s blunt behind him. Mary Leach was well dowered, and that’s how Leach found the capital to become editor-proprietor of a newspaper. Of course, Rex had no notion he was hatching a Tory.”
“Oh, poor Mrs. Leach,” said Mrs. Hewitt, wringing her plump hands. “She must be beside herself with worry.”
Her husband patted her arm. “You may visit her one day soon, my dear.”
With dismay, Penelope saw Jeremy’s eyes straying in the direction of the card room, and he smiled, murmuring, “Will you excuse us, ladies? Kester, Hewitt—shall we go have a word with Poole?”
Disappointed, Mrs. Hewitt smoothed one hand over her ostentatiously ugly gown and gazed up at Jeremy. “You may depend on me to keep your wife company.” She gave an irritating titter. “I’ll call on you to discuss having my portrait painted, sir. Mr. Hewitt was just saying he should like to find someone to execute the commission.”
Jeremy bowed. “I would be honored, madam.” With a wry glance at Penelope telling her he would rather paint a turnip than Mrs. Hewitt (but that he would, of course, accept the commission for her sake), he moved away gracefully with his friends.
Having resigned herself to hearing particulars of this woman’s wardrobe and servants and carriage, Penelope was not displeased when their host approached. He greeted Mrs. Hewitt, then lifted Penelope’s gloved hand to his lips, his hair glinting silver in the candlelight.
Smoothly, he detached her from her companion with the excuse that he must further his acquaintance with the daughter of so old a friend. As he led her to a sofa against the wall, he said, “You are in fine looks this evening, ma’am.” With obvious approval, he examined her amber crepe dress over white sarsnet, trimmed with white beads. Jeremy had helped to choose the gown from a fashionable modiste, even as Penelope had protested its expense, but she was glad of it now since its rustle and gleam bolstered her co
nfidence. At her throat she wore her mother’s pearls, one of the few pieces of jewelry she possessed, and when Mr. Rex complimented her upon them, she explained their origin.
He smiled at her. “I regret I never had an opportunity to meet your mother, though your father often spoke of her to me. I understand she died when you were young?”
“Of influenza, sir, when I was ten years old. My father always thought an English doctor might have saved her, but she was never strong.”
“Tragic but all too common.” A look of melancholy settled over his face, and after a moment he added, “I remember you as a little girl, Mrs. Wolfe. You were a bright little thing but rather sad. I’m sure you must have been missing your mother.”
Memory stirred. She sat in a coach while her father climbed down to speak to another man in hushed, urgent tones. It was very early in the morning; she was cold and frightened. Where were they going? Was this the day they fled England? She did not recall, but the man her father had been talking to was Horatio Rex. Despite the quiet voices, they were furious, so furious that she had shrunk into a corner of the coach, whispering to the doll in her lap and trying to pretend they weren’t there.…
“Yes, I was about five, a little older than my daughter Sarah is now.”
“Perhaps it is best your mother did not accompany your father to England. Those were not happy times for our country, and matters are not much better today. However, we’ve got Boney on the run at long last.”
“My father rarely speaks of those days.”
“Wise of him. We’ll let the ghosts of the past rest, my dear. You are enjoying London?”
“Very much. Jeremy has been grateful for your patronage, sir.” She paused. “Forgive me, but he said you have experienced an unhappy event in your own family?”
Rex slanted a glance at her that was neither surprise nor resentment at the pointed question but instead a kind of watchfulness. “Your refer to my son-in-law. I was terribly shocked when the news first arrived, or I would not have spoken of the matter to Jeremy. I know I can rely upon your discretion.”
