Die I Will Not

by S K Rizzolo

  “We cannot ask her, can we?” Penelope shot back. “I am sure she wanted to tell me about Lewis and share her secrets before it was too late. I only wish I had been in time to stop her from leaving the house.”

  “Secrets, madam? A respectable woman can have no secrets of this nature. For shame, you imply ill of a woman who died tragically.”

  She looked away, struggling to retain control. After a tense silence, she said softly, “Whatever Mary Leach did, I bear her no malice.”

  Quiller snapped his fingers, and an underling brought forth a volume bound in dark leather, which was placed before Mr. Justice Worthing. “The christening register from St. Marylebone parish church, my lord,” said the serjeant smoothly. “It records the birth of a baseborn son to Nell Durant and Eustace Sandford. Mrs. Wolfe’s father.”

  He turned back to Penelope. “You’ve heard the wicked rumors Mrs. Durant circulated about the parentage of her babe?”

  “I’ve heard the speculation that the Prince of Wales was the father.”

  Now Quiller pointed at Lewis, who stared back at him haughtily. “And yet you call this man brother—Nell Durant’s child grown to manhood and accused of sedition and murder. It seems you are right, Mrs. Wolfe. The christening record is proof these rumors were foul lies. You own this bond of blood freely?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Quiller withdrew, satisfied.

  ***

  Buckler kept Penelope’s cross-examination short, wanting to get her off the stand as quickly as possible. He emphasized Eustace Sandford’s status as a respectable scholar and pointed out that, after all, Sandford had not returned to his native shores in years. He could hardly be guilty of any nefarious plots from so far away, nor had scandal ever before tainted his daughter. Through further questioning, Buckler also introduced Penelope’s theory that Mary had summoned her to reveal the existence of her brother Lewis Durant.

  Next on the stand, Samuel Gibbs, printer of the Free Albion, produced several closely written pages. “Here they are, my lords. The Collatinus letters.”

  Quiller half turned his body toward the jury and spoke in a deliberately restrained tone, somehow managing to convey a sweeping accusation. “Whose hand brought them to you?”

  “Lewis Durant’s, sir.”

  “The same letters you published in your newspaper under the Collatinus pseudonym?”

  “The same.” Gibbs, a fine representative of the gutter press, was said to have made a fortune out of his chapbooks and ballad sheets, many of them capitalizing on the theme of Princess Caroline as wronged mother. He was an imp-like creature with hair, gray and matted with dirt, and nose, red and veined from drink. As he answered the questions, he glanced around the court like a child, eager to please.

  “Did Durant admit to authoring these letters?”

  “’Course, he did. He quoted ’em at me.”

  “You knew who he was? The son of the radical Eustace Sandford and Nell Durant?”

  “I’d not be publishing his letters else,” said Gibbs earnestly. “We meant to introduce him to the world as Collatinus, son of Collatinus. We’d have made some gingerbread with that one, I can tell you. Only he got nabbed.”

  “Did Durant tell you where he got the information for the letters?”

  “Why, from his mother’s book. The one she used to record her doings when she spread her legs for fine gentlemen.”

  Buckler heard several gasps of horror punctuated with shouts of laughter, and Worthing snapped, “Mr. Gibbs, you will curb your tongue.”

  “Sorry, my lord. It’s just, that is what he said.”

  “About his own mother?” Quiller injected the right note of dismay into his tone. “Did you see this book, Mr. Gibbs?”

  “He kept it close. He told me his foster mother had given it to him when he was a boy. He knew its value.”

  “Value? You mean that Durant hoped to profit. Blackmail, in short.”

  “Why, of course, he did. Old secrets, mind you, but still worth a bit to keep sub rosa. He’d send a begging letter or two; maybe he did it already for all I know. I told him I’d have naught to do with such wickedness.”

  “That, then, was the purpose of the letters?”

  “And to take a poke at the nobs what never gave him nothing. He hated His Royal Highness like poison, he did. He’d say anything about him; he called him a pig and spit out the side o’ his mouth when he said his name. Blamed him for his mother’s death, in truth.”

  Quiller picked up one of the letters to quote, “This PRINCE—this monster of rapacity, this enemy of mankind…” He paused for effect. “Who is the author of this sentiment, sir?”

  “Lewis Durant. Without a doubt.”

  Buckler rose to his feet. “I object to this, my lords. Mr. Gibbs is an interested party, bent on evading punishment. We must ask what reward he was promised for this testimony.”

  “The defendant’s counsel grows impatient, I see. No matter. I am finished. You may ask this witness any questions you like.” Quiller gave his polished bow.

  Buckler approached the witness box, and for the second time that day, presented Mary Leach’s pocket memorandum book, open to a page in the middle. “Do you recognize this hand?”

  Gibbs gaped at him, perplexed. “How should I?”

  “Do me the honor of comparing the hand in that book to the first Collatinus letter.” As he made this request, his palms were sweating. If Gibbs were to pick up the last published letter—the one Lewis had actually written—Buckler’s maneuver would fail. Thanks to John Chase, there was only the one.

  Suddenly Quiller was at Buckler’s side. “My lords, my honored friend outdoes himself with this feint. What does he mean by it?” He plucked the book from Gibbs’ nerveless fingers, holding it aloft to decipher the neat script. “This day I trimmed my white chip hat with some old gauze.” Quiller smiled at the jury. “We must admit that Mrs. Leach sounds a right villainess in these pages.”

  Laughter erupted again, and Buckler felt his face flush. “The hand is the same. Allow Gibbs to make the comparison, if you please. You’ve heard Mrs. Wolfe’s testimony about Mrs. Leach’s note to arrange the guardianship of her children. Something had gone seriously wrong in her life.”

  Quiller swept an expansive arm to invite the judges, the jury, and the spectators to share his outrage. “Is it not enough the poor woman should be murdered? No, you seek to rob her of character and virtue. You deprive her of reputation, the jewel of her soul.”

  Buckler’s gaze went out over the gallery to find Horatio Rex, and their eyes locked. “You are right, Mr. Serjeant Quiller. But I cannot see an innocent man hanged to protect her. Mrs. Leach was caught in an evil not of her own devising and swept along by events. If she did evil in her turn, we must temper our condemnation with mercy.”

  ***

  Fish everywhere. They perched on shoulders and decorated the officers’ hats. They slid into pockets and plunked on the pavement. The old woman, whose precious stock lay around her like corpses on a battlefield, began to wail. “My fish! You ’ad no call ter do that. Who’s goin’ ter pay?” Tears pouring down her withered cheeks, she began to retrieve the casualties, dusting each one on her filthy apron before replacing it in her basket.

  “You will be compensated,” said Chase as he went to Malone’s assistance.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Malone had kicked back with his heavy boot to catch one of his captors in the stomach. Off balance, the man slipped on some scales and fell. Above, the agent in the brown felt hat held grimly to the prisoner’s lapels, but Malone, with another kick and a mighty wrench, broke free. He too would have fallen to the ground had Chase not stepped forward to steady him. Chase drew Malone away from the coach, a firm arm encircling his neck.

  “Angel?”

  “Here, sir,” said the costermonger. Glancing over his shoulder, Cha
se was surprised to see that the sweet-faced fish-seller bore a distinctly menacing aspect. He stood, fists raised, ready to charge into the fray should fraternal obligation require.

  The jarvey had descended from his box to join them. “What do you think you’re doing? You interfere in police business.”

  “I am the police,” said Chase.

  The jarvey looked confused.

  The agent in the brown felt hat jumped down to confront them. “He’s lying. Help us get this man back into the coach.”

  In reply, Chase retrieved his Bow Street tipstaff from his pocket and addressed the jarvey pleasantly. “John Chase, Bow Street. These officers are acting illegally. Ask them to produce their warrant.”

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong,” said Malone, appealing to the jarvey, man to man.

  Chase looked at Malone. “You’ll come with me voluntarily? You are needed to answer some questions. A summons has been issued for you to tell your story in court. You are likely the only man in London to have seen the masked man who killed Dryden Leach.”

  “Are you mad?” said the agent in the brown felt hat. “I’ll see you locked up for this, Chase.”

  “For helping you locate a witness who is wanted by the Crown to testify today? I should think you would thank me. I assumed you had the same intentions as I in regard to this man. By what authority do you detain him?”

  “Mr. Conant must interview him.”

  “And so he shall. I’ll escort Malone to Great Marlborough Street myself after the trial. You may follow us to the Old Bailey if you wish, gentlemen.”

  Malone, chalk-white and sweating, took a step back. “I’ll go nowhere with none of you.”

  In the end, Conant’s officers, uneasily eyeing the vociferous crowd gathered around the coach, agreed to terms. One of them would follow Chase and Malone to the Old Bailey, while the other would proceed to Great Marlborough Street to learn Mr. Conant’s instructions. As for Malone, Chase overheard Angel saying to him, “You’d best go along, Peter. What’s ter do? Go and tell yer story. Then yer’ll be safe belike.” That seemed to decide the matter, and when Chase had recompensed the old fishwife for her stock, they were ready to depart.

  Once inside the coach, Malone retreated to the corner and rested his head against the squabs, eyes determinedly closed, a sullen look on his face.

  “Why did you run away?”

  “I’m a poor man, Mr. Chase.”

  “Not so poor as when this business began, eh? Were you bribed to make yourself scarce?”

  “I thought maybe I’d be in bad loaf if I stayed. When all’s said and done, I’d already made a bit on what I could tell.”

  “Tell it again now. What did you see that night?”

  Malone opened his eyes. “What about me? I don’t want no more trouble.”

  “You’ll stand up in court like an honest man and tell the truth, what else? What did you see?”

  “They got the villain what done for Mr. Leach. I read it in the papers.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Malone,” said Chase, restraining himself with some difficulty. “Did you—or did you not—see Mary Leach enter the building that night?”

  “I never saw her go in. But I saw her run out right enough.”

  “What else?”

  He blinked rapidly. “Sir?”

  “What happened next?”

  Malone had stared after Mrs. Leach. Though she hadn’t stopped to speak to him, she’d noticed him sitting there, and never before had he seen a look like that on a human face. What in the name of Old Scratch is this? Where’d she come from? “Mrs. Leach,” he called after her; then she was gone, a lady alone in the night. He had a dim sense it might be his duty to go after her, to make sure she was all right. But the next thing Malone knew, footsteps were pounding down the stairs, and Malone saw his employer Mr. Leach stumbling after his wife. He ran to open the front door for him. Leach’s progress was erratic, and at first Malone thought he was drunk, very drunk. But he wore a look of stunned amazement—this cold man who had always seemed untouched by his fellow man. He had never had a kind word or a smile of greeting for his porter. He had walked right by Malone every day for three years with a growl of complaint if Malone didn’t get the door open fast enough.

  “Help you, sir?”

  Leach did not reply.

  “Sir, are you ill?”

  By this time, they were outside, and he was holding Leach up as they watched the woman escaping down the street. She looked back once to see them standing there, her face a white blur in the dark.

  “Get me a coach,” bit out Leach, speaking with difficulty. When some of the other journalists came out of the building to see what had happened, he waved them away.

  Malone obeyed, motioning frantically at a passing hackney coach. “Can I summon Mr. Blagley to you? Or a doctor?”

  “I’ll go home.”

  “What shall I say has happened, sir?” He wrapped his arm tightly about his employer’s shoulder and guided him down the pavement.

  “Keep quiet if you value your position. I’ll speak to you in a day or two when I return.”

  Malone helped him into the coach, giving the driver Leach’s address, and it was only then that he discovered the blood on his hands. As his heart began to pound, he wiped the blood off on his trousers and returned, slowly, to his post.

  “Only Mr. Leach never came back. Three days later, I heard he was dead.”

  “What of this masked man tale?” Leach had discovered the identity of Lewis Durant, Chase thought. Even in his agony he might have believed that he and Hewitt could pin the stabbing on Durant, and perhaps Leach had also decided he could rid himself of his rebellious wife without too much fuss. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted the humiliation of being known as the man whose own wife had dared to joust with him in the public press and then pinked him with a knife. With Mary out of the way, he could have published the story of his career and taken credit for bringing down Collatinus.

  “She was his wife, wasn’t she?” said Malone. “Stands to reason. Better a masked man than a murdering she-devil.”

  “But you told someone about Mrs. Leach, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. The Prince’s Man came around asking questions. He was supposed to have a meeting with Mr. Leach. He were generous, but all the same…”

  “Why’d you run away, Malone? You could have sold your information a second or a third time, to me for one.”

  “Mr. Hewitt told me Bow Street might be nosing around. He said there was treachery afoot against the realm and our Regent. I would play into the scoundrels’ hands if I opened my mouth. Even the police weren’t to be trusted. There was something about him. I wasn’t going to chance it.”

  Chapter XXVII

  Penelope took a seat in the gallery. Marveling at Hewitt’s tranquility, she kept thinking of Mary, Nell, her father, and Lewis, and her anger threatened to leap its banks like a swollen river. As she waited for John Chase and watched the parade of prosecution witnesses, she repeated to herself, over and over, that she wanted Hewitt to pay. But Buckler’s attempt to force a penmanship comparison hadn’t worked, and now Victor Kirby’s testimony seemed to strike the jury with renewed belief in Lewis’ guilt. Here, finally, was a piece of concrete evidence—the mask and cloak. Listening to Quiller’s measured questions and Kirby’s replies, she felt a queer trembling in her limbs. Then, to her enormous relief, it was Buckler’s turn to cross-examine, and the momentum shifted.

  “Who instructed you to examine the privy at Durant’s lodgings?”

  Hesitantly, Kirby said, “It wasn’t a directive. A suggestion we thought might bear fruit.”

  “Who is ‘we,’ sir?”

  “Mr. Hewitt broached the matter to me.”

  “And he is?”

  “A gentleman often engaged in the Prince Regent’s affair
s.”

  “This gentleman told you to look in the privy? It was kind of him to tell you your business. Did Mr. Hewitt give you any other…suggestions in regard to Lewis Durant, specifically at the time of the arrest?”

  “He said Durant was a desperate a villain and might even fire into the crowd if cornered.”

  “A desperate villain?” Buckler stood gazing with a puzzled expression at the defendant who waited, still and composed. Point taken: he did not look the part.

  Buckler went on. “Which is why you fired on Durant without warning, though he was quickly apprehended with no weapon in his possession?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was anything in particular found in Lewis Durant’s pockets when he was arrested? For example, was he carrying the promised Collatinus letter?”

  “No, nothing, but I’m sure that was because—”

  “Did you not find Mr. Hewitt’s conduct strange? A gentleman involving himself in police affairs?”

  Kirby bristled. “I did not. Everyone was eager to catch Collatinus.”

  “Should not such instructions have come from your superiors? You didn’t consider that?” Before Kirby could respond, Buckler added mildly, “Well, after all, perhaps you were a trifle distracted by the rewards at stake.”

  He started to withdraw, then turned back, as if suddenly recalling a thought to mind. “One more thing, Mr. Kirby. Were there any witnesses to the finding of this mask and cloak?”

  When the Runner just glared in impotent rage, Buckler offered him a polite smile. “Thank you. You may step down, sir.”

  Penelope had seen the jurors exchanging worried glances, for they knew that the Runners had at times been suspected of entrapping criminals in order to obtain reward money for the convictions. Remembering that the jury was composed of freeborn Englishmen, she began to feel more hopeful.

  And then John Chase entered the Old Bailey.

  To the end of her life, Penelope was to remember this moment. There in that dark place that had seen so much suffering, so many desolate souls condemned to the gallows, her heart lifted to watch him stride toward the judges’ bench, shepherding the porter under an authoritative hand. Chase had an air of easy confidence and a look of grim satisfaction that spoke of a job well done. Ducking his head, Peter Malone seemed anxious to avoid the crowd’s eager scrutiny, but Chase hurried him forward.