The Rose in the Wheel: A Regency Mystery (Regency Mysteries Book 1)

by S K Rizzolo

  Thorogood took his arm. “You know as well as I he has not the funds. He has a family. They will be hounded night and day. He wants to submit to the authorities, yet rightly fears for his chances of obtaining a fair trial. He has a story to tell, but he needs help.”

  “Why do they always seek you out? Surely, you did not become successful by helping the likes of Kevin Donovan?”

  “In my younger days I was quite ambitious in some ways not unlike your friend Crouch, I’m ashamed to say. But my Hope has shown me the way of truth. Embracing her faith, I must needs embrace a new mode of life.” He held Buckler’s eyes. “Besides, I’m far too old to cope with such matters on my own. I’ve need of you, friend. At least listen to Donovan’s story before you judge.”

  “You humbug! I suppose if I’m to meet this fellow we shall have to descend into some rookery?”

  “Actually, we need only wait here. For I believe that is he in yonder boat.” He pointed.

  In the twilight, Buckler could just distinguish the silhouette of a waterman making landfall. A second indistinct figure slouched at the rear of the craft.

  Thorogood stepped forward. “Come. This won’t take but a few minutes of our time, and we shall soon reward ourselves with a steaming bowl of punch.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ezekiel Thorogood, his wife, Hope, and their brood of children lived in a comfortably respectable neighborhood surrounded by country lanes and extensive fields in Camden Town. In fact, everything about the Thorogoods was comfortable: their rambling house, their large garden with fruit trees, and most of all their offspring: a boisterous, uninhibited bunch left to grow in a tumbling sort of way.

  Hope Thorogood had herself brought three children to the marriage, and added to her husband’s five theirs was a fine family indeed. She was a handsome woman in her forties, wide shouldered and somewhat thickset with rich corn colored hair, piercingly intelligent eyes, and a round, pretty face. Hope, whose name had been inspired by her birth on Christmas Day, was always busy with some charitable project or other. She had a talent for making the most of people that the ablest general might have envied.

  Hope also had enormous courage. Born and bred a Quaker, she had defied family and community to marry her second husband. While nominally she had become Anglican, her essential outlook was unchanged, though she had learned to take pleasure in dancing, music, and the theatre, all of which had been forbidden in her previous life. Watching her and Thorogood together, Penelope could easily understand why she had risked so much to marry him. They had that rare sort of perfect accord—not that they didn’t argue, for Hope was a spirited woman. Yet watching the genial Thorogood preside proudly at the dinner table opposite Hope, herself wreathed in smiles, Penelope thought there could be no greater felicity known to humankind.

  Penelope had met Ezekiel Thorogood half a year ago at a meeting of a literary society of which they were both briefly members. Sitting next to her one evening, Thorogood had kept her entertained through several hours of dull poetry. Every time the speaker’s flights of fancy flew too far for good sense, Thorogood would give a gentle cough as if to nudge him discreetly back. During the interval Penelope and Thorogood struck up a conversation and had been firm friends ever since.

  She and Sarah dined frequently with the Thorogoods, and Penelope was happy to give her child a taste of real family life. Here Sarah unbent far more than usual and could be seen to romp with the other children. Here Penelope could relax, knowing she too could laugh and talk freely.

  But tonight it was different, for there was another guest, Mr. Edward Buckler. Absurdly, Penelope felt resentful of Mr. Buckler’s presence, as if somehow he were snatching a treat meant for her lips. Thus, she maintained a dignified, stilted demeanor quite unlike her usual frank enjoyment. And she knew that Hope, perfectly aware of her feelings, was sympathetic but amused.

  With the children upstairs at supper, the adults were enjoying a quiet moment in the drawing room before their departure for an evening at the Philosophical Society. The Thorogoods’ drawing room was a cozy, informal apartment with its writing tables scattered about, chairs drawn near the hearth, and pianoforte in the corner. A huge fire burned in the grate, and Thorogood had deposited his bulk in the wing chair close by. His wife, poking absently at her tambour frame, sat next to Penelope on the sofa. Edward Buckler sat across from them. He looked as uncomfortable as Penelope felt.

  Remembering his disheveled appearance at their first meeting, Penelope was surprised to find he was an attractive man. He’d had his thick auburn hair cut shorter in a style that favored his long, narrow nose, lean cheeks, and pale blue eyes. Buckler was a trifle less than average height, but carried himself well, at least when he wasn’t crawling about on his knees in his dressing gown. She had shared this joke with Hope, so tonight when the barrister came in, Penelope had caught her eye and had to repress a smile. But now Penelope found herself unaccountably tongue-tied and awkward while Hope, placid as always, pretended not to notice the stiff wariness of her guests.

  Hope leaned forward to thrust her bag of threads into her husband’s hand. “Here, my dear. Will you separate these for me?”

  Obligingly, Thorogood took the bag and dumped it out on the Pembroke table at his side. “Why ever do you let them get in such a state?” he asked mildly. He looked up. “Buckler, take note. Ladies are eminently practical about most things, but every so often there’s an inexplicable lapse. Were this my embroidery bag, I’d find a different way to store the materials so as not to be forever left untangling them.”

  Hope smiled. “The children like to play with them. Besides, the performance of such tasks keeps you quiet. My goodness, but you have been restless today, sir. You don’t have to tell me there’s business afoot.”

  Thorogood turned a limpid gaze upon her. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, madam.” Penelope noticed that he carefully avoided looking at Buckler, applying himself once more to the tangled threads.

  Hope said to Penelope, “You see, my dear, what happens when the poor creatures try to keep a secret? It makes them horribly nervous, I’m afraid. And guilty, as is only right if they don’t intend to honor us with their confidence.”

  “What makes you think I am keeping something from you?” said Thorogood.

  “Oh, I can always tell. You’ve been like a bear in a cage all day. And I saw you whisper to Mr. Buckler when he arrived.” She gave her tambour a strong jab. “I tell you, sir. Whatever scheme you have hatching, do me the kindness to remember that winter is coming on. You must not be getting chilled or over…over enthusiastic.”

  Buckler’s lips twitched. “Listen to her, Thorogood.”

  The two men’s eyes met.

  Curious now, Penelope said, “Indeed. You must be watchful of your health.”

  Thorogood had recently recovered from a severe cold that had lingered for more than a month, seeming likely to descend to his lungs. Hope’s careful nursing had avoided this calamity, yet she was still uneasy on his account. Thorogood, however, hated to be reminded.

  “Nonsense, I am quite recovered. Mrs. Wolfe, I understand from my wife you’ve been engaged in a new pursuit. I had hoped to hear more of it.”

  “You mean my work for the St. Catherine Society? Yes, I have been supervising the women so that the directress, Miss Minton, may attend to her other affairs.”

  “That’s kind in you,” said Hope. “But does Miss Minton know…” Too late, she understood that her remark might cause embarrassment.

  “She knows I am Jeremy’s wife, but she really does require assistance. Apparently, the Society has been deserted by its usual patronesses.”

  Thorogood exchanged another look with his friend. “No doubt they fear the taint of scandal. Not admirable, but then it takes a courageous sort of person to ignore the world’s whispers.”

  Buckler said, “Or a fool.” He added, “You’ve heard nothing from your husband, Mrs. Wolfe? Do you suppose he doesn’t realize that Bennington’s alibi
cleared him completely? There’s no need for him to remain in hiding.”

  “It isn’t Bennington’s alibi that proves his innocence,” said Penelope without thinking, then paused, dismayed. She would not betray Daniel Partridge.

  Thorogood sat up straighter. “If you know something more of this matter, ma’am, we’d be most interested to share in your knowledge.” He raked a hand through his hair, making one graying strand stick up.

  Familiar with the expression on his face, Penelope knew she was in trouble. “It’s only that I have encountered the Runner investigating the matter, and I suppose we’ve come up with a few pieces of the puzzle. But I’m not at liberty to divulge all at this point.”

  Thorogood was opening his mouth to protest when Hope interceded. “You will not bully her, sir. I’m sure I don’t know why she should tell her secrets when ’tis obvious the two of you harbor one of your own.”

  Buckler looked abashed, but Thorogood just opened his eyes wide and addressed his wife: “I certainly acknowledge the sacred nature of information imparted sub rosa, yet it must be advantageous to ally our forces.”

  “Should Mrs. Wolfe choose to do so,” said Hope. “And one wonders if you mean to reciprocate. Anything else would be less than fair play.”

  “I always play fair, madam.” He bowed to both women from his seat.

  Buckler gave a choking sound, but subsided under his friend’s glare.

  Thorogood said, “I was curious merely. Surprisingly, in all my years in the profession, I’ve yet to have conversation with a Bow Street Runner. What sort of man is he, Mrs. Wolfe?”

  Whenever anyone asked her a direct question, she was apt to blurt the truth before she thought how it might sound. “Keen witted and, I dare say, honorable, but he’s arrogant at times, too quick to see the bad in people without acknowledging the good. I rather think his work has made him cynical. Yet he doesn’t lack for humor.”

  She was aware of how personal her description sounded, as if she knew Mr. Chase far better than she really did. Feeling warmth creep up her face, she stared down at her lap, then looked up to encounter Buckler’s suddenly serious eyes.

  Hope opened her mouth to step into the breach, but Penelope forestalled her, hurrying on. “I met Mr. Chase in the church after Constance Tyrone’s funeral. He is determined to discover her murderer, and I…I want to help. It isn’t only about finding the truth for Jeremy’s sake anymore.”

  “You mustn’t put yourself in jeopardy, ma’am,” said Buckler.

  “Indeed, Penelope, be careful. Perhaps I should accompany you when you visit this place.”

  Penelope smiled at Hope. “You have more than enough to keep you well occupied.” She turned to Buckler. “No doubt that man Donovan will be apprehended soon, sir. Do you believe he is the one?”

  “I rather think not,” he responded carefully.

  Thorogood said, “Just what have you and this Chase fellow discovered, my dear? Surely you can tell us. It could be important.”

  Omitting all mention of Partridge and his pamphlet, Penelope told them of her encounter with the Tyrones and her experiences at the Society, ending with the discovery of Constance’s boots. Absorbed in her tale, they listened without moving.

  “But you see,” Penelope finished, “it seems so strange for her to have substituted the slippers for the boots and departed again. Mr. Chase believes a carriage may have collected her, for she certainly couldn’t walk in the street like that.”

  Thorogood slapped his hand on the table. “By Jove, that’s it! This is just the confirmation we need, Buckler.”

  Hope said, “I trust you will explain that remark, Mr. Thorogood, though I’ve a notion what you will say, and I cannot like it!”

  “Now, my love…by Jove, look at the time. If we don’t take care, we shall be late to Mr. Coleridge’s lecture.”

  Ignoring this gambit, she looked accusingly at Buckler, but he held up his hands. “I tried, ma’am, truly I did. One may as well shout into the wind.”

  Penelope said to Thorogood, “You are acquainted with the Irishman, sir?”

  “Yes, my dear. Donovan approached me for legal advice, and I took him to see Buckler. At present he is in hiding, but I have hopes of convincing him to surrender.” He glanced at Hope, who was starting to sputter. “No, no, madam. What would you have me do—turn away an innocent man whom the authorities would as soon hang as look at?”

  “How are you so certain of his innocence, sir?”

  “Why, because Donovan’s never so much as set eyes on Miss Tyrone, my love.” His flashing gaze swept around. “Her slipper, however, is another matter. That he found in the Society’s garden.”

  “If she were attacked in the garden, why deposit her in the middle of the road?” asked Hope.

  “Perhaps the villain wanted her to be run down so as to obscure the facts yet further,” ventured Penelope.

  Thorogood shook his head. “It’s difficult to obscure hand bruises about the neck. No, I rather think the hackney was mere coincidence. What say you, Buckler?”

  “I say someone should be asking who had access to the church grounds and also had a motive for killing Miss Tyrone.”

  “Let us take a ride to St. Catherine’s tomorrow,” said Thorogood. “To see the layout of the place for ourselves. Maybe do a little digging in the garden, eh?”

  “Leave the dirty work to Mr. Chase,” said Hope.

  ***

  “Yes, sir,” said the proprietor of the Bull’s Head, “the lady what you describe has been here. And with the gentleman.” He managed to look sly while still maintaining an air of respectful attention.

  Chase stood in the taproom, nearly deserted this early in the day. Only a few old men gossiping over their beer and one or two incorrigible drunks sat at the plank tables. The landlord, one Evan Royster, had a wet cloth slung across his arm. He was a substantial man, not fat but bulky, with nondescript features and dirty brown hair the color of the water in his bucket.

  “About how many times?” asked Chase.

  Royster made a big show of stopping to consider. “I’d say near a dozen. They started coming in the spring. I recall clear as anything on account of the lady bringing my wife a hot-cross bun for Good Friday. She was real kind, no height in her manner at all. Her friend always bespoke our private parlor and the finest grub. My wife used to plan bits as she thought might tempt the lady. Plump her up like, not that she needed a blessed thing more than what God already gave her.” He permitted himself a brief chuckle.

  Chase looked at him. “She’s dead. I am a Bow Street officer investigating her murder.”

  Royster’s face fell ludicrously, and he took a step back. “Well, I’m that sorry for the lady, but if what you say is true, it’s nothing to do with this house. Why, I don’t even know her name, nor that of the gentleman.”

  “They came here a dozen times but never made themselves known by name?”

  “I didn’t inquire. ’Tisn’t polite when someone’s trying to meet on the quiet like. I had most of my dealings with the gentleman anyway, and we understood one another. He wanted to woo his lady love with none the wiser and was prepared to pay well for the privilege.” Royster shot him a hopeful glance. “Only right, isn’t it, to compensate a man?”

  Reaching into his pocket, Chase ostentatiously jingled a few coins. He would have to cross this man’s greasy palm with silver, but he wanted to make sure to get his money’s worth.

  “So you’d describe their behavior as lover like?” he said, watching Royster’s face carefully.

  “I can’t say as I ever saw nothing untoward, but why would a fine looking man like that bring a lady to a tavern, respectable establishment or no? No ring on her finger.”

  Chase didn’t comment.

  The landlord gave him a knowing, conspiratorial glance. “We understand these things, isn’t that so, sir? My wife would have it the gentleman was telling the truth that he and the lady had business to discuss. But I know the look a man gets when
he’s hot on a woman’s scent, and he had it.” He laughed again, comfortably, and moved away to refill a patron’s mug.

  Royster had not asked Constance Tyrone’s name, nor inquired about how she died. Clearly he didn’t want to know. For the moment Chase preferred to leave him in ignorance to avoid any premature gossip.

  The landlord returned. “I can’t think what else I can tell you, sir, and I do have my chores to attend to.” He waited.

  “When was the last time you saw them?”

  Royster frowned, trying to remember. “Oh, end of October or thereabouts. Don’t recall the exact day.”

  So far everything he had said confirmed Partridge’s story. Chase handed him a coin and let himself out into the narrow passage.

  Picking his way toward the door, he nearly fell over a woman crouched on all fours scrubbing the stone floor. Middle-aged and tired, her face bore the remains of prettiness. Her hair, tied back in a careless knot, was still a vibrant gold. She had been so intent on her work that she didn’t notice him until he loomed above her.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” she cried, jumping to her feet. “Do have a care you don’t slip.” She gave him an anxious look, whisked her pail away, and flattened her body against the wall.

  Chase smiled at her. “Are you Mrs. Royster? I was just speaking to your husband in the taproom.”

  She gave a bob and smiled back uncertainly. “You’ve refreshed yourself? I hope you tried our dark brewed. The patrons seem to like it most.”

  “I shall have to give myself the pleasure another time, Mrs. Royster. Today I’ve come to inquire about a lady and a gentleman who had been frequenting your establishment. I’m a Bow Street officer, John Chase by name.” He bowed politely.

  Her eyes grew round. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  When Chase told Mrs. Royster of Constance’s death, she said, “Oh that poor dear. She was a true lady. What happened to her?”