by S K Rizzolo
“What gentleman was this, ma’am?”
Mrs. Ecclestone sent her a scornful look. “Nell needed money to pay her debts. She kept insisting it was owed to her, but Mr. Sandford said she was lying about their child and risking their lives and the lives of his Jacobin friends. I heard his footsteps coming toward the door, so I dashed up the stairs. By the time I came down again, there was nothing more to hear. I went to bed.”
“She was in the drawing room with my father, but you said she was found upstairs in her bed the next morning.”
“I never spoke to her again.” Now she was rubbing her hands across the glass counter and smudging it with finger marks.
“You accused my father. Why? You had no evidence other than his presence in the house.”
“It was my duty, Mrs. Wolfe. As for Lewis Durant, Mary told me to lie when Nell’s gentleman came round asking questions. We said the baby died.”
“What gentleman, ma’am?” Penelope asked for the second time.
Mrs. Ecclestone shook her head. “Get out of my shop. Do you think I’m going to have you making more mischief for us? I acted to protect that boy and give him a chance to grow up free of the past. What a pity he’s been led astray and will likely hang for his folly.”
A fresh burst of fury stopped Penelope in her tracks, and she paused at the door to confront Nell Durant’s sister once more. “Since you never bothered to find out what became of your sister’s child, you can hardly be sorry.”
She left Amelia Ecclestone to her memories.
Chapter XXIV
Chase nodded politely as he passed Bow Street’s chief clerk and rapped on the door of the magistrate’s office. When a voice bade him enter, he stepped over the threshold.
Read looked up from his papers. “You received my message, eh? It struck me we might have been a trifle hasty when last we spoke. I thought another conversation would not come amiss.” He shot Chase a sharp glance. “You won’t like to hear that Farley and the others have taken up the slack in your absence. Not that you don’t deserve it.”
“Am I to resume my duties, sir?”
“I’ve had a fresh complaint, Chase. This grows more than tiresome. I can’t have a man in my employ who goes off half-cocked at every opportunity.”
“You’ll permit me to answer to these charges?”
“Certainly. You thrust yourself into the middle of Victor Kirby’s arrest and damn near scuttled it. Apparently, you also stole Collatinus’ last letter and did who knows what with it. Kirby claims you did all this for the glory and the reward money.”
“That young jackanapes can take his reward money and—”
“The jackanapes, as you call him, has a point. You were told to stay out of this affair. However,” Read added tartly, “I don’t say you stuck in your oar for money, if I know you as well as I think I do.”
“Kirby failed to deliver a warning. If a bystander hadn’t spoiled his aim, Lewis Durant would be dead. A boy of nineteen, sir.”
“And an accused murderer.” The magistrate frowned in the direction of the wall where a web of grimy cracks had marred the plaster. He looked pensive, a little distracted, like a man with his eye on a sky filled with thick-bellied clouds, bracing for rain. Abruptly, he nodded toward a chair.
Chase took a seat. “Kirby’s bullet could easily have gone awry. He was a fool to fire in so crowded a place. Besides, the boy is innocent.”
“You may be one of the only people in this city convinced of that. You and his sister, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. She’s been served a subpoena to testify at Durant’s trial. They will try to implicate her in the conspiracy.”
“Funny I should listen to you when the Home Office tells such a good story. Collatinus got his blood up when he was attacked in the press. He stabbed the newspaper editor, then killed the man’s poor wife. Perhaps murder wasn’t in the original plan, which was to avenge his mother’s death and line his pockets through blackmail—but there can be no excuse. At all events, your friend Mrs. Wolfe is said to have abetted him in this foolish quest.”
“Mrs. Wolfe had nothing to do with the Collatinus letters, though she wishes to help her brother. Natural, of course.”
“Most admirable.”
“So why are you listening to me, sir?”
Read looked up, a spark brightening his eyes. “The case interests me. Just when the Prince Regent has undergone a thorough drubbing in the press over his cruelty to his wife, this Collatinus gets himself arrested. An awkward business all around, considering the Prince was once involved with Durant’s mother. So the Regent has a few stories planted in the papers about Princess Caroline’s Jacobin supporters and casts himself as the innocent victim of a treasonous prostitute and her equally unscrupulous son. He’ll get the traitor safely hanged: a much needed coup for our Prince—and for my colleague Mr. Conant.”
“You see it too? Since Collatinus’ arrest, I seem to have picked up a few of the Home Office agents who’ve been dogging Mrs. Wolfe. It makes a man curious.”
“Yes, well, it was curiosity that got you in trouble to begin with, Chase.” Read slid open a drawer of his desk to retrieve an ebony baton topped by a gilt crown. He laid it on the desk and met Chase’s gaze, his eyes challenging. “If you choose to pick this up again, I’ll thank you to remember the loyalty due to this office. And to mind your tongue in future. Too much to ask?”
Chase looked down at the Bow Street tipstaff, and his hand went out to grasp it. The wood felt solid and cool in his hand as he restored the baton to his pocket. “I suppose not, sir. I’ll do my best to remember your advice.”
Read snorted. “I won’t hold my breath.”
A loud rap at the door made them both start, and Read called a curt “Come in.”
Victor Kirby appeared in the doorway. “My apologies, Mr. Read, but I was sure you’d want to hear the news. We’ve got him. By God, we’ve got him!”
“Who’s that, Kirby?”
“Collatinus.” Pointedly, the Runner ignored Chase. “May I speak to you in private, sir?”
Studying Kirby’s set face, the magistrate motioned Chase out of the room. “Get out of here and make yourself useful for a change.”
Instead Chase waited in the anteroom for Kirby to emerge, passing the time in gossip with the chief clerk James Winkle, who set aside the depositions he was copying into an occurrence book. A spare, dry man who masked a kind heart under a choleric manner, he confided frankly that it wouldn’t be easy for Chase to regain his professional standing. “They say your judgment has been grossly at fault in this Collatinus business. Don’t expect Mr. Read to stick out his neck any further. He has his own concerns.” Blinking rapidly, Winkle managed to convey both regret and censure.
Chase leaned down to whisper in the clerk’s ear, “As long as you stand my friend, Winkle, I don’t despair.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You know me, sir. I don’t forget my friends just because the wind changes direction. I take it you don’t share in the general rejoicing about our deliverance from Collatinus?”
“Kirby say anything to you?”
“Big with news, even I could see as much.”
“You know where he was today?”
“Maybe I do. But what I don’t know is why I should tell you.”
Chase retorted, “Maybe you should because Mr. Read is not the one pulling the strings. I don’t think he relishes all this poking and prying into the Princess’ private affairs.”
The clerk sniffed. Fanatically loyal, he was often vigorous—and sometimes hasty—in his defense of Read’s interests. According to office lore, he had once smacked an insolent servant so hard he broke his nose. Now he said, “Maybe Mr. Read prefers that his men occupy themselves with nabbing downright villains, bless him. I’ll tell you one thing. It goes both ways, doesn’t it? His Royal Highness can’t afford any
more bad reports. They’ll put this Collatinus to bed, fast.”
“You mean the reports about the Regent’s relationship with the boy’s mother?”
“Just so. He should’ve kept his breeches buttoned when it came to that bit of muslin. A few of the radical sheets have even picked up a rumor that Collatinus isn’t the radical’s son. Surely the Prince wouldn’t hang his own flesh and blood?” The eyes behind Winkle’s spectacles glinted with curiosity.
The door to the magistrate’s office opened, and Kirby emerged. He would have swept by had Chase not seized his arm. “Stop a minute, Kirby.”
“I have nothing to say to you.” He attempted to pull away.
“You’ll talk to me.” Chase’s patience with this arrogant idiot was at an end. A boy, a mere few years older than his own son Jonathan, languished in Newgate with the full might and power of the English Crown arrayed against him, and Chase could not but recall the toll exacted on Penelope. Today when she’d told him about her encounter with Amelia Ecclestone, he had noticed her pallor and her heavy, haunted eyes. Chase’s grip tightened, and Kirby, looking up into his face, shrank back.
“Mr. Chase,” said Winkle sternly, “let’s have no brawling, if you please.” He picked up his pen and returned to his work. “Not in my presence, at any rate.”
***
Ten minutes later Victor Kirby slipped inside the stairwell at the rear of the building. As the door closed on him, Chase stepped out from an alcove across the corridor and followed him. In the narrow space, he paused to get his bearings. The smell of dust and stale air. Darting shadows cast by candles in wall sconces; a pool of darkness below. Voices drifting up from below and the tramp of Kirby’s heavy boots as his form receded in the gloom.
Chase set off in pursuit, catching the other Runner about halfway down the flight of steps. He grabbed Kirby from behind and slammed his head against the wall, holding it there. Looming over the younger Runner, he took full advantage of his superior height and the leverage provided by his position.
“Get your hands off me, you bastard.” Kirby struggled to pull out of his grasp. He kicked back with a booted foot, catching Chase in the calf and just missing his vulnerable knee. Kirby swayed, nearly losing his balance, but Chase held him up. Drawing his fist back, he gave Kirby one sharp blow to the jaw.
“What’d you find?”
When he didn’t respond, Chase hit him again. “What did you find?”
Kirby fingered his jaw. “Peace,” he mumbled. “My head is ringing. Damn you, you’ve probably cracked my skull.”
“I doubt it. It’s hard enough. Don’t you understand you’re being used?”
“You don’t fight fair, Chase. Creeping up on a man, you coward.” He sounded confused yet belligerent.
“Fight fair, you die. Best learn that lesson now, bantling.” Chase swung Kirby around and thrust his face so close he could smell the ale on the other man’s breath and observe his pupils, wide and black with fear. A dribble of snot trailed from one nostril.
“Milling me down won’t save Durant,” Kirby said, twisting his face away. “We found his cloak and mask. He killed Leach, all right.”
“Where?”
“We emptied the privy at his lodgings.”
Chase absorbed this information. Until now, he’d had no reason to question Victor Kirby’s integrity, but the masked man tale had been invented. For Kirby to find this new piece of “evidence” on the eve of Durant’s trial, well, that was more than suspicious. “There was no masked man,” he said. “Are you telling me you agreed to plant false evidence?”
Kirby brought up both hands to shove back. Chase fell and this time his knee cracked hard against the wall. Pain exploded. Blindly, he reached out, his hand groping for the banister, but as he hauled himself to his feet, Kirby’s fist caught him in the belly, and he fell again. Kirby sprinted down the stairs.
Ignoring the agony in his knee, Chase went after him and caught him on the landing. The voices were louder here. On the other side of the wall, the magistrate would be conducting hearings: prisoners, witnesses, officers, and a motley crew, all jumbled together in the courtroom. In the din, they would be unlikely to hear a scuffle. Chase stationed himself at the door leading to the corridor and held up his arms in a defensive posture. The candle in the wall sconce burned brightly, shadows flirting down the walls to dance over Kirby.
“Why did you fire your pistol at the Crown and Anchor?”
“What do you take me for?” Kirby whispered.
“An ambitious man who should have asked more questions. Were you told to shoot Durant?”
“No…of course I wasn’t.” But doubt, hostility, and guile flickered over his face, each battling for supremacy. “A suggestion merely that the country might be better spared a trial. I was to act only if he resisted arrest.”
“Who called out, telling you to fire? Durant had no weapon. Was it one of the officers? Whoever it was knew your name.”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Did you find anything else at Durant’s lodgings?”
“Nothing much.”
Kirby had been looking for Nell’s memoirs, Chase thought. The authorities would be desperate to stop them from becoming evidence in the trial.
“Who told you to examine the privy? I guarantee it wasn’t your notion, Kirby.”
The Runner’s eyes went wide, and he looked a little sick. “Chase,” he said urgently, “I thought I did right. I believed him when he said I would earn His Royal Highness’ gratitude.”
Chase was staring at the shadows on the walls. Yes, he thought, and the idea he’d been turning over in his mind for the past week suddenly crystalized. How easy to manipulate Kirby, just as someone acting for the Prince had influenced the journalist Dryden Leach on his royal master’s behalf. What was it Gander had said? 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. The “something in the wind” was the investigation of the Collatinus letters.
According to Amelia Ecclestone, inquiries had been made about Nell’s infant son after her death. The Prince would have wanted to know the fate of the child he was rumored to have fathered, and who better to send than his own man, his faithful servant? The Prince’s Man had sponsored the courtesan’s debut in aristocratic circles and probably brought her to his master’s notice. When she later resorted to blackmail, her perfidy must have enraged him.
Nell would have confided her plans to Mary Leach, who sat by watching the destruction of a friend she loved. But Mary had stayed silent to protect her father, whose life had been in the hands of Nell’s killer, the preserver of his freedom. The killer had made doubly sure of Mary by seeing her wed to Dryden Leach, his press contact. So, yes, she had kept quiet until she met Lewis Durant. And that meeting led her inexorably to the night when she wielded Nell’s knife to attack her husband, a proxy for the true villain of this piece—the Prince’s Man.
Nell’s knife bore the triple plume device with the inscription: Ich Dien. ‘I serve.’ What a shame that this particular offshoot of the royal line had so little interest in serving anyone but himself! Fortunate for him, he had a minion only too willing to do anything to remain in his favor, a minion who simultaneously advanced his own vicious interests. Chase did not believe the Regent could have known what kind of man he honored with his patronage, but then again he was unlikely to have inquired too closely. The Prince’s Man must think himself secure. He had lied about his connection to Nell Durant—he must have been the gentleman who had discovered her in the shop. He had even attended the dinner at the Crown and Anchor to oversee the success of his plan. His was the voice Chase had heard calling out to incite murder.
Still awaiting an answer, Victor Kirby seemed frozen as Chase lifted his gaze from
the wall and said casually, “It was Ralph Hewitt, wasn’t it?”
***
Three weeks earlier
A sunless place, forbidding and strange. Tunnels, an intricate weaving of stone, a warren of passages in which they could have wandered for hours. As they passed down a corridor, hemmed in by the curving brick walls, a ragged form in its foul nest of straw flung out a bare foot. When Mary started in fear, Ralph Hewitt laughed softly.
“Surely we’ve gone far enough,” he said, his voice amused, and they hesitated at a fork where the passage branched in two directions. When she turned to look at him, he was still smiling, relaxed, his broad face wearing an interested expression, as if he wanted to be friendly. They might have been strolling in the park, exchanging pleasantries.
“Not quite.” She pointed to the left, shielding her candle from a sudden draft. In truth, Mary wasn’t sure which way to go. Leach had sometimes met his more disreputable contacts down here in the Arches, but she didn’t know where. The warehouses and wine cellars would be locked at this hour, but what choice did she have? When Hewitt’s letter had come earlier that day, she had known she couldn’t confront him in the open street, or get in a coach with him, so she had chosen the Arches for their meeting. To reassure herself of the wisdom of this decision, she felt for the pistol in her pocket.
They descended some steps to find more vaultings, stretching as far as she could see. She had not realized the size, the extent, of this place. Ahead, through a hole at the end of what seemed a long cavern, she glimpsed a heavier darkness—the river. Suddenly, she could hear a faint lowing and smell the pitiful cows housed underground here, living out their lives in squalid misery. Her hands shaking, she tried a few doors until one, aged and frail, yielded to her touch.
“In here?” Hewitt’s nose wrinkled.
“We can speak privately.”
Once inside, she crossed the space to set the candle atop an overturned crate, wanting to have her hands free. Lifting the veil of her bonnet, she faced him. The pistol was in her hand, and she prayed she could hold it steady.
