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

by S K Rizzolo

  “This Crow murdered Constance Tyrone?” said Buckler.

  Kite kept his eyes averted. “’Twas a particular wet night as I remember. Not a good night for digging, but there was to be none of that. He said it wouldn’t take more than an hour or two, and we’d share in the profit.”

  “You needed more than a gold cross to make murder worth your while, eh?” said Chase. “But just who was supplying this money? And why?”

  “I told you. We didn’t harm her. She was supposed to be dead already. Crow was sent to clean up like.”

  Meeting Buckler’s startled gaze, Chase said softly, “Who sent Crow?”

  “A gentleman not best to cross, Crow said.”

  “A gentleman?”

  “That’s right.” Kite went on, his voice low, almost singsong. “Me and Crow meet up at the Fortune o’ War pub in Smithfield. It was raining hard, but we were able to borrow a spring-cart on the way. Crow said the Watch had himself a full bottle of gin and would like as not spend the night in his box.”

  “Old Tom,” muttered Chase.

  “So we make for St. Catherine’s,” said Kite. “We stash the cart, and Crow goes up and opens the gate.”

  “He have a key?”

  “I dunno. I was behind him. Either he had one, or else it wasn’t locked. He’s a lousy cracksman with his hand and all. Anyway, we go in. It was black as pitch with no moon to speak of, but I could see we were in a garden with some buildings hard by. Crow heads down a path until we get to this little shed. He says, this is what we come for, Georgie, and steps inside. And I follow.

  “It was bloody cold in there and dark. Crow pulls out his lantern and I was on him about lighting it, but he says we got to see. Then he points. Here’s our meat, Georgie, he says.” Drawing his cloak closer, Kite shivered and fell silent. Buckler seemed frozen.

  “You found Constance Tyrone,” prompted Chase.

  He chewed on his lip and avoided the officer’s eyes. “One corpse is like another. I start to take off all her traps as always. No sense being transported for prigging a bit of cloth if it’s the body itself you’re after—no felony in that. But Crow says leave her. He gathers a few sacks to cover her and douses the lantern. I haul her out the door, and we head back to the cart. It wasn’t easy going what with them prickly bushes.”

  “Where were you taking her?” asked Buckler harshly.

  “Crow was told it wasn’t no matter. Long as no one ever saw her again. Only it went wrong.”

  “What happened?” said Chase.

  “We were in the street heading for the cart when Crow up and runs off.”

  Both Chase and Buckler leaned forward.

  “Maybe he heard that bloody carriage coming. The coach come down on top of me, and it was all I could do to save myself. When I go back for her, she was no pretty sight and me there alone.”

  “You removed the sacking to make it look an accident and stole her cross,” said Buckler.

  “It must have come loose when she was hit. I picked it up is all and why not? She didn’t need it.”

  “Stop lying!” Buckler shouted. “The clasp was broken. You yanked it off the body.”

  He loomed over Kite, but Chase held him back.

  Buckler subsided. “What did you mean, Kite, when you said Constance Tyrone was supposed to be dead?”

  Lifting his sleeve, Kite wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow. “Until the carriage hit her, she was still alive,” he said distinctly. “I felt her twitch in my arms. Scared me so bad I dropped her right there in the middle of the street.”

  ***

  The air bore an acrid smell of charred wood, the odor lingering although it had clearly been weeks since fire had destroyed the structure on Church Lane. John Chase and fellow officer Dugger Farley stood silently before the remains, a breeze whipping at their coats. Even at the height of the work day, men and women loitered in front of the lodging houses. A knot of children huddled on the pavement at their games, and a band of roving boys swept by, paying scant heed to the Runners. Not many respectable folk passed through this part of St. Giles north of Broad Street. The rookery was poor and dangerous: the residence of the destitute, the haunt of thieves and coiners. George Kite’s friend Crow had lived here.

  All that remained of the building was the foundation, the cellar, and an occasional blackened half wall. The rest had tumbled in upon itself to lie in chaotic rubble. Chase ventured into the ruin, wood crackling under his boots as he moved through what were once rooms. He knelt down, and his fingers sifted through some ashes. Nothing was recognizable; any artifact or usable piece of furniture had long since been looted.

  “It seems your bird has flown,” said Farley.

  Dusting off his hand, Chase turned back to him. “Flown or roasted, I wonder. Let’s go inquire of the local tavern keeper.”

  “Maybe have a drink,” added Farley hopefully.

  They chose a direction at random and walked slowly down the street. In this area there was sure to be a public house every block or so. Someone should know something.

  “You mean to tell me what’s afoot?” asked Farley.

  “You didn’t ask before.”

  “Got something to do with that cove Kite what you brought in last night, don’t it? The one that ain’t recalling his own name this morning. What about this Crow?”

  “I had hoped he might shed some light on the Tyrone murder.”

  “Tyrone? We got the man as done it. Remember? You were the one what snabbled him. It’s old business.”

  “I am not so sure we did get the right man, Farley.”

  “It’s flying in the face of Providence to look elsewhere once the solution’s been offered so neat. You never learn, Chase.”

  He only nodded in return, thinking of Buckler, who battled today for Donovan’s life at the Old Bailey. God knew it didn’t take long to condemn a man to the scaffold. Chase hoped to find some answers before it was too late.

  Tugging Farley’s arm, he indicated a small gin shop. The façade was so drab they had almost passed the place before realizing what it was. But the stink of stale spirits hovered about the doorway despite the wind. Near the entry an obviously intoxicated man was urinating in a puddle.

  The two Runners pushed inside. The room was small, dark, and crowded. With only three tables and a few chairs, most of the customers stood jammed together, engaged in serious drink and little talk. They stared at the intruders with unabashed hostility.

  From behind a low counter a withered figure, who might well have been man or woman, watched as Chase approached.

  “How about that drink, Farley?”

  He shook his head.

  “I need some information about the fire in Church Lane,” said Chase to the crone.

  The tavern keeper turned away with a snort. Lips tightening with annoyance, Farley was about to press the inquiry, when a patron at one of the tables motioned for Chase to join him. About fifty years old, this man had dark eyes in a long, pale face. Gray hair, neatly combed, curled against his collar, and thick sidewhiskers nestled against gaunt, pitted cheeks.

  Chase stepped over a prone figure and sat as he was bid. Farley remained at the counter, surveying the room, his blunderbuss displayed conspicuously.

  “If you need to know something, you come to me,” said the man. “William Knot by name. This is my place. What do you want?”

  “Good day, Mr. Knot. John Chase, Bow Street. I’ve no quarrel with you or yours except that I need to know about the fire.”

  “Well said, Mr. Chase, but we’d best be quick. Folks round here tend to cut up rough with strangers.” It was said without any threat.

  Chase kept his gaze steady. There would be no trouble here without this man’s leave. “How long ago did the fire occur, Mr. Knot?”

  “Let me see. Today be the sixth. Less than a full moon back.” He thought a moment. “The twelfth day of November to be exact, a Tuesday morning early. I was roused from my bed as were we all.” He gestured at the room, a
nd several men nodded.

  Chase did not let the revelation show in his face, nor look to see if the date had registered with Farley. It was the very morning Constance Tyrone had been found dead.

  “The place was done for by the time anybody got there,” Knot continued. “Toby Stubbs was yelling in the street, and one of his lady tenants was escaping buck naked from the window.”

  Chase heard a few muffled chuckles.

  “Quite a sight it was. The fire patrol was called, but Toby didn’t have no insurance.”

  “Did the rain put out the fire?”

  “Naw, storm was over by then. Fire just burned ’self out, but not before three people found out firsthand what hell be like. What a stink of flesh.”

  “A man named Crow lived there,” said Chase, observing him closely.

  “Aye, the cripple. He was burned worse of all. I heard tell he’d likely been soaked in oil.”

  “Arson then—and murder.”

  “Yes sir,” he replied cheerfully. “Ain’t no doubt whatever ’bout that.”

  “Who would have reason to want Crow dead?”

  He gave Chase a shrewd look. “Perhaps you’d know better than us. Like I said, he were burned beyond knowing. Maybe ’tweren’t Crow, after all.”

  “Surely you could tell by his deformed hand.”

  “That’s the strange thing,” whispered Knot, drawing closer. “This corpse didn’t have no hand. Burnt clean off. The Coroner called it suspicious circumstances, but nobody ever come to ask till now.” He gave a raspy snort and grinned at Chase as if he’d just made a fine joke.

  “Did no one observe anything unusual that night?”

  “Them as was asked said no.” He looked away in pointed dismissal.

  Chase laid a coin on the table. “Much obliged, Mr. Knot.”

  “What do you make of it?” said Farley as they emerged.

  “I would say someone wanted Crow out of the way.” Almost to himself he added, “And without George Kite’s cooperation, it seems my friend Buckler and his client will be on their own.”

  Ignoring Farley’s look of puzzlement, Chase strode down the street, wind whistling in his ears.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Buckler gradually became aware of the sounds around him. Thorogood’s stertorous breathing and impatient movements. Coughs, sneezes, and murmurs from the gallery. The whisper of silk as a lady shifted in her seat. The tapping of the warder’s shoes as he escorted a prisoner from the dock. The polished tones of an advocate, rising and falling in counterpoint to the judges’ interpolations.

  His eyes focused, and he glanced around the Old Bailey to find that the current proceeding was lumbering to a close. The court always made Buckler think of a great mouth wherein was performed the Law’s deliberate mastication of its victims, chewed well and digested in a seemly manner. It had eaten well this day. Already a half dozen cases had been decided and all in victory for the Crown. Now it would be Donovan’s turn, and Buckler could only hope the law had had its fill.

  The cluster of journalists stirred and sat forward. Perched in their midst was Fred Gander, whom Buckler had encountered at Newgate while visiting his client. Pertinacious even for his profession, Gander had been hounding Donovan trying to get exclusive rights to his life story—and presumably to his gallows confession.

  Scanning the crowd again, Buckler glimpsed Annie Donovan near the rear; she clutched a pale-faced, unnaturally still child who could not have been more than two. The woman herself looked dazed. He also noticed for the first time that Penelope was present in the gallery among several other women. She smiled at him, but he thought she looked worried. He wished suddenly that he could talk to her and tell her of his strange encounter with George Kite. It would have to wait.

  “Buckler,” said Thorogood. “It’s time.”

  Well aware of his friend’s abstraction on trial days, the old lawyer took Buckler’s arm and steered him through the court. Nearing the seats set aside for counsel, they almost collided with the prosecutor and his junior who had just finished speaking with the Tyrone family.

  Mr. Latham Quiller, serjeant-at-law, was a narrow, clever man who well knew his own worth. Men of his stamp seemed always to find success at the Bar, and Mr. Quiller was no exception. But his real talent lay in convincing everyone, justices included, that his was the voice of reason upholding the majesty of the law while his opponent was all too apt to indulge in inappropriate histrionics. No one ever seemed to realize that Quiller himself was the master of those despised machinations but accomplished them under the guise of logic. Neat trick that and well worth the large fees he commanded.

  “Good day, Buckler,” he said, smiling benignly. “This shouldn’t take long, what? I’ve another trial coming on and needs must manage this one expeditiously.”

  “Only so long as necessary, sir.” Then he caught sight of the man at Quiller’s side. “If you’ve other obligations, you can always have Crouch here stand in your shoes.”

  Buckler hadn’t known Leonard Crouch would be junior counsel. No doubt he was thrilled to work with the well-known man in the hope that some of the luster of the coif, the cap worn to distinguish serjeants, would rub off. Unlike his companion, Crouch looked a trifle nervous, and his palm was damp when he shook hands. “Well met, Buckler. I believe this is the first time we’ve faced one another.”

  After a few more courtesies, they retired to their respective places, and Buckler was able to return to his thoughts. Instead of reviewing strategy as he’d intended, he found himself wondering why he never felt fully at ease in his work. It wasn’t nerves anymore, though he still got the flutters before every trial. No, the problem was that he never felt entirely a part of this world.

  Thorogood had once said that Buckler possessed the gift of advocacy, but of a different sort. Men like Quiller, or even Crouch, knew the rules and enjoyed playing the game with great forensic skill, yet they approached it with an assured impassivity which Buckler lacked. He supposed that was what Thorogood had meant when he said juries sensed a thinner skin in Buckler and either hoped to see the opposing counsel draw blood or conversely threw all their empathy on his side. Buckler only hoped today would bring the latter. He reached up a hand to straighten his horse hair wig and stood to face the bench where sat the judges and other officials, including the Lord Mayor and his aldermen.

  Frowning, Mr. Justice Worthing glanced down at the papers in front of him and ordered the prisoner to be placed in the dock and the indictment read. Buckler’s heart sank, for he knew what that look meant. The judges had any number of cases pending during this session and, like Quiller, would seek ways to avoid prolonging this one. This was hardly beneficial to Buckler, whose best hope lay in time to create doubt in jurors’ minds.

  Arm gripped by the gaoler, Donovan shuffled in, defeated already. He didn’t look at anyone with the exception of one anguished appeal in Buckler’s direction. When the people in the galleries caught sight of his pitiful figure, hisses of disappointment and contempt broke out.

  Rising to open for the Crown, Quiller bowed first to the Bench, then the jury. Buckler could see the interest spark on the jurors’ faces as they took in his lean, elegant frame and powerful voice. As he detailed the evidence against Donovan, rustles erupted anew, and Buckler felt the full force of the crowd’s condemnation. Donovan felt it too, for he released his grip on one of the iron spikes that fronted the dock and shrank back.

  Quiller called his first witness, Elizabeth Minton, who came forward with great dignity.

  “Will you explain to the court, madam, when and how it was that the accused’s wife joined the St. Catherine Society?” the prosecutor began.

  “It was February last. Annie had left Mr. Donovan. She was a silk weaver in Spitalfields, but couldn’t get work; her husband also lacked employment. She came to beg of assistance.”

  “Were financial difficulties the only reason for the separation?”

  “No. Annie told us her husband was over fond o
f spirits and gambling and on occasion struck her.”

  “Struck her? In justifiable chastisement perhaps, Miss Minton?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I would not say so, sir. My impression was that Mr. Donovan would get drunk and lose his temper. She said she feared for her child’s safety.”

  Quiller let that sink in, then continued. “How long was Mrs. Donovan employed by the Society?”

  “About three months, until she decided to return to her husband—against our advice.”

  This time Quiller asked the next question quickly before the jury could react to the idea of women advising another woman to remain estranged from her lawful husband. “When did you and Miss Tyrone first meet the accused?”

  “In early May, when he came to collect Annie and to ask Miss Tyrone for a loan to enable the family to begin anew. She gave him a few pounds, primarily for the sake of the child.”

  “Will you tell the court what happened that day?”

  “Yes. We were helping Annie get the baby’s things together when I noticed Mr. Donovan had Constance’s reticule in his hand. I asked him what he was doing.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “No.”

  “How did Mr. Donovan respond?”

  “He became enraged. He swore at us and said we were trying to turn his wife against him. He also said he would get his own back sometime. Then they departed.”

  “He said he would ‘get his own back sometime’? Those were his words, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  Well satisfied, Quiller returned to his seat, and the jury watched Buckler expectantly to see what he would do. The reaction to Elizabeth Minton had been so favorable that he dared not do much.

  Buckler walked forward. “May I offer my condolences for the loss of your friend? I have heard that Miss Tyrone was a woman of vision profoundly committed to the service of others.”

  Surprised, she looked into his eyes, giving a slight smile. “You describe her well.”

  Smiling back, Buckler said respectfully, “Miss Minton, you’ve told us that nothing went missing from your friend’s reticule. Can you say for certain that Mr. Donovan intended to steal?”