by S K Rizzolo
Buckler came forward to meet them, and his hand went out to grasp his friend’s in welcome. Jubilantly, he said, “Mr. Serjeant Quiller, it appears the missing witness has been found.” As he spoke, he looked up, seeking Penelope in the gallery, and smiled, a small, private smile closing out the rest of the world.
Caught up in this drama, Penelope forgot to keep her eye on Hewitt, but Hope Thorogood, sitting at her side, squeezed her arm in warning. Head down, the Prince’s Man edged along the gallery. “Mr. Chase,” Penelope shouted. “Stop him! He’s trying to get away.”
At the sound of her voice, Chase dropped the porter’s arm and set off in pursuit.
***
He caught Ralph Hewitt at the door. Hearing Thorogood’s heavy footfall behind him, Chase told the lawyer to stay back, but it was quickly apparent Hewitt had no intention to fight. He put up no resistance when Chase clapped a hand to his shoulder and wrestled his arms behind his back.
Thorogood spoke into the murderer’s ashen face. “You’ll go nowhere, sir. You are wanted to testify.”
Every person in the Old Bailey had observed this confrontation, and Hewitt seemed to shrink, as if trying to avoid the sea of eyes. He allowed himself to be conducted to the front, where Chase sat him down and stood guard over him. As Peter Malone spoke, Hewitt remained silent. The judges studied Chase curiously but seemed to have decided to permit matters to unfold without interference. The prosecution lawyers conducted low-voiced conversations with the exception of Latham Quiller, who waited like a statue in his red robe, fur-trimmed cloak, and white lawn coif. Quiller’s look said he was prepared for anything.
With one part of his mind, Chase listened to the porter’s testimony, but he was conscious of a restlessness, a feeling that something still eluded him. It was a nagging irritant, a thorn in his thoughts, until he noticed the cloak and mask, discarded on the lawyers’ table after Kirby’s testimony.
Chase bent to whisper in Thorogood’s ear. “What’s that?”
“The cloak and mask Kirby claimed he found in the privy. A shame that Buckler didn’t get him to confess he put them there or Hewitt did. They don’t matter now. They can’t be used against Lewis if there never was a masked man.”
“You’re wrong. They matter more than ever.”
No one, except Thorogood and perhaps Latham Quiller, paid Chase any heed as he walked over to spread out the folds of the black cloak. Made of broadcloth, lined with satin, and sporting several capes, the cloak had three buttonholes but only two flat buttons at the neck. Its material was slightly stiff in places, caked with unmentionable substances and probably also with dried blood. From his pocket, Chase withdrew a plain button covered in thick black cloth—a perfect match. He held it up to the cloak, smiling to himself. Watching him, Thorogood grinned too.
In the witness box Malone had finished his testimony. Buckler stepped forward to address the panel of judges, accompanied by a buzz of excited anticipation. “My lords, we have a fatal variance between the indictment and the proof. The prosecutors have undertaken to prove that Lewis Durant, in the guise of a masked man, stabbed Dryden Leach.” He paused. “But according to the testimony of Peter Malone, no such masked man was seen in the vicinity. On the contrary, the evidence suggests that the person most likely to have committed this crime is Mary Leach herself.”
Worthing nodded. “I am inclined to agree. Here is no evidence against the prisoner in the first felony count.”
Buckler gestured at Ralph Hewitt. “My lords, we have not yet got to the bottom of this matter. Peter Malone related the particulars of Mr. Leach’s attack to Mr. Hewitt on the day after the stabbing. And yet Mr. Hewitt, who has connections in the Home Office and friends of the highest degree, appears to have shared this information with no one. Instead, he allowed the prosecution of Lewis Durant to go forward and, as we’ve heard, even intimated that Durant’s life could well be dispensed with. We must hear from Mr. Hewitt.”
“My brother Quiller?” said Worthing.
Quiller raised an ironic eyebrow at Buckler. Your move now. “I have no objection,” he said. “Let Mr. Hewitt be sworn, and my learned friend may pose his questions.”
The tension in the court was palpable as Ralph Hewitt rose to his feet. His effort to maintain calm was a failure, Chase thought. He was not used to the glare of the public gaze—he had always worked in shadows. Sweat glistened on his broad forehead, and he raised his hand, a fleshy dead thing, to his forehead to dash away the moisture. There was a stiff, mechanical quality to his movement, as if he were propelled, unwillingly, by some inner voice instructing him to face all, dare all, and somehow come off the victor. As he walked haltingly by the journalists’ table, Fred Gander waved his quill in greeting and gave him a cheeky grin. Hewitt closed his eyes briefly before mounting the witness box.
Chase took out Nell Durant’s knife and handed it to Edward Buckler. When Buckler extended his palm to Hewitt, the spectators drew an audible breath. “Tell me about this knife, sir.”
Hewitt tried to look away, but the knife drew him inexorably. “It appears to be a pocketknife. What significance it holds for you, I cannot say.”
“The device on the knife—the three feathers atop a gold coronet. Would you identify it, please?”
“That is the badge of the Prince of Wales.”
“And the motto?”
“Ich Dien. I serve. It refers to the ruler’s duty to serve his people.”
“In turn, you have loyally served the Prince of Wales these many years?”
“His Royal Highness has been good enough to favor me with his patronage, yes.” This he said with more confidence.
“Surely, His Royal Highness did not command you to bribe the porter Peter Malone?”
“No,” Hewitt answered in a low, strangled voice.
“Why did you so?”
“I thought the matter warranted discretion.”
“Because you feared what Mrs. Leach might reveal if she were accused of writing the Collatinus letters and attacking her husband? Because you feared she might denounce you as the murderer of her friend Nell Durant?”
Hewitt did not reply, and Buckler pressed on. “You do not recognize the knife? It was a present from the Prince to his inamorata, the mother of the prisoner, a woman murdered nearly twenty years ago. Do you remember her?”
“You know I do. Why bother to ask?”
“Your pardon, sir,” said Buckler conversationally. “Possibly you aren’t aware that after Dryden Leach was stabbed, this knife was found in Mary Leach’s possession? The lining of its case was stained with blood. I assume Mrs. Leach didn’t have time to clean it properly before she restored it to its sleeve. I have a witness to testify to this fact.”
“That’s nothing to do with me.”
“Mrs. Leach had kept this knife as a memento of her dead friend, a reminder that justice was denied. And I believe she used it to prevent her husband from selling Lewis Durant’s identity to you, sir. The man responsible for negotiating with the newspapers on the Regent’s behalf. Three days later she was dead.”
Here Mr. Justice Worthing intervened. “Mr. Buckler. You may impeach this witness to defend your client, and I confess I am strangely eager to hear this line of questioning. But I cannot permit you to cast aspersions on royalty.”
Buckler bowed. “I have no such intention, my lord.” Chase was at his side, whispering in his ear and slipping something in his hand—and a gleam of wonder dawned in the barrister’s eyes. He faced the bench again. “Your pardon, my lords. If you will indulge me, I have a few more questions for this witness. We’ve heard about the mask and cloak supposedly tying Lewis Durant to these crimes. The person who put them in the privy would have assumed there was no reason for anyone to trace the garment to its real source.”
Here Buckler brandished the button for all to see. “Do you see this button torn from a gentleman�
�s cloak, from a murderer’s cloak, in fact?” He turned back to Hewitt. “What if we were to seek intelligence of your valet to help us identify the cloak, sir? After all, it falls to every respectable gentleman’s gentleman to know his master’s belongings. You may be sure we will seek such an affidavit.”
He picked up the cloak to hold the button in place. “Perhaps you had what must have seemed a clever notion, a way to kill two birds with one stone. We already know you had concealed Peter Malone’s story. Did you then cause this cloak to be found where it would incriminate my client Lewis Durant? Did you thus rid yourself of incriminating evidence that pointed only to you? But where did you obtain the mask to go with your cloak?”
The Prince’s Man was gripping the front of the box as if afraid of drowning. His shoulders were slumped; his perfectly styled hair had wilted over his collar; his eyes blazed with terror as he tried to hold himself straight. He started to choke out an answer to this question, but his voice caught in his throat and died.
Still Buckler’s implacable voice went on. “Indeed, it must have seemed a clever scheme, though no doubt you see it now for the colossally stupid mistake it was. But perhaps we shouldn’t judge, sir. After all, why should we link the cloak and mask to anyone but Lewis Durant? We believed in the masked man; we believed he was Collatinus; we were sure Durant was the culprit. And who would presume to question you? But if there was no masked man”—he prodded the cloak with one finger—“this garment belongs to someone else.”
He dropped his words into the hushed court, pointing toward John Chase. “Mr. Chase found this button at the bottom of a water trough in the underground cow-pen where Mary Leach was killed. Whoever owns this cloak is almost certainly her killer.”
Now Buckler’s voice thickened with revulsion. “I have nothing further to ask you at present, Mr. Hewitt.”
***
The next day the newspapers reported that Ralph Hewitt was dead by his own hand. He went into his study, locked the door, and shot himself with Leach’s missing pistol. Though he left no confession to his crimes, his valet confirmed Hewitt’s ownership of the cloak. The news reports also informed the public that the murderer had returned home late on the night of Mary Leach’s death, having told his man not to wait up for him. The article speculated that somehow he must have washed himself and disposed of the bloody water, but the next day the valet had noticed the missing cloak as well as a missing shirt. To silence him, Hewitt had told a tale of a nocturnal adventure with a prostitute who had stolen his clothing along with a favorite ring when he had unwisely fallen asleep in her bed.
After Hewitt’s examination at the Old Bailey, Lewis Durant had been discharged. At Thorogood’s urging, he retreated to the house in Camden Town to escape the journalists, and Penelope wrote another letter to her father to convey the news of his son’s deliverance. It was a hard letter to write. Lewis hadn’t said much since his release; he studied the Thorogoods and their happy, noisy family as if they were creatures from another world. But the ordeal was over—an official gentleman had quietly given Buckler the word that the pending charges for seditious libel would also be dropped.
At breakfast, Penelope sat at her brother’s side, making sure his plate was filled and trying not to be too obvious in her solicitude. She saw that he was tired to the bone and wary of everyone. She tried to explain this to Sarah, who had developed an instant fascination for her new uncle, but the child couldn’t seem to stop staring. Lewis seemed most comfortable with Buckler, whom he had thanked after the trial with a few brief but obviously sincere words. Now he responded as Buckler addressed the occasional remark to him about books they had both read, neither participating in the general discussion about the trial and its outcome.
They were lingering over their coffee cups as Thorogood read aloud from the papers when the maid announced Mr. Chase. “Bring him in,” said Thorogood, waving a genial hand, “and set a place for him.”
“He is with a lady, sir,” said the maid.
Thorogood went to meet his guests and returned leading Mary Leach’s governess, Miss Elliot, and John Chase into the room. Taking in the many pairs of eyes fixed on her, the governess seemed ready to sink, but Thorogood escorted her to Hope, who welcomed her kindly.
Chase said, “Miss Elliot has come to bring you something, Mrs. Wolfe.”
Blushing, the governess added, “I am sorry I didn’t give it to you before, ma’am. My late mistress entrusted it to me. Only I wasn’t sure—” She broke off in confusion.
Chase came to her rescue. “Miss Elliot saw the reports about Mr. Sandford and Collatinus. She feared Mrs. Leach had been taken in by a nest of vipers.”
“I…I didn’t know what to do,” stammered the governess.
“I’m sure you did what you thought was right,” said Hope, handing her a cup of tea.
“Now that Mr. Durant has been freed, there can be no reason, and I don’t want it in my possession, I assure you. Oh, I didn’t read it. It is wrapped up just as poor Mrs. Leach left it.”
“Nell’s memoirs,” said Buckler.
Chase nodded gravely. “That’s right. Mrs. Leach burned every scrap of paper in her desk before she went to face Hewitt, but she couldn’t destroy the manuscript. It didn’t belong to her really, and she didn’t know whether it might be needed as evidence.”
“The memoirs belong to Lewis.” Without looking at him, Penelope groped for his arm under the tablecloth and gave it a small pressure. It felt like iron under her fingers.
Hesitantly, Miss Elliot passed the wrapped package to Sophia Thorogood, who set it in front of Lewis’ plate. He didn’t touch it.
“You can decide later what you wish done with your mother’s memoirs,” said Buckler, watching Lewis’ face. “No need to make a hasty decision. I’ve no doubt there will be plenty of interest in the manuscript from the Prince Regent’s people and others.”
“The Regent? Ha!” cried Thorogood. “A most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality…”
Miss Elliot turned a shocked face to him, but Buckler grinned at his friend. “If you’re going to spout Shakespeare at breakfast, Zeke, how about ‘there’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune’?”
Amid general laughter, Lewis said to Buckler eagerly, “Sir, what if I were to make a fair copy of my mother’s memoirs and send it to the newspapers?” When Penelope stiffened in alarm, he added, “These men deserve nothing less, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“I quite agree with you, Lewis,” replied Buckler, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “However, when all’s said and done, you may prefer to honor your mother’s memory in another way.”
***
After the gathering broke up, Lewis retired to his room with Nell’s manuscript, and John Chase left to escort Miss Elliot back to the Adelphi, where she was still caring for Mary’s orphaned children. Penelope and Hope promised to visit the children, who in future would make their home with Leach’s cousin. Removing her husband, who seemed inclined to engage Buckler in boastful reminiscing over the glories of the case, Hope went off to attend to her housekeeping. So, as once before, Penelope and Buckler found themselves alone in the Thorogoods’ entrance hall.
She slipped her hand in his. “I spoke to Mr. Chase and Mr. Thorogood yesterday but never had a chance to thank you.”
“We did it together.”
“That’s true, but you were truly magnificent in court. You and Mr. Chase have restored my brother to me. I can learn to know him—because of you.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “I’ve already told you I would do anything for you. Repeating myself will grow tedious for us both. What will you do now?”
“I must wait for word from my father, and I want to establish a home for Sarah and Lewis. I will return to my writing and help Lewis to some profession; perhaps he may teach again if he wishes. My father wil
l assist us until we can manage better on our own.”
The words came out of their own accord. “What about us, Penelope?” Then Buckler looked more closely at her pale face. He saw that it would take time for her to come to terms with her altered circumstances—and he could have bitten out his unruly tongue.
But she gave him the direct response he would always expect from her. “We must be the dearest of friends, you and I and Mr. Chase, all three together. There is no other way. Jeremy is still my husband.”
He nodded. Undoubtedly, he was a fool. In a more romantic day, he could have worshipped her from afar and written verses to her beauty. Upon her rejection, he could have renewed his oath of fealty, reveled in his lovesickness, and dedicated himself to deeds of valor for her sake. Alas, we live in unimaginative times, he thought, mocking himself and feeling better in the process. He leaned forward to kiss her briefly on the lips. “You do know that Wolfe asked me to look after you and Sarah, and I shall do just that. Don’t try to stop me, ma’am.”
Penelope smiled in exasperation. “How very like Jeremy.” Suddenly she kissed him back, her lips lingering on his as his heart thumped an instant response. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop you, Mr. Buckler,” she said.
Author’s Note
This novel began with a story I read in Seven Editors by Harold Herd. In the chapter “The Strange Case of the Murdered Editor,” Herd writes, “Imagine that one night the editor of a London morning newspaper is murdered in his office by a masked man and that the next day neither his own journal nor any other paper makes any reference to the crime.” Well, I started to imagine how such a crime could have unfolded. I emphasize the “could” because to create this story I tampered with the historical timeline by creating a fictional version of the mysterious attack on the journalist and moving this event back in time twenty years. I thought this alteration justified for two reasons: the event is obscure—I doubt you will find it mentioned in many sources—and it may even have been apocryphal, in which case I felt free to re-imagine the tale.
