Die I Will Not

by S K Rizzolo

  The effort to smile was painful. “My cousins did not approve of my father before the extent of his radical activities was generally known, so they can hardly wish to acknowledge me now. They are eminently respectable. At all events, I am too accustomed to my independence to relish hanging on anyone’s sleeve.” Stepping briskly to her desk, she threw open one of the drawers. Not looking at him, she pulled out the stacks of papers, the pens, the ink jars, and the glove with the hole in it that she’d been meaning to mend. And the bills, those endless, ever mounting bills that had so tormented her. “They’ll need an inventory of these,” she said, wafting them in her hand.

  Buckler took one step toward her. “Where is your husband?”

  Penelope put down the bills. Slowly, she approached him, and his arms came out to enfold her. They looked somberly into one another’s eyes for a moment; then Buckler lowered his head to kiss her. When he broke the embrace a long time later, there were tears on Penelope’s cheeks.

  She answered his question. “He’s gone. Jeremy is gone, and I’m glad. I don’t ever want to see him again.” Buckler had retrieved his handkerchief and was drying her tears, pressing on her cheeks with a quick, light pressure that managed to feel both uncertain and urgent. His other arm still rested at her waist. Reluctantly, she drew away. “His absence cannot matter to us, Edward.”

  “I know, my love.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing for now. Will you go to the Thorogoods?”

  “I suppose I will. I had a note from them this morning. They asked me to stay with them at least until this trial is concluded. Is there a chance for Lewis, do you think?”

  “Can you doubt it? Between us, Thorogood and I will present a defense to go down in the history books and bring us fame and fortune. I shall be buried in briefs after defending the great Collatinus. Mark my words, we’ll secure your brother’s freedom.”

  “I want to meet him, Edward.”

  “Why do you think I’m here? As soon as the bailiffs have done their worst with their inkhorn and ledgers, you shall put on your bonnet. And I hope you understand how fortunate you are, ma’am? A barrister does not generally show himself among the riffraff of Newgate.”

  Chapter XXII

  The turnkey unlocked another gate and secured it again after Penelope and Buckler had passed through. As they followed him down the stone passage, the locks of the gates and gratings yielded, one after the other, with monotonous clanks like thunder. Voices, the restless murmur of prisoners in captivity, drifted from behind the iron bars of the wards that led off the passage, and through these bars Penelope glimpsed forms moving back and forth. Soon they came to the felons’ quadrangle, where they found Lewis Durant pacing the yard under a gray sky. Other prisoners conversed and laughed with a potman selling beer through the grating, but Lewis, staring at the paving stones under his feet, did not at first notice the turnkey, who jerked a thumb in his direction. Thus, it happened that Penelope got a good look at her brother before he observed her presence.

  She saw at once that the christening register at St. Marylebone church had not lied. The resemblance to her father was too marked: the same curly, black hair; pronounced brow; long nose; and lean cheeks. Lewis Durant was tall and slender, thin really, as if he hadn’t eaten a good meal in weeks. When the turnkey called his name, he started, turned, and looked straight past Buckler at Penelope. Then his spirit leapt to hers in sudden recognition, a light springing up in the dark eyes that seemed to mirror her own.

  “Permit us to speak privately to this prisoner.” Buckler put a generous tip in the turnkey’s palm.

  “You his lawyer? I reckon so.” The turnkey’s curious gaze lingered over Penelope, but he withdrew to the other end of the cage-like barrier that gave visitors access to the prisoners, though the gap between the double rows of bars prevented actual contact.

  Buckler addressed Lewis Durant. “You passed a comfortable night? They are treating you well?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lewis’ attention was still on Penelope.

  She said, “Lewis—do you know who I am?”

  “I imagine you are Mrs. Wolfe.”

  “You already knew of me?”

  “Yes, from Mary. Mrs. Leach.” He broke off, embarrassed. “I am sorry to see you in this filthy place, ma’am.”

  Listening to the deep but youthful voice, Penelope felt her throat tighten. Buckler had told her that Lewis’ foster mother, the brewer’s widow from Marylebone, had apprenticed him to a schoolmaster at the institution, where he’d been educated and working as a junior teacher before his arrest. What of his childhood? Was the widow kind to him? Had he wished for a real family? Was he docile or rebellious? Did he prefer books or rough and tumble games? Did he grow up to have a sense of duty and decency—or had his upbringing ruined him? There were so many questions she wanted to ask. She could ask none of them.

  “I’m not sorry to be here. I wanted to meet you. I want to do what I can to help you.”

  Lewis grinned engagingly. “You have already, ma’am. Without you, I would be a dashed sight more uncomfortable.” When she looked surprised, he explained. “I have little money and no connections. With your kind assistance, I was able to pay for easement to have my irons removed and could forgo the pleasures of the commons side. Here I have only three men to bear me company in my cell and only one man with whom I must share my bed. Princely accommodations.”

  Silently, Penelope vowed to ask Buckler and Thorogood for an accounting. She would make certain this money was repaid. “Will you tell us what you can about these murders? How did you meet Mary Leach and her husband?”

  His long fingers tightened on the bars. “Her husband? I never set eyes on him in my life. He was never at home when I visited Mary.”

  “You went to the Adelphi Terrace?”

  “A few times, but she was worried about the servants gossiping, so we would meet on the Strand. We’d walk together and look in the shop windows.”

  “Why, Lewis?”

  “To make our plans, of course,” he said impatiently, as if the answer were obvious.

  “You planned the Collatinus letters. Nothing else?”

  The disturbingly familiar eyes flared with anger. “You think me capable of murder, ma’am?”

  She corrected him. “No, I don’t believe you dressed up as a masked man to stab Mr. Leach, but it won’t be easy to prove your innocence. We think it was Mary who killed him. But even if a jury can be brought to accept her guilt, which I doubt, they will only say you murdered Mr. Leach at her behest. You must tell us everything—every detail—and give us a chance to save you.”

  Oddly, it seemed her lecturing, elderly sister tone had reassured him, for a smile began to play about his lips. “Just how do you know I am innocent, Mrs. Wolfe?”

  “First of all, you must call me Penelope. Formality is ridiculous under the circumstances, don’t you think? Second, I know you are innocent because—” She drew a deep breath and said, “Because you are my brother.”

  The smile vanished. “You are remarkably trusting.”

  Strange. Mr. Chase had said these exact words to her after the inquest, warning her that he could not control where the investigation might take him. They knew nothing of Lewis Durant, and what there was to learn might not be pleasant to discover. Chase advised her to hold herself aloof—in case she had to retreat altogether if Lewis were incriminated further—and he cautioned against this visit to Newgate. Though Penelope had acknowledged the value of this commonsense, she knew it could make no difference to her.

  She held Lewis’ gaze. “Then you must not betray my trust. Answer Mr. Buckler’s questions.”

  Buckler glanced toward the turnkey, who was engaged in a bantering exchange with some prisoners clustered near the barrier. “Tell us about your dealings with Mary Leach, but keep your voice low. How did you meet her?”

 
; “After Mrs. Cantrell died, I found a letter from Mary among her effects. She had sent money to finance my education. I called on her to ask why.”

  “Why did she?”

  “She was my mother’s friend.”

  “And Mrs. Cantrell was your foster-mother?”

  “Yes, sir. She always refused to speak of my parents, but I knew there was something wrong about my mother’s death. I was determined to learn the truth.”

  “You did not seek out your mother’s sister, Mrs. Ecclestone?”

  “I’ve never met her, though Mary told me about her. Mary didn’t trust her.”

  “So it was Mrs. Leach who told you Nell Durant’s story?” Buckler said evenly.

  “And my father’s.” Lewis’ eyes assessed Penelope again, and she met his look of inquiry. She wanted to read his character if she could—in his words, his intonations, his willingness or unwillingness to answer the questions. Watching him fascinated her. She found herself catching phantom reminders of her father: the tilt of his head when he spoke or the arrogance in the dark eyes when he imagined himself under scrutiny. But added to these was a hesitation, a painful reserve, in his manner that wrung her heart.

  After a pause, Buckler continued. “Whose idea was it to write the Collatinus letters?”

  “It was Mary’s, sir. Except for the last two, she wrote them, and I delivered them to the editor of the Free Albion. Only one of mine was published.”

  Penelope laid a hand on Buckler’s arm. “Edward, a jury might believe him. Mary had written poems and puffs for her husband’s newspaper. She would know far more about the business than a boy of nineteen.” She said to Lewis, “What purpose did these letters serve?”

  “Revenge.”

  Her grip tightened on Buckler’s sleeve, and his hand covered hers. “Whose revenge—Mary’s or yours?”

  “Why, revenge for the both of us, ma’am,” he responded, the chill in his tone making her shiver. “Mary said the letters would likely give some nasty people a few turns, but that was merely to add a bit of relish to the game. She was after only one person, my mother’s killer. She wanted to make him suffer.”

  “Mrs. Leach knew who murdered Nell? Who was it?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me, Mrs. Wolfe. She said he was a dangerous man, and she had no proof to bring the crime home to him. Hence the letters.”

  “To provoke him?” asked Buckler.

  Lewis nodded. “I think she wanted him to panic and expose himself. He wouldn’t have suspected her right away because of Mr. Leach, you see. She thought she was safe as long as we were careful and the killer didn’t realize she had my mother’s memoirs.”

  “Where is this manuscript?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It should have been among Mary’s things, but the authorities have sent constables to Newgate to question me about it. They wouldn’t believe me when I said I never had it in the first place.”

  Buckler said sternly, “Say nothing to them, Lewis. Will they find anything to incriminate you in your lodgings? Tell me now.”

  “Nothing, sir. The Runner took the last Collatinus letter off me when I was arrested. He is my friend?”

  “A better one than you deserve. The letter has been destroyed. But if Mary Leach knew the identity of Nell’s killer, why didn’t she tell anyone?”

  “No proof. And for another reason.” He paused, giving himself time to consider his next words. Abruptly, he dropped his head over his outstretched arms. “If I speak, I will only malign a dead woman. What good can it do? She suffered enough. I’ll take my chances in court.”

  Buckler bent forward to whisper in his ear. “And you will end on the gallows. Don’t be a fool! Why did Mrs. Leach stab her husband? Were you an accessory to the crime?”

  Lewis Durant drew himself up. “No! I didn’t even know until afterward. She did it to protect me and to…atone.”

  “Atone for what?” cried Penelope. “Lewis, you must tell us.”

  She saw his fear for the first time, but he answered her composedly enough. “Mary had encouraged her husband to bandy words with Collatinus. It amused her to duel with Mr. Leach in the press without him knowing his enemy. She hated him, you see. But he found out—the servants told him about my visits. She suspected that her butler had been paid to spy on her; then Leach had me followed. When he confronted her with his knowledge, she told him who I was and begged for mercy. He wouldn’t listen.”

  Buckler said, “So he came after you?”

  “He intended to sell my identity to his ministry contact and unmask me as Eustace Sandford’s son in his next column. By having me brought up on charges of seditious libel, he’d shield his own reputation. He and his paper would score a great triumph over the radical menace, making a pile of money in the bargain. If Mary didn’t cooperate, he’d send her away and she’d never see her children again.”

  Penelope thought that Edward would be worried—and with reason—about his ability to convince a jury of so improbable a tale. Yet hadn’t she discussed this very aspect of the case with Mr. Chase? The masked man, the mysterious watchers, Mary’s dread vigil over her dying husband. And later the murder in the Dark Arches and the discovery of Nell’s knife, used to commit another crime. A Gothic tale indeed. But who would believe it?

  All of this flashed through her mind in an instant. She rushed into speech. “You mean, don’t you, Lewis: Mrs. Leach killed her husband to save you?”

  “For that reason and for Nell. Mary felt she’d betrayed her friend.”

  “Betrayed how?”

  “I…I’m not sure. By not denouncing her killer? I asked Mary how she got my mother’s memoirs as well as her pocketknife set.” His dark hair fell across his cheek as he turned his head away.

  “She showed you the knife?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wolfe. My mother had given her the knife and the manuscript to keep safe. After Nell died, Mary kept silent for her father’s sake. But she wanted to strike back at my mother’s killer with her pen. To stab him with her words.”

  “She used the real knife against Dryden Leach,” said Buckler. “A war of words turned deadly. Did she admit to stabbing him?”

  “Not outright, but I knew.”

  Penelope lifted a hand to cover her eyes. “Poor Mary. What she did was evil, but she was crazed with fear and hatred. Lewis, did she ever speak to you of our father?”

  “She said that for years she’d wanted to believe him guilty of Nell’s murder but had always known his innocence.” He added, his tone gruff, “You’ve been anxious about Mr. Sandford? Don’t worry, Mrs. Wolfe. He made a convenient scapegoat.”

  Buckler brought them back to the purpose of this visit. “Where were you when Leach was attacked?”

  “I dined with a friend and went back to my lodgings to mark some papers.”

  “Can anyone vouch for your movements?”

  “My landlady saw me, sir, but I could have gone out again. She retired for the night, and she’s a heavy sleeper.”

  “Describe your last encounter with Mary Leach. When and where was it?”

  “The day before she died at our usual place in front of the stationers. We had an arrangement to meet in the late afternoon around four o’clock if she could get away. I waited, walking up and down in front of the shop, and she arrived when I was about to give up and go home. I knew at once something was wrong. I could see she hadn’t slept. Her eyes were…wild like a cornered creature. She drew me down one of the passages off the Strand and told me we’d been found out. She was calm, as if she were already dead and nothing could harm her further.”

  Observing his anguish, Penelope felt helpless. “Why didn’t you run away?”

  “Where would I go? I thought Mary might need me. At first she argued with me, but then she said maybe it didn’t matter. I would be safe if she could make me so.” His voice had got softer and softer un
til she had to strain to hear him.

  “What did she mean?”

  “I was too stupid to understand, Mrs. Wolfe, but she meant she would make the villain pay, at long last, for Nell’s death. She knew I would try to stop her. But she failed—he murdered her instead.”

  Buckler didn’t look at Penelope, but his arm went around her shoulder, and she rested in his embrace briefly. After she had pulled away, he said, “Where were you on the night Mrs. Leach was murdered, Lewis?”

  “I went to meet Mary the next afternoon; only this time she didn’t come. I waited for hours, even after it grew dark. When I was sure it was hopeless, I went to the Adelphi Terrace. I thought about knocking to inquire for Mr. Leach, but I didn’t want to make trouble for her. I went home.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know, about nine o’clock?”

  “Did your landlady or any of the other tenants see you?”

  “I used my key, Mr. Buckler. She’d retired for the night.”

  “After you found out Mary was dead? What then?”

  Lewis shrugged. “I wrote another Collatinus letter. I couldn’t think what else to do.”

  ***

  Buckler stroked Ruff’s head as he bent over Peake’s A Compendium of the Law of Evidence. On the table at his side, a stack of books seemed about to topple to the imminent danger of a half-empty, chipped coffee cup and a candelabrum in which candles guttered in their sockets. Out of long habit, he had turned the chipped side of the cup away to keep it from catching his lips, but the coffee had long since grown cold.

  Ensconced in his usual armchair, Thorogood puffed at his pipe, the vapor mingling with the black smoke thrown forth by the candles. Accustomed to Buckler’s abstraction before a trial, he hadn’t bothered to speak in at least an hour, yet Buckler could sense in his friend an unusual disquiet. Ruff, on the other hand, was merely bored. He snorted and sprawled across the scattered pages of notes spilled across the hearthrug.

  After the dog had shifted restlessly for the third time and scrabbled at the sheets trapped under his heavy paws, Buckler called to his clerk, who was slumped over his desk, his forehead resting on his arms. “Bob, have you taken Ruff out?”