by S K Rizzolo
Hair on end, cravat askew, Bob lifted his head to glare at his master. “How the devil was I to do that? You haven’t given me a moment’s peace in days. Take him out yourself.”
Thorogood’s sardonic smile dawned. “Now, Bob. You don’t want the dog to have an accident. Who do you think will clean up the mess?”
“Oh, very well.” Bob got to his feet, stretching his arms high in the air and wriggling the muscles of his shoulders. All he had to do was cock his head in Ruff’s direction, and the animal leapt to his feet, eager for his evening constitutional. As Ruff raced across the room, his paws churned up the papers on the rug, and Buckler was forced to rescue one that drifted too near the fire. Ruff was at the door before Bob had managed to collect his coat and muffler. Grumbling to himself, the clerk went out, dog in tow.
“The man’s a treasure, Buckler. Increase his wages before some other lawyer steals him from you.”
“Who? Bob?”
“Yes, you dolt. Put aside your book. I want to talk to you about Richard Grouse.”
Buckler had not been pleased to learn that Grouse had been engaged as solicitor to mount the prosecution against Lewis Durant, or, for that matter, that the formidable Latham Quiller had been employed as lead counsel. Grouse was known to be methodical and unstinting of effort in preparing his briefs, and he would relish any opportunity to see Buckler defeated in court as payback for the personal humiliation he’d suffered in the crim. con. matter.
“What of Grouse? A man who seeks to profit by dragging his wife’s name through the muck, not once but twice, is a scoundrel beneath my notice.”
Thorogood rolled his eyes. “His marital antics are beside the point. An acquaintance of mine encountered him at the Grecian last night. Grouse was in high spirits and seemed to think the outcome of the trial could not be in doubt.”
“Delightful.”
Buckler gazed for a while at the trio of flickering candle flames engaged in their futile battle to stand upright. He could not allow this boy to go to the gallows. The shame and sorrow would linger, tainting his relationship with Penelope and branding him a failure in her eyes, not to mention that Buckler had grown to like the boy for his own sake. Still, when he considered the might of the forces arrayed against Lewis, he doubted his ability to bring him off safely. Buckler had seen neither the indictments nor the depositions of the witnesses. He knew little of the prosecution’s case beyond what he’d been able to glean from the preliminary hearing. He would not be able to address the jury on his client’s behalf and could only strive to sow doubt about the prosecution’s case and present a few character witnesses. Lewis’ employer, the schoolmaster, had refused to speak on his behalf, but the boy’s landlady, as well as the friend he had dined with on the night of Leach’s attack, had agreed to testify. This would not be enough, Buckler reflected. And with this thought, melancholy—black and deep—stirred, like a beast waking from an uneasy slumber, or an unwelcome memory clouding a happy day. He pushed it down. He had no time for his old foe today.
Irritably, he kicked at the papers with the toe of his slipper. His strategy and legal precedents were already committed to memory, so he didn’t really need the notes anymore. Most of the sheets consisted of scribbles, incomprehensible to anyone but him, as he had mapped out the different avenues his cross-examination might take. His usual method was to do as much planning as he had time for, then let his instincts take over. Often, he had received a brief but a few minutes before a cause came on, forcing him to rely on his wits and any knowledge of the law he had managed to pick up along the way. This time he would be ready to fight.
Buckler took a sip of cold coffee and grimaced. “Quiller will cast Lewis Durant as a masked devil, Zeke.”
“Without a doubt.”
He could feel Thorogood watching him, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, his brow furrowed, his expression gloomy. Buckler hadn’t seen him this way since the time they’d visited the family of a wet nurse accused of smothering an infant in her charge. They’d lost that case—the wet nurse had been hanged.
“Out with it, old man.” He was aware of what ailed his friend and knew Thorogood wouldn’t rest until he said it, as if saying the words aloud could somehow protect them.
“She would forgive you, Edward.”
Before he could respond, Bob and Ruff ushered in Grouse himself. The solicitor was a tall, well-formed gentleman with a shock of black hair and an air of clever industriousness. Grouse came forward to meet them, stepping nimbly over the clothing, newspapers, papers, and books.
“I beg your pardon for this interruption. Can you spare a moment?”
“Certainly, Mr. Grouse,” said Buckler, struggling to hide his surprise. He motioned toward his own vacated chair. “Won’t you sit down?”
“No, no. My business is soon discharged.” Grouse bowed a curt acknowledgement in Thorogood’s direction but kept his focus on Buckler.
As the two friends exchanged a glance, Ruff fled to Buckler’s side, and he put a reassuring hand on the dog’s neck. “How may we assist you, Mr. Grouse?”
“In the matter of Lewis Durant: I would like an assurance you will not bring dishonor upon those to whom we are bound by the most sacred ties of obligation.”
Buckler narrowed his eyes. “And who would that be?”
Thorogood affected shock. “Do you really think I would insult my own mother, sir?”
Grouse ignored them both. “You can hardly wish to revive the past, Mr. Buckler. The defendant is, after all, less than twenty years old. He can know nothing to the purpose about his mother’s disreputable life.”
Running a hand through his unruly hair, Buckler tightened the belt of his dressing gown and studied Grouse’s uncomfortably red face. “Oh, indeed? You refer to Nell Durant? I’m sorry to disoblige you, but she is central to my defense.”
“Illustrious persons, to whom you would not wish to give offense, will take it very much amiss if you publish malicious tattle with no bearing on this case. You are yet a young man, Mr. Buckler, with a long career ahead of you.”
“Do you seek to frighten me?” asked Buckler gently. “Well, sir, you quite mistake the matter if you think you or anyone else can have the slightest influence on how I choose to defend my client.”
Thorogood stalked to the door. Throwing it open, he spoke over his shoulder. “Take yourself off at once before I tear your ties of obligation to shreds and make you eat them! We’ll see you in court, Grouse.”
Chapter XXIII
Sarah soon adjusted to a new home offering delightful playmates and a large garden, especially since the bailiffs had not seized her small treasures and familiar belongings. With scarcely a pang, Penelope had relinquished the costly gowns Jeremy had purchased for her to play her role as the wife of a successful artist. She kept her mother’s pearls, her plainer dresses, and her books, finding herself oddly satisfied with the bargain. As the fashionable sofas and carved gilt picture frames were carried away, it seemed to her she watched the dismantling of a life that had never been right for her. Well, let it go.
This complete change distracted the child from the reality of Jeremy’s desertion, though in the following days Penelope would often see a look on her daughter’s face, a sudden realization of loss so perplexing that Sarah threw herself with all the more determination into her games. At these times her play took on a frenzied quality as she darted around the Thorogoods’ garden, one moment laughing and boisterously calling to the other children, the next creeping back to hide behind Penelope’s skirt. But after the first morning when she had awakened to find her father gone, she did not again mention his name. And every time Penelope noted the child’s bewilderment, she felt the guilt rush back to weigh her down like a stone.
“The children frisk like new lambs today,” observed Hope one April morning when the tender leaves sparkled with raindrops from early showers, and a watery
sun struggled to spread its warmth.
Penelope watched her daughter tagging at David’s heels as he launched his kite in the breeze. David, Sarah’s new idol, was remarkably tolerant, generously allowing her to share in his pursuits and only teasing her when irresistible opportunity presented itself. It had been amusing to watch Maggie’s Frank vie with Hope’s son for Sarah’s attention, for Frank was not sure what to make of this big, open-hearted boy who had welcomed them into his world. Penelope had just been explaining to Hope that David made the wait for Lewis’ trial at the next Old Bailey sessions much more bearable.
“He’s a dear boy,” Hope replied with pardonable pride, then moved hastily out of the way as her son charged toward them, his face turned up to the sky. “Come, my dear. Let’s retreat to the shrubbery before these children knock us down with their rumpus.”
As they paced together down a neat, wide path surrounded by tall greenery, Hope said, “Have you prepared yourself for this trial, Penelope?”
“Better to have it over, and I know Lewis thinks so too. When I visited him the other day, he’d been arguing with one of the other prisoners before we arrived. Some of the men torment him, while others seem inclined to glorify him for daring to attack the nobs, as they put it. And the Ordinary has been after him to confess his crimes and repent of his sins. No doubt the chaplain hopes to profit in selling Lewis’ story to the public.”
“Lewis must keep silent. Newgate is rotten with jail informers.”
“Mr. Thorogood and Mr. Buckler remind him of that repeatedly.” As she steered Hope around a puddle, she said with diffidence, “I know you worry about Mr. Thorogood contracting a fever when he goes to that vile place. I…I thank you, Hope, for all you have done for me.”
“Nonsense. Do you think I could stop him? He is never so happy as when big schemes are afoot. He brags continually about the magnificence of the brief he has presented to Edward to use in your brother’s defense. And Mr. Chase’s services in interviewing the witnesses have been most helpful. If this business can be accomplished, together they will do it.”
Keeping her eyes on the gravel walk, Penelope drew Hope’s arm closer to her side. She understood her friend’s meaning. Hope wanted her to remain optimistic about the outcome but to preserve in some dark corner of her mind the awareness that their utmost efforts might not be enough. The only trouble, thought Penelope, was that the darkness in this corner had a tendency to thicken and expand until it choked out the light.
“We need to find Peter Malone, Hope. I’m certain he saw Mary Leach at the Daily Intelligencer. Why else should he run away unless in fear of his life from someone who didn’t want him to tell his story? Mr. Buckler must make the jury question the government’s version of events.”
“I pray all will be well.”
“Mr. Gander continues to evade a confrontation with John Chase. So far, I have obeyed Mr. Chase’s instructions to remain quietly at home, but despite what he says, I intend to call on Nell Durant’s sister, Mrs. Ecclestone.”
“You must be patient, Penelope.”
How was that possible? In his daily paragraphs and his popular pamphlet, Gander trumpeted arch speculation about Lewis Durant and the entirely fabricated history of his relationships with his sister and his celebrated father. Men like Gander knew how to twist public perception like a lump of dough under their hands.
But if Penelope had to rise each morning dreading what her morning paper would reveal, at least Princess Caroline had won the publicity battle handily. The Times had declared her complete innocence and advised her to take no more notice of any “vague aspersions” cast on her character. The ministry was on the defensive as Caroline’s supporters vociferously championed her in the press. Soon after Lewis’ arrest, the work simply entitled The Book, Spencer Perceval’s original inquiry into the Princess’ conduct, had begun to appear in various editions. Despite its scandalous nature, the public had made a heroine of Caroline and a villain of her selfish, blundering husband. It was said that the Lord Mayor himself would present a proclamation to the Princess to express the undying loyalty of the City of London, and Penelope had even overheard Buckler and Thorogood discussing whether the Regent’s increasing unpopularity might sway the jury in Lewis’ favor. A faint hope, she feared. Popular or unpopular, the Regent was too powerful.
“Can patience serve anyone when the liars and bullies of this world would destroy us all?” she said wearily.
Before Hope could reply, David ran up the path toward them, Sarah and Frank following. “There’s someone to see you, Mrs. Wolfe,” David announced.
“He’s at the garden gate, Mama,” added Sarah.
Penelope and Hope looked at each other. “That’s odd. Why didn’t the visitor go to the front entrance?” murmured Hope.
Accompanying the children, they set off down a stone path across the garden. At the gate into a lane bordered by fields and dotted with other homes, a neatly dressed man in a tall beaver hat awaited them. Yellen, the Thorogoods’ aged gardener, hovered nearby, calling out as they approached, “A gentleman to see Mrs. Wolfe, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Yellen,” said Hope and nodded pleasantly to the stranger. “What can we do for you, sir? You have come to the rear of our home. Have you lost your way?”
Rudely, the man ignored her friendly smile. Keeping his eyes fixed on Penelope, he stepped closer and put a sealed document into her hand. “Mrs. Jeremy Wolfe? You are summoned to appear at the trial of Lewis Durant.”
***
“I read about you in the newspaper,” said Amelia Ecclestone after Penelope had identified herself. The tobacconist’s wife was alone, sweeping up the droppings on the floor. There was no sign of the husband Chase had described. Setting the broom to one side, Mrs. Ecclestone ran her hands down her apron and stepped behind her counter. She had greeted Penelope’s entrance with a welcoming smile that soon withered to cold suspicion.
“You’re Mr. Sandford’s daughter and Lewis Durant’s sister.”
“Yes.”
“The man who came here before—Mr. Chase. He pursues his inquires on Durant’s behalf?”
“He works to free your nephew.”
She glanced nervously around the empty shop, as if worried they would be overheard. “I’ve had no contact with the boy since his early infancy. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Lewis Durant is your kin,” Penelope reminded her.
“What do you want? I have many tasks awaiting me this morning, and a customer may come in at any moment. State your business.”
“I want you to tell me anything you can remember about your sister’s last days. Lewis Durant is innocent. His life is in danger. If you know something, it is your duty to speak out, ma’am.”
“If people find out we are connected to Collatinus, our business will be ruined, the labor of a lifetime spoiled. Leave us alone, Mrs. Wolfe. What harm have we ever done to you?” Amelia Ecclestone leaned across the glass, extending her arms in appeal, but Penelope, seeing the calculation in the gesture, was disgusted.
“You can’t hide your relationship to Lewis forever. George Kester knows of your connection to Mrs. Durant, and Mr. Chase said that constables have visited you.” As she spoke, Penelope was taking in the prosperous shop with its gleaming glass and rows of jars. She was remembering what Lewis had told her of his boyhood in the charity school: days of hunger, loneliness, and submission to stern authority. His recounting had been terse, bare of detail, but she had filled in the gaps only too easily. His foster-mother had meant well by him, but she’d had her own family, after all.
Mrs. Ecclestone broke the silence. “As soon as the letters started in the papers, we knew Mary Leach was making trouble. I’d always thought Nell a fool to take up with her.”
“Why did you tell Mr. Chase my father killed your sister? And you lied when you said Lewis died as a baby.”
“I’d
never seen your friend before in my life. He was prying into our private family affairs! Besides, for all I know, Mr. Sandford was guilty.”
“Because he visited Nell on the night she died?”
“Exactly,” she said triumphantly.
“Did you hear something of Mrs. Durant’s conversation that night? You must see it’s important, ma’am.”
“How dare you. I’ve read about you in the papers. You’re a woman who can’t even keep her own husband at her side! I have nothing to say to such as you.”
Penelope grew cold with anger. “Either you tell me what you know, or I will stand in front of your shop and shout to the world that your nephew is to stand his trial for murder.”
Mrs. Ecclestone turned away to tidy her jars, lifting them one by one and placing them on a shelf behind the counter, her hands visibly trembling. “You don’t understand. I was frightened. Mr. Sandford was shouting at her and accusing her of playing him false. I didn’t know what he might do—that’s why I listened at the drawing room door.”
“She’d been with another man?”
She paused and faced Penelope again. Doubt, fear, and cunning chased each other across her face. “No,” she said at last. “He was angry at Nell for saying Lewis was the Prince’s bastard. I don’t know exactly what it was about, some arrangement. Mr. Sandford warned Nell to stay clear, but she wouldn’t listen. She told him she could handle herself.”
“What kind of arrangement?”
“Business. She was negotiating with the other gentleman, the one who ruined her in the first place. I always knew that man had an eye to the main chance. He saw Nell when she was still a respectable girl, and he thought he’d make a handsome profit on her. I suppose his pockets were to let, and my sister could fill ’em up for him. And she did, for a while, until she got above herself. Your father came along and spoiled the party.”
