Die I Will Not

by S K Rizzolo

  “Yes, Mrs. Thorogood,” Chase agreed politely. “Collatinus is a threat to the Prince Regent’s reputation and therefore a weapon he would not choose to see placed in his enemies’ hands. It may be the Home Office has its own agents and informers at work to discover the author of these letters. Which would explain the interest in Mrs. Wolfe if it is known in official circles that her father wrote the originals.”

  Hope smiled at Penelope in reassurance. “If these men are employed by the government, they pose no physical threat to you or your family. Once they see you are innocent of any conspiracy, they will go away.”

  Penelope’s answering smile went a little awry. “I suppose Mr. Chase’s theory may also explain why questions about my family have been asked of the local shopkeepers.” As she related the story about Maggie and the unpaid baker’s bill, Buckler entertained himself with a pleasing vision of a dark alley and Jeremy Wolfe’s face at the mercy of his fists. He kept his glance lowered so that no one would observe his emotion.

  Chase said, “The government may want to know what happened to Dryden Leach as much as we do. I went back to the Adelphi Terrace this morning and caught the surgeon, a man called Thomas Fladgate, as he departed.”

  “Has Mr. Leach’s health improved?” inquired Thorogood.

  “An inflammation of the lungs has taken hold. Leach isn’t long for this world, I’m afraid. His wife is nursing him.”

  “Mary?” broke in Penelope, and they all looked at her in some surprise. Chase leaned back in his chair, observing her, his gaze intent on her face.

  “Penelope? Why do you sound so strange?”

  She did not immediately respond to Hope, though she laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “What else did the surgeon say, Mr. Chase?”

  “That he had rarely seen such devotion in a wife. She allows no one to do for her husband what she can do with her own hands and stays with him throughout the day and night. I asked Fladgate outright about the masked man who attacked his patient and the wounds received.”

  Thorogood frowned in concentration. “The crux of the issue.”

  Penelope rose to her feet and began to pace the room. She looked at Buckler then at Chase, and she appealed to both for understanding. “I’ve been thinking of Mary Leach.”

  “Tell us, Mrs. Wolfe,” said Chase, and Buckler thought he tried to steady her with this matter-of-fact response.

  “This extreme devotion rings false. Mr. Rex implied that her marriage isn’t very happy. Also, he told me she once had literary ambitions and now has an occasional pseudonym of her own, which she uses to contribute poems and squibs to her husband’s paper. But what if she grew tired of serving his agenda—tired of serving him?”

  Everyone stared at her, but Buckler had the distinct impression Chase had known what she was going to say.

  “What the deuce!” expostulated Thorogood. “Do you mean to suggest the lady herself has some knowledge of the crime?”

  “You are astute, Mrs. Wolfe.” Chase gave them Noah Packet’s information about Mary Leach having been abroad on the night of the attack and repeated her cryptic remark about Leach having had an enemy. He paused, waiting for Penelope to come to her own conclusions.

  “What if Mary meant she was Leach’s enemy? What if there was no masked man? What if she had to come up with a story to explain the attack at a moment’s notice? She might have been in league with Collatinus or even written the letters herself. Perhaps she had reasons of her own to prevent her husband’s revelations in the paper. Or she hated him and sought revenge for some injury. I can’t think how else to explain her behavior.”

  Chase nodded, as if pleased by a pupil’s correct response to a lesson. “I believe you’re right, Mrs. Wolfe. Leach neither defended himself nor gave the alarm, possibly because he wished to hush the scandal and avoid implicating his own wife. Mrs. Leach has likely bribed the surgeon to keep his mouth shut.”

  Hope looked appalled. “She wouldn’t get away with murder.”

  “Petty treason, actually,” Buckler corrected her. “It is considered even worse than murder. Not so long ago a woman convicted of killing her husband was burned at the stake, though the executioner would strangle her first. At least we no longer indulge this particular barbarity. Now she would merely be hanged.”

  A ripple of discomfort passed through the room, as they absorbed that they might hold the power of life or death over a woman most of them didn’t know. With a kind of detached interest, Buckler debated whether he could bring himself to resign a lady to the tender mercies of the English justice system, however much he deplored her deed. He would want to learn a great deal more about Mary Leach and her motives first, but he could not shield a murderess. He turned to Penelope. “You were once acquainted with Mrs. Leach?”

  “Yes, though I don’t recall those days very well. My father took me to visit her and her stepmother, the Countess of Cloondara, a few times. She was called Mariam then, the name given her by her mother. She was extremely pretty but quiet and rather meek. I don’t think she much liked her stepmother.”

  “Could a woman do such a thing?” said Hope in wonderment. “And to nurse him afterwards…” Shuddering, she glanced up at her husband’s robust form, probably recalling her own loving care when he had caught a dangerous cold the prior year.

  Chase answered her. “Mrs. Leach may seek to hide her crime. She can always claim her husband told her to keep silent for his safety. She and the surgeon are the only ones with access to the sickroom, and it wouldn’t be difficult to keep Leach quiet with regular doses of laudanum. When he dies, presumably the surgeon is prepared to swear to a false cause of death. A little bribery to the parish officials to head off a coroner’s inquest, a quick burial, and the thing is done. And perhaps the Home Office would not be averse to this tidy solution so long as the Regent’s name can be kept out of the business.”

  “How could she?” Penelope walked to the window and stood for a moment with her back to them. “She has children. If she is executed, their lives will be forever ruined. She would destroy herself utterly.”

  “If Rex revived Collatinus and Leach was bent on unmasking him in the papers, Mrs. Leach might have killed her husband to protect her father.”

  Penelope faced Chase. “What of my father? We mustn’t forget Nell Durant. I must learn who was responsible for her death. I am determined the truth must come out at last.”

  Buckler could not help himself. He went to stand at Penelope’s side, though he did not touch her. “We are agreed then. But there’s something else we must consider. If Nell Durant had a child, where is that child now?”

  ***

  During the bustle of departure, there was just time for Buckler to exchange a few words with Penelope. Thorogood was busy making the arrangements to send her home in a hackney he had summoned, Chase had already taken his leave, and Hope was upstairs checking on the children. Buckler and Penelope stood together in the hall.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “I must act for myself, you know. This case is…sordid and possibly dangerous. You must allow me to decide. You must indeed. I would not wish for harm to come to any of you.”

  “We don’t think of that when you are in need.” Lines from Shakespeare came to Buckler as he stood looking down at the top of her bent head. The very instant that I saw you, did / My heart fly to your service; there resides, / To make me slave to it... And he realized it was true. Thorogood had brought Penelope to him for a legal consultation after her feckless husband had got himself briefly confined in Newgate on suspicion of murder. Since then Buckler had wanted nothing more than to protect her, though only recently had he begun to understand the depth of his feelings for Penelope Wolfe—another man’s wife. What he wasn’t at all sure of was whether she had ever thought of him in this light, not that it mattered since she wasn’t free and he could never tell her of his love.

  She lifted her eyes to
his. “You must, at all costs, avoid a scandal, Edward. You have a career to make, and Mr. Chase has his employment at Bow Street. But I thank you for your loyalty most sincerely.”

  “You know I would do anything to serve you, as I told you once before.”

  “I remember. It was the day we walked together in the Temple Garden. You said I was too alone.”

  Buckler took her hand and raised it to his lips, retaining it for a moment, but he had to let go when Thorogood’s voice was heard calling them. He attempted to banish his regret with a smile, which she returned rather tremulously. Then she turned away as Thorogood bustled in.

  “Go and carry Sarah down to the coach, Buckler. And, for heaven’s sake, take care not to wake her.”

  ***

  Chase sat in his armchair by the fire, a glass of brandy on the table at his side. After a while, out of long habit, he fetched his prized miniature of Abigail and baby Jonathan, holding it in his hands and studying it in the glow of firelight as he let his thoughts drift. Abigail’s last letter had informed him that she had commissioned a new miniature of Jonathan so that he could see how his son had grown toward manhood. A peace offering of sorts, he thought, since she must have assumed he would be disturbed by the news of Jonathan having gone to sea. The rain and wind lashed at the windows, and it was pleasant to sit in the warmth, thinking about his son and imagining his adventures, thinking too about Penelope and the dilemma she faced as she peeled away the layers, stripping bare her father’s past. She had probably been a dutiful daughter before her marriage to Jeremy Wolfe. Eustace Sandford had raised her after her mother’s death, and it must have been he who taught Penelope to think for herself. How certain and firm she had been in saying the truth must be primary with her, but how would it be with her if this truth branded her father a killer?

  From time to time, Chase heard the tenant in the next room, moving about and muttering as she paced the floor. He ignored the noises, hoping they would soon stop. But later as he lay in bed, sleepless, the din next door increased. Miss Fakenham began with slamming her drawers and proceeded to stamping her feet, crying, and talking to herself in a voice that rose to shrillness and fell to softer moans. Finally, he threw back the bedcovers and used his walking stick to pound the wall. When a welcome silence greeted his ears, he soon drifted off to sleep. But then, as if a caged beast had grown restless in its cell, the noises began again, louder.

  Cursing, Chase rose and donned his dressing gown. Angrily thrusting his feet into slippers, he went out in the corridor. He put his ear against the woman’s door to see if the noise had abated, hearing several loud thumps followed by a sobbing breath. He tapped on the door.

  “Yes?” came the faint reply.

  “Keep the noise down, miss. You will rouse the house.” What he really meant, of course, was that she was bothering him, for he assumed Mrs. Beeks and the boys would be sleeping soundly on the floor above.

  There was no answer, so Chase, irritated beyond all measure, opened the door and put in his head. Miss Fakenham sat in the middle of the floor, her disheveled hair framing a pale, wild face wet with tears. A blanket was draped over her thin shoulders, and a purple gown spilled across her lap. She was shivering violently.

  “How dare you enter my room!” She was shaking so hard that she got out the words only with difficulty. Chase’s gaze swept around. It was a bare place. He had been in this chamber once or twice, but Mrs. Beeks had removed her bits and pieces to leave space for the tenant’s belongings; only the young woman didn’t have many to speak of. The room contained a narrow bed, a washstand, and a few other pieces of shabby furniture, including a scratched up old chest of drawers on top of which were a silver-backed brush and an old, clouded looking-glass. The grate was cold and empty.

  Chase opened his mouth to deliver a blistering scold—but stopped himself. “What is the matter?” he said instead.

  She gazed at him, eyes huge and tear-drenched, and spoke with as much dignity as she could muster. “I beg your pardon, sir.” Lifting the gown in her arms, she scrambled to her feet and laid it over the back of the chair. “I’ve spotted the silk,” she said dully. “Don’t worry. I’ll not disturb you again.”

  “See that you don’t.” Her tears made Chase uncomfortable, so he withdrew hastily to his room. In bed, he lay staring at the ceiling. She had been as good as her word. Silence had descended over the house. But, after a minute or two, Chase got up again, cursing. Moving to his small sideboard, he put his tinderbox in his pocket, poured some brandy in a glass, and lifted the coal bin in his other hand.

  Returning to Miss Fakenham’s room, he set down the bin and knocked briefly before entering. This time she stood by the window staring out at the rain, her head bent, her shoulders shaking. Chase did not speak. Approaching her, he lifted her hand to fold her fingers around the glass of brandy. Then he stepped to the grate and soon had a fire blazing away.

  “Sit down,” he told her roughly. He removed the gown from the chair, tossing it on her bed, then pulled the chair closer to the fire. Without looking at him, she obeyed. After a few minutes her sobs subsided; her tremors stilled. But as her physical comfort increased, her embarrassment grew, a fiery blush mounting in her cheeks.

  Chase, standing over her as she sipped the brandy, repeated his earlier question. “What is the matter with you?”

  “My hands shake with the cold, and I make mistakes in my work. I try to move around to get my blood up, but that doesn’t help much. Sometimes I talk aloud in order to keep myself from falling asleep. I must finish this gown by tomorrow morning, or I will lose my employment.”

  Chase felt curiosity stir. Now that she wasn’t crying or biting his head off, Miss Fakenham’s voice was low and pleasant, her accent refined, and he found himself wanting to know what had brought an educated young woman to this shabby, little room where she must labor for every penny if she hoped to keep food in her belly and shelter over her head. But all he said was: “Finish your work if you must. I’ve built the fire to last. Goodnight, miss.”

  She raised startled eyes to his face. “You’ve been very kind, sir.” She spoke as if kindness was an extreme rarity in her experience.

  Chase murmured something noncommittal and got himself out of the room. When he had returned to his bed and was finally slipping into welcome oblivion, her words came back to him. Kind? She had called him so, but he was not accustomed to seeing himself thus. He was getting decidedly soft in his old age.

  Chapter XII

  A thunderous knocking roused Penelope from a deep slumber. At her side Jeremy cursed. He sat up in bed, threw back the covers, and jumped out, wincing as his bare feet encountered frigid floorboards. “Stay here. I’ll see who it is.”

  She heard rapid footsteps as one of the servants joined him, their voices fading as they descended to the lower part of the house. Penelope got up. After putting on her own dressing gown, she glided down the corridor to the nursery but found her daughter curled up, peacefully asleep. She eased the door shut and followed her husband down to the hall where Jeremy stood talking to Horatio Rex. Rex’s tall form was enveloped in an evening cloak, beads of moisture sparkling in his gray-black hair. His cool composure appeared to have deserted him; he looked haggard. When he saw her, he cried, “Mrs. Wolfe! I must speak to you.”

  Jeremy stood in hostile stance, arms folded, eyes narrowed. “Do you know what time it is? What business can you have with my wife at this hour?”

  Rex ignored him. He came forward to meet Penelope, taking her hand in his gloved one. “Dismiss your servants, Mrs. Wolfe.”

  Glancing up, she saw they had several interested auditors. Cook had not awakened apparently, but the other servants clustered on the landing, Maggie’s red head among them. “Nothing to worry about,” Penelope called to them. “Go back to bed, please.” She led Rex down the passage to her sitting room. After fumbling for the tinderbox she kept on a shelf by the
door, she soon had a candle lit. They faced each other.

  “What is it, Mr. Rex?”

  “Leach is dead. I meant to wait till morning, but I couldn’t bear the thought of Mary being alone tonight. She wishes to speak to you.”

  “What can Mrs. Leach want with my wife?” said Jeremy.

  “I hardly know how to answer you, Wolfe.” He stretched out a hand to Penelope in supplication. “She is alone. Will you deny her in her need, ma’am?”

  “No, of course I won’t.”

  “You’ll go nowhere in the middle of the night. Whatever this is, I don’t want you involved.”

  Penelope was utterly taken aback, unable to recall the last time her husband had attempted to exert any authority over her. She touched his sleeve. “I must go, Jeremy. If Mrs. Leach needs comfort, I would not wish to desert her.”

  Rex nodded. “That’s just it. She has no one—no other lady in the house, I mean—just her maid and a mouse of a governess who can be of no use at all. Her husband is dead, and my Mary is sorely troubled in her mind. Your husband may accompany you if he does not wish to entrust your safety to me.”

  “I will come,” Penelope said. “Do let us both get dressed, Jeremy, so that we may accompany Mr. Rex.”

  Jeremy continued to argue as they went back up the stairs to their bedchamber. “I cannot like this. The woman has entangled herself in some nastiness that has nothing to do with us! Better to stay away, especially after what you told me about your father and the Collatinus letters. Why should we put ourselves at risk for a stranger?”

  “She is not a stranger, and Mr. Rex is your friend. He has been your patron in helping you obtain clients and your host too many times to count. We must go; you know we must.” As Penelope spoke, she was dressing herself in a warm merino gown and hastily bundling her hair into a knot. She rummaged through her dressing table to find a bottle of smelling salts and a clean handkerchief, stowing them in her reticule.