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

by S K Rizzolo

She smiled, a dagger smile it seemed to Buckler, and gave a nod of gracious acquiescence. “Suits me, sirs, so long as you act respectful.”

  Since Buckler’s clerk, Bob, had laid a substantial fire before he left, the chambers were inviting. Even so the woman chose to retain her pelisse, though not averse to perching on the armchair closest to the warmth.

  She turned to Thorogood, intercepting his longing glance in the direction of the pipe he had left on Buckler’s mantel. “Cozy place, you got, sir. If I were you, I don’t suppose I should ever stir from my fireside.” Her gaze took in the silver tea service, the rows of leatherbound books, and the faded but expensive Turkey carpet.

  “My friend Mr. Edward Buckler, barrister of the Inner Temple, is resident here, ma’am. I am Ezekiel Thorogood. Will you be so good as to tell us your name?”

  “It’s Deborah Blister, sir. Happy to make your acquaintance.” She nodded at Buckler.

  “You mentioned you had some intelligence for us,” he prompted, leaning forward.

  “First, won’t you remove your wrap?” said Thorogood. “Perhaps a cup of tea?”

  She hunched her shoulders and folded her arms tightly across her bosom. “Nothing, thank you, sir. I got something as might be of interest to you. I need to know what you’ll give me for it.”

  “That must depend on what it is,” said Buckler.

  “Well, I won’t tell you till we come to terms. Who’s to say you’d play me square, gentlemen or no. Fact is, that’s all the more reason to be leery.”

  “You expect us to haggle over something unseen?”

  “You must view the matter from her perspective, Buckler. We could easily appropriate her possession and refuse to pay her. What recourse would she have? You are quite right to be cautious, ma’am.”

  Now she looked at Thorogood as if he were either a Bedlamite or some devious Machiavelli. Yet there was something so disarming in the old lawyer’s good-humored face that even Deborah Blister was not immune to its appeal.

  “I’m glad you take my point, sir,” she said grudgingly.

  “Certainly I do,” was the reply. “Shall we agree upon ten shillings as earnest of our good faith? Once we have heard your story, we may negotiate further if so desired by both parties.”

  Buckler choked. “Ten shillings before we have knowledge of what she sells? I must say, you drive a hard bargain, Thorogood.”

  He lifted his brows. “’Tis only fair. Does that satisfy you, Miss Blister?”

  In spite of herself, the woman offered a fleeting smile in return, this time quite genuine, and Buckler caught a glimpse of a different person entirely. But then she held out a rather grubby hand. “I’ll see your silver.”

  Thorogood placed the coins in Deborah Blister’s palm and sat back. Avoiding his gaze, she slipped the money into her reticule. And when she removed her hand again, she held something that glittered in the firelight—a delicate cross of filigree work dangling on a gold chain. She passed it to Thorogood.

  “It’ll cost you more to keep it,” she said anxiously.

  Thorogood didn’t answer her. He had turned the cross over to examine the back. “Can’t quite make out the inscription, Buckler.”

  Buckler took it. “C.T. 1809. Constance Tyrone. The clasp is broken.”

  “You must tell us how you obtained this, Miss Blister,” said Thorogood, his voice gentle. “I think you know this cross belonged to a young woman who was murdered.”

  She gave a little shudder. “I got nothing to do with that, nor my friend neither. You’re welcome to the thing before it brings me bad fortune.”

  “How much do you want?” asked Buckler.

  Avarice kindled in her eyes. “I might’ve pawned it, you know. I warrant it’s worth…two pound.”

  When Thorogood nodded, she released her breath and relaxed in her chair.

  “Gad, Thorogood, she’d only get a fraction of that from the Jews.” Buckler sighed. “Let us hear your story, Miss Blister.”

  Now that she had prevailed, she seemed deflated, more vulnerable somehow. “A friend gave it me and told me to keep it dark.”

  Buckler asked, “When was this exactly?”

  “About a fortnight ago. He said it belonged to a dead lady, and I was to hide it till it weren’t so warm.”

  “Until the hue and cry died down,” Thorogood said.

  She looked at him. “That’s right. Only I saw this.” She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was the handbill offering a reward for information about Constance Tyrone’s death.

  “And you thought you’d get a piece? Why haven’t you gone to the authorities?”

  Though Buckler had spoken dispassionately, Deborah Blister had heard the underlying contempt. “I didn’t want no truck with them!” she cried, throwing him a look of utter disdain. “As if they’d believe me anyway. Like as not, they’d accuse me of putting the lady to bed with a shovel, or they’d think it were my George what done it.”

  “George, I take it, is your friend,” said Thorogood. “Will you tell us about him?”

  But she had jumped to her feet, sweeping the muddied hem of her gown dangerously close to the fire. “Friend?” she spat and pivoted so suddenly she almost fell over a low stool. “That low, dirty bastard is no friend of mine!”

  Buckler righted the stool. “You and er…George had a falling out?”

  Her fury died, leaving her eyes sad. “I caught him doing the mattress jig with another woman, so we parted company. And good riddance.”

  “Where did George get the cross, Miss Blister?” Thorogood said quietly.

  For a long moment Deborah Blister stared into the fire, as if troubling memories were uppermost in her mind; then she turned back, grinning with a chameleon-like shift of mood.

  “You might say he come by it in the way o’ business,” she said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Buckler sipped a tankard of ale and studied his surroundings. The Old Cider Cellars tavern preserved its dubious reputation, though it wasn’t as bad as he had expected. The entrance on Maiden Lane was a dimly lit façade flanked by a pair of pillars. Two doors opened onto a cramped staircase that led down to the low-ceilinged chamber where he waited.

  At one end of the room was a platform that dated from the days when the place was a kind of concert hall where performers led the audience in bawdy songs while guzzling cider instead of ale or liquor. Today, while the “harmonic meetings” continued, the primary entertainment offered was the means to drink oneself into a stupor. Even at this late hour the rows of tables in the long, narrow room were clogged with patrons: a few St. James’s bucks, medical students, farmers on a visit to the Metropolis, any number of criminal types, and whores on their last patrol of the night. Apparently John Chase had taken his instructions to heart, for Buckler caught only occasional glimpses of him mingling with the mob and looking for all the world as comfortably disreputable as the rest.

  Deborah Blister, who found occasional work as a barmaid here, swung by every so often to check on Buckler, otherwise engaged in repelling the advances of numerous prostitutes. He had been sitting so long that the dense smell of smoke and stale beer had permeated his clothes and hair. He would no doubt stink abominably at Donovan’s Old Bailey trial tomorrow.

  “Have another?” Deborah set down her heavy tray. She looked tired. Escaping from its pins, her hair hung limply about her face, and sweat stained her dress in dark patches.

  “Not yet. I would like to be able to converse should your friend ever show up. Another drink just might make my tongue too thick.”

  She laughed. “Have it your way, sir, but I thought you gentlemen was bred to hold your liquor.”

  “No man holds it very long.” He threw a significant glance at the exit to the privy as several patrons stumbled out, one dragging his lady friend. Buckler was reminded suddenly of the Porter in Macbeth who claimed that drink induced urine, a red nose, sleep, and lust but unfortunately unprovoked the ability to perform.

  Apparentl
y, something of the same thought had occurred to Deborah, for she said, pursing her lips, “Fools. Ale ain’t all they can’t hold.”

  Tray on her shoulder, she swept away to an adjoining table where she raised her voice in shrill flirtation as she plied a group of students with foaming tankards. When a student reached over and rubbed her behind, she gave her sharp smile and pressed closer to the caress. The man pawed her again and handed her a coin.

  Buckler turned back to his own drink, thinking it was time to give up and seek his bed. But then he looked up to catch Deborah’s eye. Though she still stood in the circle of the young man’s arm, there was a sudden intensity in her gaze. She gave a slow nod toward the door and sidled over to Buckler.

  “There he be,” she hissed under pretense of picking up the mug. “The one with the doxy on his arm.”

  Her fingers came down on Buckler’s arm, squeezing it against the rough planking of the table. Taken aback, Buckler pulled away and assessed the man she’d indicated. George Kite was tall and well formed with a blunt-featured, high-colored face. He wore a fur-trimmed cloak and heavy boots. This was clearly not his first stop of the night, for he swayed where he stood. And he did indeed have an obvious harlot in tow.

  “What do you mean to do?” said Deborah. “He can be mortal nasty, specially if he’s drunk which I can tell you he is.”

  Buckler smiled at her. “I shall merely make some attempt at conversation. Do not fear I shall mention your name.”

  A quick scan of the room revealed that John Chase was nowhere in view. Buckler considered whether he ought to wait for the officer, but decided he couldn’t risk it. Kite didn’t look to be settling in for a long stay. In fact, the woman on his arm seemed to be tugging him back toward the door. Quickly, Buckler got to his feet and picked up his coat; before he could change his mind, he made his way to where the man stood arguing with his companion.

  “A word with you.”

  Kite looked down. “Whatsis? Who’s the little worm?”

  “I need to speak to you,” Buckler continued doggedly. “In private.”

  “Listen to ’im,” he said to the woman at his side. “This little worm here thinks he’s got something to say to George Kite.”

  The woman gave a titter and took a step back. “Let’s go, George.”

  Calmly, Buckler stated, “It’s about Constance Tyrone.”

  Several things happened at once. Kite snarled, and his massive fist sailed toward Buckler’s face. Then Chase materialized, running toward them. Scenting more than she had bargained for, Deborah Blister suddenly screamed a warning from across the room: “Run Georgie! It’s a bloody trap!”

  Kite halted in mid swing and gaped at Deborah, who was pushing her way through the onlookers. He was confused, but after one blank instant he recovered enough to retreat up the stairs. The prostitute was gone just as fast, swallowed up by the crowd. Buckler was left to face Deborah Blister’s scathing eyes.

  Before he could respond, Chase grabbed his shoulder. “After him,” he yelled. He pushed Buckler toward the stairs and dashed up himself, taking several at a time, but favoring one leg.

  Emerging onto Maiden Lane, they could see no one, but footsteps echoed in the darkness.

  “Over there,” said Chase. “Don’t let him get away.”

  He started out at a run. Struggling with his coat, Buckler followed, certain they would soon lose Kite in the maze of streets.

  “We shan’t nab him,” he gasped as he caught up with Chase. “Why the devil did you scare him off like that?”

  “Perhaps I should have let him draw your cork.”

  Buckler slowed and pressed a hand against the stitch in his side. “’Twasn’t needful to charge out like the damned cavalry.”

  Chase, however, seemed barely out of breath when he paused, stooping for a moment to massage his leg. They were at the opening to a small court where a single lamp sputtered. The footfalls ahead had gone silent.

  “Which way?” said Buckler eagerly.

  Motioning quiet, Chase was advancing into the court when from above came a creak. He pointed a finger. “Up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Up,” Chase repeated and gestured toward an open door in the building ahead where they could just make out a rotted wooden staircase. “An abandoned lodging house, sir. He’s trapped above, so if you would be so kind as to chase him down, I shall collar him at the bottom.”

  Buckler stared at him in disbelief. “Wait a minute. Why me?”

  “I would go myself, but I took a knee wound in the navy and I’ve just aggravated it, more’s the pity. But don’t fret yourself. He’s running scared.” The Runner reached into his greatcoat and thrust a pistol toward Buckler. “Here. Take this.”

  Buckler shook his head. “I thank you, but no. Some proficiency with a blade I possess. Pistols, however… And I’ve no desire to shoot the man in any event.”

  He entered the building and proceeded to the foot of the staircase. Clutching the rickety iron rail, he began to ascend, his only illumination the flickering from the lamp outside. He took one cautious step, then another, finding that he had to slide his feet up one at a time. As the wood groaned, he cursed softly. There was no sound from George Kite.

  A moment later Buckler nearly tumbled off the stairway when the banister disappeared, and his hand came down on air. Twisting back, he pressed his body against the wall. It took a great effort of will to continue.

  When he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he halted, peering into the pitch-black of the corridor. But then he heard the roof creak above his head and noticed for the first time that an open window beckoned practically at his elbow. Kite had escaped that way.

  Buckler climbed out on the ledge and reached up. Carefully grasping the edge of the roof, he drew himself up into the cold darkness. For an instant he hung over empty space, terror coursing through his body.

  Straining, he hauled himself to safety and knelt to get his bearings. The sky was surprisingly clear, glimmering with stars that nonetheless afforded little light on this night of a waning moon. Foolishly, he checked for the Great Comet as if its presence might suggest some sort of omen, favorable or otherwise, but it didn’t seem to be visible.

  With no idea which way to go and a fear of stepping off into nothing, he waited, groping around with his hands. Thus, he was still bent down when he felt wind rush over his head and looked up to see Kite swinging a length of banister.

  He struck again, lower this time. Buckler sprang away, praying he chose the right direction and wouldn’t topple off the roof. The heavy shaft slammed into the spot he had just vacated, tearing a hole and sending shards flying.

  “Chase, he’s not running!” he yelled as he dodged yet another blow.

  This time he rolled down the incline and darted behind the crumbling remains of a chimney. His eyes were beginning to adjust. He could make out the bulk that was Kite prowling like some beast as steam clouds of breath billowed from his mouth. It was all Buckler could do to avoid the advance of the bigger man. He could only dodge and retreat, praying for somewhere to hide or some weapon to defend himself and berating himself for the rejection of the Runner’s pistol.

  Kite came on, grim and determined, wielding the heavy bar back and forth. All Buckler had for a weapon was scattered rubble which he occasionally hurled in his opponent’s direction. Then he was out of roof.

  Looking back over the brink, Buckler could make out another landing a few yards below. He caught his breath as Kite lurched forward, and there was nothing for it but to jump across the chasm. The adjacent roof rushing up to meet him, he landed with a crash. One leg went through the decayed slates up to his thigh, and he felt pain shoot all the way through his back. With a lunge he tried to free himself, but he was caught as surely as if a trap had been sprung.

  Buckler craned his neck to see where Kite must be. And from somewhere overhead, the man roared in triumph and leaped, the folds of his cloak spreading like great reptilian
wings.

  As Buckler tried to shield himself, Kite struck the weak roof. It collapsed. Buckler’s leg came free, but he crashed through to the floor beneath, landing amid a pile of slates and clouds of lung-choking dust. Dazed, he attempted to rise, his head whirling. Kite lay in a moaning, semi-conscious heap beside him.

  “Good work,” called Chase from below.

  ***

  Shimmering in the lamplight, the gold cross drifted gently back and forth. George Kite stared at it, then looked away. “What do you want? You ought to be fetching me to a surgeon.” He winced as his fingers probed his injured arm.

  Chase had hauled Kite out of the collapsed building and now stood over him as he sagged against the lamppost. “A surgeon shall be obtained for you in due course; then you may enjoy a trip to the watch house and a wait for morning—and the magistrate.”

  “You got no proof, or we’d be on our way to the stone jug even now.” Kite glanced around as if hoping to summon some aid, but the street was deserted.

  “This lovely trinket here links you to a dead woman. A murdered woman.”

  Kite snarled, “This is that bitch Deb’s doing. I’ll pay her in like coin.”

  Buckler stepped out of the shadows. “Chase!”

  “No, you won’t, Kite,” said Chase calmly. “Because if anything were to befall Miss Blister, Bow Street would know where to look. Now hear me. Tell us what you know, and maybe we put in a good word for you.”

  “I ain’t the one as put away the Tyrone woman.” He coughed up some phlegm and spat on the pavement. “All you got is a slut’s word for it I ever saw that bauble before. Who’ll mind her?”

  “I for one,” said Buckler. “Nor do I intend to keep the intelligence to myself.”

  Chase smiled, holding up the cross. “You may not wish to exhaust my friend’s patience—or mine.”

  As his eyes lingered on it, Kite shifted uneasily, his pallor obvious even in the faint light. “I’ll speak if that will get me shut of you. It was Crow.”

  “Who’s Crow?” asked Chase, his tone casual.

  “An acquaintance. They call him the Crow on account of his hand having only three fingers and looking like a bird claw.”