Die I Will Not

by S K Rizzolo

  As Buckler approached, Quiller loosed his grip on the iron and straightened up. After a brief exchange of greetings, the serjeant said, “You’ve made an enemy of Richard Grouse. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he made himself unpleasant.” Quiller referred to the plaintiff whom Buckler and Dallas had humiliated in the crim. con. case when the jury had awarded Grouse the ludicrous damages of one shilling for his wife’s adultery. It was Buckler’s luck that the man was also a solicitor with the power to hurt him professionally.

  “Grouse is above my touch in any case. I doubt he would ever offer me a brief.”

  “Likely not. But you should be on your guard lest he turn other solicitors against you.”

  It was the custom of the English Bar that no barrister obtained his own employment but required an attorney or solicitor to serve as a bridge between him and a client. In truth, many a barrister’s career had foundered through an inability to cultivate profitable relationships with the lower branch of the profession. So Quiller’s advice was sound, though he spoke as if Buckler’s fate could mean nothing to him personally. Buckler had often wondered what Quiller thought of the decline of his own order—the serjeants had once been at the very top of the legal heap, but their privileges and rights of precedence had long been under siege from an encroaching army of King’s Counsel. These days the order seemed largely populated by second-rate lawyers, excepting Quiller and a few other talented, ambitious men. In his mind Buckler heard Thorogood’s voice intoning Sic transit gloria mundi. Thus passes the glory of the world. Impatiently, he shook off this ill-timed fit of whimsy.

  “Your clerk told me I might find you here.”

  “An hour of recreation before I must return to my business.”

  “My apologies for the interruption, sir. I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “About a brief?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Buckler said wryly. “Some business I am looking into for a friend. Can you spare a few minutes?” He kept his tone deferential.

  Quiller gave him a sharp glance followed by a wary nod, perhaps because he was all too familiar with impecunious young barristers soliciting his patronage. Before his elevation to the Order of the Coif and removal to Serjeants’ Inn on Chancery Lane, he had been a member of the Inner Temple. It seemed he still enjoyed a return to his old grounds and, if Buckler was lucky, a lingering wish to aid his former brethren. But Buckler noted that Quiller pointedly did not invite him to sit down in one of the pews.

  “Glad to help,” the serjeant finally responded without any noticeable enthusiasm.

  “Have you seen the Collatinus letters?”

  Distaste hardened his expression. “I’ve read them, yes.”

  “I wanted to ask you about a paragraph that seems to refer to you—one of those nasty hints with no basis in anything but malice, I’m sure. I am interested in the writer of these letters.”

  “Whoever he is, he’s a wretch. I take no notice of such rubbish.”

  “Can you tell me anything of the lady whom Collatinus seems eager to defend?”

  There was another pause; then Quiller said, “I suppose you mean Nell Durant.”

  “Was that her name? Who was she, sir?”

  A strange look crossed the other man’s face, but it was gone so quickly Buckler might almost have imagined it. He had read scorn and dismay and some other unidentifiable emotion.

  “A courtesan. The mistress of any number of powerful, influential men. A whore, dead these twenty years.”

  “Did you know her?”

  Quiller’s hand reached out to grasp the iron railing again, and he slumped slightly in renewed contemplation of the effigies. “I met her years ago on two occasions soon before her death. She came to me for legal advice, even though I told her she should consult a solicitor. And you see what comes of contact with such a woman. I should have tossed her out on her ear as indeed I did—the second time.”

  “What sort of advice, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I see no reason to respect her confidence now. She was being sued for debt and wanted to be freed of her creditors by asserting the status of a married woman. But the proof of her so-called marriage to a Joseph Durant wouldn’t have stood up in court, as I informed her. I certainly never savaged her reputation as the paragraph in the newspaper charges.”

  “I take it this Durant was nowhere to be found?”

  Quiller nodded. “Mrs. Durant claimed he was in France. I doubt there was such a person.”

  “And the second consultation?”

  “The least said on that subject the better, Buckler. The lady tried to embroil me in her low intrigues. Nothing less than an attempt to bring disgrace on royalty itself.”

  “Disgrace?”

  “She’d briefly taken the Regent’s fancy, but she turned nasty when he refused her a settlement.”

  Buckler opened his mouth to press further and shut it again, for Quiller’s stiff posture warned that he did not take kindly to intrusive questions. It would be better to circle around the matter delicately. “Do you know a journalist called Dryden Leach?”

  The serjeant looked surprised. “I’ve read his answers to Collatinus in the Daily Intelligencer. Leach is a good man to take up the charge against the blackguard.”

  “Perhaps you know Nell Durant was connected to another Collatinus back in the ’90s?”

  “Yes, there was a bit of a bustle, as I recall. But I shouldn’t think the same scribbler has written these new articles after all this time. Unfortunately, it has proven impossible to root out the radicals completely for all that the government has scored some successes. The weeds spring back, however. My friend Reeves, who led the Crown and Anchor Association, did his best to counteract the evil.”

  “I thought the Crown and Anchor tavern was, and still is, a site for radical gatherings, sir?”

  “Very true, but Reeves tried to change all that by using the place for our loyalist meetings and even adopting the tavern’s name for our society. While it lasted, we did our bit to foil the designs of the levellers. We wrote anti-Jacobin pamphlets, acted on anonymous information. And tried to dislodge the radicals at the Crown and Anchor.”

  This was the first time in their acquaintance that Buckler had observed enthusiasm in Quiller, so he asked his next question quickly. “Did you happen to compile information about well-known Jacobins? For instance, there was a man called Horatio Rex, editor of the paper that published the Collatinus letters.”

  Quiller shot him a look of proud derision. “‘Jew’ Rex? That infamous scoundrel is still very much in the public eye. He gives a lot of vulgar parties and gets his name in the gossip columns. But you’re right. At the time he was a traitor as well as a sharper and a usurer. I recall him, all right. Reeves used to receive dozens of letters from informers wanting to help us stamp out the corruption, and I can tell you this Rex figured in a good portion of them.”

  “Can you recall the details?”

  “There was a rumor we discussed at one of our meetings. A member of the association heard of Rex having an instrument among the gentry. It turns out this Collatinus was a ‘gentleman’ wicked and greedy enough to betray his own kind. He sold information to Rex. Cuckoldry, gaming debts, whoring—the secret histories of people of fashion. Of course, a scandalous paragraph would only serve to color the radicals’ portrait of the aristocracy as monsters of rapacity, or the paragraph could be held back, for a price.”

  “But not the tattle about the Regent?”

  “Too important to the villains. They chose to spend it as political capital. Collatinus made His Royal Highness look a fool and a profligate in order to promote his revolutionary cause. Quite damaging, I don’t mind telling you.”

  Buckler would have to tell Penelope about this conversation, and imagining her distress, he dreaded the prospect. He could not know for sure that
this “gentleman” was Eustace Sandford, but it would be foolish to deny the probability since Sandford had confessed to being the original Collatinus. “Was this gentleman named?” he asked almost unwillingly.

  “I’m afraid not. But I can’t think how a man of breeding went so wrong. As for Rex, he proved a turncoat in the end, unfaithful even to his own kind. He gave money toward the defense of the traitors, but all the time he was working in secret for the Home Office in order to entrap his cohorts and save his skin. Later he announced his opposition to the French and published a defense of the English constitution.” Quiller lifted his brows. “No doubt it’s a good thing for England when our enemies fall out, yet the flesh creeps at the thought of such an ally.”

  His vehemence took Buckler aback since he’d always thought Quiller a rather cold man, all polished surface and eloquent learning, a highly able advocate but not one inclined to moral indignation. Buckler drew breath to ask his final question since he sensed the other lawyer’s eagerness to depart. “Tell me what happened to Nell Durant.”

  “She was mentioned at a subsequent meeting after Rex had renounced the republicans and the Collatinus letters had stopped. One of our members had heard an ugly tale that she’d fallen in with the radicals and allowed herself to become their tool.” His mouth tightened in fastidious disgust, but he went on dispassionately enough. “Rumor was they killed her when she got frightened and tried to extricate herself.”

  “Killed how?”

  “One of them broke into her house, raped her in her bed, and stuck a knife in her. A terrible ending for any young female, whether or not she brought it on herself.”

  Buckler thanked him, struggling to keep his dismay from showing, but the serjeant, gazing again at the effigies, did not appear to have observed his reaction.

  After a moment, Quiller pointed at a stone knight about seven feet in length. “Do you see how his feet are trampling those two heads with wooly hair? They look rather like lawyers in their wigs, I’ve often thought. A warning to us men of law that our time must pass, eh Buckler?”

  ***

  He had intended to request a private interview with Penelope to tell her about his conversation with Quiller, but when they met at the Thorogood home for dinner, she said, “No, Mr. Buckler. Whatever it is, I prefer you speak out before us all. There can be no secrets among us. Besides, Mr. Chase will be joining us. He will want to hear your information.”

  He bowed his acquiescence, and they went up the stairs to join the others in the Thorogoods’ cheerfully informal drawing room. Pleased on his own account that John Chase would be in attendance, Buckler was also glad for Penelope’s sake since she would need the Runner’s professional expertise. Chase interested him: a man of action whose actions were fuelled by the power of contemplation and logic. Buckler, who often had difficulty in translating thought into action, particularly admired this trait.

  When the maidservant showed in the Runner a few minutes later, Hope Thorogood, a plump, fair-haired woman, went forward to greet him with a glowing smile. Just being in Hope’s presence humbled Buckler, for she was someone who understood how to appreciate life. Flattery, prevarication, bigotry, venality, snobbery, cruelty—Hope saw these things clearly in the world around her, but she did not allow such ugliness to weaken her essential humanity. Buckler quite frankly loved her and by no means only for her husband’s sake.

  He went forward to add his greetings to hers. “Mr. Chase. I have been hoping to see you again. How do you do?”

  Chase appeared rather surprised by the warmth of this greeting. “You look well, Buckler. I take it the law agrees with you?”

  “Like indigestion,” boomed Thorogood. He advanced on his guest, saying: “Bring him in; bring him in. Here’s a place for you, Mr. Chase.” He swept down upon an armchair by the fire to remove a toy and stood back, beaming.

  Buckler went to sit in the matching armchair, striking up an innocuous conversation with Chase about the news from Bow Street and the early spring weather, but all the time, he was watching Penelope, who knelt on the hearthrug, playing at spillikins with the children, crowing over her successes and pretending to pout when she failed to hook one of the ivory sticks with sufficient care. His gaze lingered over her wine-dark silk gown, shining hair, and brown eyes bright with laughter.

  “You’re so silly, Mama,” said Sarah each time Penelope made a mistake, and David, Hope’s son from her former marriage, heaved a sigh and leaned over to demonstrate the correct move with an air of masculine superiority.

  Chase turned to Buckler, keeping his voice low. “Wolfe won’t be here tonight?”

  “Prior engagement.”

  They exchanged a glance; then Chase observed, “Mrs. Wolfe will need her friends before this matter is resolved, I do believe.”

  “You’re right. She has written a letter to her father to ask him about the murdered woman and has explained the whole affair to her husband. But no more now, Chase. We are to put our heads together after dinner.”

  They went down to the dining room, Chase escorting Mrs. Thorogood and Thorogood leading Penelope, with Buckler and the children trailing behind. On this occasion, Thorogood’s grown children and their families were not in attendance, but Hope’s daughters, Faith and Charity, dined with the guests, as did David, Sarah, and Thorogood’s daughter Sophia, who was quite the young lady nowadays. This was unusual, but then the Thorogoods had never much concerned themselves with the conventions. To them, their children were as much a part of the family as anyone else. The table was merry, the conversation general, while Thorogood presided grandly over the carving of the meat and Hope saw unobtrusively to the comfort of her guests.

  When, at length, the nuts, fruits, and sweetmeats had been served, Thorogood, never so happy as when playing host, rose to give a toast. “I welcome you all to my board on an occasion made auspicious by the presence of our esteemed guest. I propose the health of Mr. John Chase, Principal Officer at Bow Street. A man who brings great wit and a stout heart to his work. Let the villains quake in their boots and the honest folk rest more soundly in their beds because of his efforts on our behalf. To your health, Mr. Chase!”

  All except Chase rose, lifting their glasses to the Runner, who sat in the place of honor to his hostess’ right. As Buckler raised his own wineglass and chinked it against Sarah’s empty one to her immense delight, he saw that Chase’s face wore an arrested look, as if some new vista had opened before him. When Thorogood had finished, he got on his legs to reply, speaking with some awkwardness but obvious sincerity. “I am very much obliged to you, Mr. and Mrs. Thorogood, for the honor you have done me and for your gracious hospitality. May you enjoy your present happiness for many years to come.” Chase gave a little bow and resumed his seat to general applause and a few “hear, hears” from the children.

  Buckler was glad to have enjoyed this time of lighthearted fellowship because the tone of the evening turned somber once the party returned to the drawing room. The children went off to bed, and Sophia took Sarah upstairs to listen to a story, leaving the adults to discuss the Collatinus matter. At dinner, Penelope had smiled and conversed freely, but Buckler, studying her surreptitiously, perceived that her thoughts were often far away. Now as she handed a cup of tea to Chase and moved away, her carriage erect, the Runner’s eyes followed her. This would not be easy for her, and Buckler thought Chase understood her feelings as well as he himself did. She had withdrawn behind a wall designed to keep even her close friends at a distance.

  Thorogood seemed too restless to sit and drink his tea. He planted himself in front of the fire, standing with arms clasped behind his back. His characteristic good humor had dimmed, and Buckler could read his regret that the pleasantness of the evening had come to an end. When everyone else was settled on the sofas and chairs, Thorogood glowered in Buckler’s direction, his eyebrows meeting in a bushy line across his forehead. “Well, Edward, would you care to
begin?”

  Chapter XI

  As he described his interview with Quiller, Buckler felt he spoke to Penelope alone, though he took care not to insult her by softening the tale of treachery, blackmail, and murder. When he was finished, Thorogood said to her, his tone gentle, “I’m sure you won’t wish to judge your father when he is not here to speak for himself. Wait for his reply to your letter, my dear.” At Penelope’s nod, Hope, sitting next to her on the sofa, pressed her hand.

  Thorogood looked around the group. “I recall the murder of this courtesan. The papers were full of the story for a few days—and then nothing. It was assumed the culprit had fled the country. I didn’t take much interest at the time.”

  “An injured mother,” quoted Buckler. “Something Quiller said has made me think—could Nell Durant have borne the Prince’s child?”

  A startled silence greeted this question.

  Chase sat with one of Hope’s delicate teacups balanced gingerly in his large hands. “A political disaster in the making, Buckler. A royal inamorata turned radical and blackmailer? God knows what sensitive information she had.”

  Thorogood stroked his chin thoughtfully. “What can you tell us, Mr. Chase? I assure you that anything we discuss stays in this room.”

  “I fully intend to be open with you, sir. From now on, I will proceed in a private capacity on Mrs. Wolfe’s behalf.”

  Penelope said, “I am grateful to you, but you must have other business.”

  Their eyes met, hers questioning, his grave. “None that concerns me at present, Mrs. Wolfe.” Chase went on to describe his visit to Dryden Leach’s office, his interview with Mary Leach, the disappearance of the porter Peter Malone, and his speculation about the connection between the Collatinus letters and the Princess Caroline inquiry.

  “Poor woman,” said Hope. “She has been much tried by her husband. I understand why she fights to uphold her honor.”