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

by S K Rizzolo

  “No.”

  “Is it possible he merely picked it up, thinking it belonged to his wife? You were, after all, engaged in gathering Annie Donovan’s belongings.”

  She looked doubtful. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Is it also possible that Mr. Donovan’s anger stemmed from the sting of an unjust accusation?”

  Miss Minton’s gaze flew involuntarily to the accused. “Yes.” Buckler had judged the witness well, for her innate honesty forbade she answer any other way, though she clearly believed otherwise.

  The second witness was Thaddeus Wood, who testified to finding the body and, at Quiller’s prompting, speculated that Constance Tyrone must have been engaged in a charitable errand the night she was killed. After Quiller had finished, Buckler approached.

  “Was Miss Tyrone often abroad in the parish late at night?”

  A look of confusion crossed the curate’s face. “No, she generally went home with her family’s coachman at dusk.”

  “Indeed, he came to collect her that day, but she wasn’t there?”

  One of the judges broke in. “Of course, she wasn’t there, Mr. Buckler, or she’d have made it safely home. Make your point, please.”

  “My lord,” Buckler said earnestly, “the coachman’s presence indicates that Miss Tyrone had not informed him of an alteration in her routine. Since her family expected her home, a charitable errand such as my learned friend Mr. Quiller has suggested would have been most unusual.” He turned back to Wood. “Is that not so, sir?”

  The curate looked unhappy, but had to agree.

  Buckler bowed. “No further questions.”

  Returning to his seat, Buckler deflected a knowing glance from Quiller. It said his opponent knew what he was up to and dared him to try. Only Quiller was wrong. Buckler did not intend to suggest Constance Tyrone had been in the street after dark for some disreputable reason. No, he had other ends in view.

  The victim’s brother Bertram Tyrone took his turn next. Pale and ill at ease, he made a poor witness in spite of Quiller’s efforts to soothe him. As he fumbled through his story, the jury watched sympathetically. He reported stopping by the Society that afternoon only to find his sister out, then returning home late that night to discover his sister still absent, her bed untouched. He had awakened his father.

  “We decided to wait until morning before summoning the authorities in the hope of her return.”

  A ripple of surprise swept the court. One would expect the Tyrones to have reported the disappearance immediately, and if it was fear of scandal that had prevented them, it didn’t look well.

  “No one noted her absence at an earlier hour?” prompted Quiller.

  Bertram’s voice shook. “My father was at his club, and the servants thought…they thought she was sitting with a sick friend.”

  “Ah. She had plans to do so? Perhaps this friend resides near St. Catherine’s church?”

  “I don’t know…it was a misunderstanding. My brother Ambrose thought Constance had said as much, but the visit must have been proposed for another evening.”

  Meeting Thorogood’s raised brows with a slight shrug, Buckler toyed with the idea of probing further. But it would be a blind shot, for he had no idea what troubled Bertram Tyrone; it might only be the man’s very obvious grief that agitated him so. On the whole Buckler decided he had little to gain and much to lose if he antagonized the jury by pursuing him.

  The watchman, Tom Vim, testified, after whom came Constable Samuel Button. “Right,” said Button as he dug for his occurrence book. Awkward, sweaty fingers thumbed the pages. “Your pardon, milords. I have it all writ down, just as it happened.”

  “Commendable,” said Quiller.

  “Yes, sir, here it is. I was called to the body at approximately half past six in the morning on Tuesday, 12 November.”

  “You identified her?”

  “The curate did that. And I immediately sent round to Bow Street.” Looking relieved, Button closed the little book and returned it to his pocket.

  Quiller moved closer. “What of your investigation, sir?”

  “Well, sir. I reckon Mr. Chase of Bow Street could give a better account. I’m just the parish constable and—”

  “The court has need of your observations, Mr. Button,” interrupted Quiller, turning toward the jury. “After all, you were the first to reach the scene.”

  “Well, sir, truth be known, my notes are kind of jumbled.” Button retrieved his book and began speaking rapidly. “I first thought she’d been run over by a coach until I saw the marks on her neck.”

  “What kind of marks?”

  “Why, she’d been throttled.”

  Buckler listened as Quiller strove to bring out the most gruesome details, all the while subtly maneuvering himself about the courtroom to direct the jury’s glance in the direction of the Tyrone family: a stiff Sir Giles, a hot-eyed and miserable Bertram Tyrone, and the younger boy, Ambrose, languid and detached.

  With the examination-in-chief concluded, Buckler faced the constable. “You have told us that you and Mr. Chase were able, rather cleverly I should say, to approximate the time of death?”

  “’Twas really Mr. Chase,” said the constable, looking pleased. “You see, he noticed her clothing wasn’t so wet as you’d expect given the rain. Which told us she’d likely been attacked after the storm had passed.”

  “Or at least,” amended Buckler, “the dry clothing indicates that the victim did not lay exposed during the rain. She might have lain elsewhere, I suppose?”

  Worthing barked, “What is your meaning, Mr. Buckler?”

  He bowed, saying apologetically, “I shall take another tack, my lord.” He went on after a moment. “Did you not remark, Mr. Button, upon Miss Tyrone’s inappropriate footwear and lack of a hat?”

  Button nodded sagely. “Indeed I did, sir. I recall speaking of those matters to Mr. Chase. She had no key either.”

  “Yes, I understand her keys were later found inside the Society’s rooms. Is it not possible then that she did not plan an excursion but was called out, or perhaps brought out, unexpectedly?”

  Quiller rose with a fluid motion. “This is pure speculation and leading the witness besides. We do not know why the victim was dressed as she was. Further, I submit that counsel’s words ‘brought out’ lack clarity.”

  “I beg your indulgence, my lord,” said Buckler. “If you will allow me to rephrase?”

  Worthing nodded curtly.

  “What did the victim’s mode of dress suggest to you, Mr. Button?”

  “Why, sir, we didn’t know what to make of it. Especially when Mr. Chase saw her shoe—the one that wasn’t lost, I mean.”

  Buckler heaved a silent sigh of relief. “What of her shoe?”

  “No mud, sir. How’d she walk in the street without dirtying her shoe?”

  “How indeed,” he murmured.

  For the first time Buckler caught a fleeting expression of uncertainty in Quiller’s eyes, and Crouch, who had not yet learned to hide his emotions as well, looked incredulous. John Chase had testified about the shoe’s lack of mud at the Coroner’s inquest, but no one had apparently made much of this particular since. If Buckler could get the jurors to question the prosecution’s version of a street attack on Constance Tyrone, they might at least be induced to question the other “facts” relating to the case.

  But Buckler needed John Chase on the witness stand. For instance, Chase could tell the jury about the sacking in the garden shed and the corresponding threads found on Miss Tyrone’s person. Better yet, with the testimony of George Kite or his friend Crow, Buckler might suggest that she was attacked on the church grounds and left for dead, hours before Joan Snowden had supposedly seen Donovan bending over the body.

  Worthing’s sarcastic voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you quite finished, Mr. Buckler? The court awaits your pleasure.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Buckler thanked Constable Button and returned to his seat to await the next wit
ness, the proprietor of the tavern where Donovan was seen on the night of the murder. With an avuncular smile, Quiller waved his junior onto the floor, thus demonstrating to all and sundry that his case was proceeding so well he could afford the possibility of error. Giving Buckler a pitying look, Crouch stepped forward smartly, his black robe billowing at the ankles. As he led the witness through the questions in ponderous detail, Buckler found his attention wandering to where Penelope sat with Elizabeth Minton at her side. Both women listened intently, occasionally exchanging glances when Crouch said something pompous.

  The tavern keeper offered nothing beyond what Buckler expected. Donovan had arrived at the tavern around nine o’clock, joining three other ruffians for numerous rounds of drinks. They had suddenly departed en masse about half past eleven only to return about two. All the men were drunk and belligerent, yet “in high fettle” about something. At that time, the tavern keeper had noticed the scratches on Donovan’s face.

  When Crouch finished, Buckler said, “Can you tell the difference, sir, between scratches made by fingers and those made by say—bushes?”

  “No,” the man was obliged to admit. Buckler thanked him.

  After the tavern keeper came Joan Snowden, the prostitute. Buckler settled back to watch Quiller adroitly sidestep such awkward points as to what Snowden had been doing alone in the street at that hour and why she had not gone to investigate what the hackney had struck, nor summoned any help. It was well done, Buckler thought. Also, someone had clearly coached Snowden, for, attired in a respectable gray stuff gown, she kept her eyes turned down modestly.

  True to form, Quiller kept his questioning short. “So, after the hackney struck Miss Tyrone, you saw a man looming over her. Have you identified him, Miss Snowden?”

  Her voice shook a little. “Yes sir, I have. Him.” She pointed at Donovan, and a volley of excited chatter broke out.

  The pointing finger seemed to remind everyone of the insignificant man in the dock. It had been easy to forget about Donovan, but now all eyes turned in his direction.

  “It’s a lie,” he quavered, looking in mute appeal at Buckler as if wondering why he didn’t do something.

  “Have you something to say, Mr. Donovan?” said Worthing. Receiving a barely discernible shake of the head, he glared upward. “Those in the gallery will be silent if they don’t wish to be ejected immediately. Now we must inquire if there are further questions from my brother Mr. Quiller?”

  “No, my lord.” Quiller bowed.

  Buckler stood. “Miss Snowden, although the rain had stopped, the night was foggy and the lamps afforded little illumination. Is that not so?”

  “Yes…that is no, sir. I could see just fine.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” he answered, regarding her gravely. “You see, in this case a man’s life depends upon your ability to see well and to relate what you saw with accuracy.” Moving away from her, he turned a little toward the jury.

  “The tavern keeper has told us that Mr. Donovan left his establishment in the company of three other men. But you saw only one man leaning over the victim’s body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Miss Snowden, you testified at the Coroner’s inquest that the man you saw stooping over the victim’s body looked ‘uncommon big.’” Buckler motioned at Donovan. “Please take another look at the accused. Would you describe him so?”

  Her eyes remained on Buckler’s. “It’s the same man.”

  “Can you describe for us where precisely you were when you saw the hackney approach? How far away? Ten yards? Twenty?”

  “Dunno exactly. Perhaps ten.”

  Buckler waited a moment, then said, “According to the watchman, Mr. Vim, the weather was too inclement for him to see a body lying in the middle of his route. Yet you identify Mr. Donovan and even oblige us with particulars of his appearance.” He looked toward the dock. “Thank you, Miss Snowden. In other circumstances I am sure my client would be flattered.”

  A general laughter erupted, and hope flickered over Donovan’s face for the first time. It was likely the one time in his life when he was glad to be such an unprepossessing specimen of a man. Glancing at the jurors’ faces as he sat down, Buckler could see they had taken his point. Thorogood nodded approvingly and folded his hands over his belly.

  The surgeon Reginald Strap repeated the medical evidence presented at the Coroner’s inquest. Crouch questioned him briefly, merely establishing Strap’s work with the Society and questioning him about Constance Tyrone’s injuries.

  When Crouch was finished, Buckler addressed the surgeon. “You had an appointment with Miss Tyrone on the afternoon of Monday, 11 November?”

  “Yes, but she wasn’t there, unfortunately. The Tyrones’ coachman awaited her also, and we sought her out together.”

  “Where did you search? Might she have been somewhere on the grounds?”

  “We checked her office and had a quick look in the garden. Also, the coachman asked the other women if anyone had seen Miss Tyrone.” Meeting his gaze, Strap added gently, “We had no reason to believe she would hide, you know.”

  Buckler let that pass. “Was this a routine appointment, or was Miss Tyrone ill?”

  “Routine—although it is true her health had deteriorated over the last few months; her friends and family all wished to persuade her to reduce her activities.”

  Buckler nodded. “Mr. Strap, you’ve told us that the precise cause of death is difficult to gauge. The victim may have died of asphyxiation due to the attacker’s throttling, or the fatal blow might have been delivered by the carriage fracturing her spinal column?”

  “That is so.”

  “Alternately, the victim’s neck might have been broken by the attacker, not the carriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you note anything to indicate the relative timing of these injuries, viz the bruises left by the strangling and the broken neck?”

  The surgeon’s gaze sharpened. “I am not certain I follow you, sir.”

  “Allow me to restate the question.” Buckler pitched his voice a trifle higher. “When you examined the body, could you ascertain how far apart the two injuries occurred, if we assume for the moment they were not simultaneous?”

  Now Strap looked puzzled. “No, I could not.”

  “In your opinion, is it possible that Miss Tyrone could have survived a throttling to lie gravely injured for some hours? And then was killed when the carriage struck her?”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  “Why, may I ask?” Buckler quelled the shaking in the pit of his stomach and forced himself to speak confidently.

  “She was strangled, man. Her windpipe was almost crushed. Besides, think of the weather. She would have died of exposure.”

  “But if she were sheltered somewhere, all but dead but not quite, and later moved to the street?”

  “Unlikely,” he said again.

  Buckler pressed on before Quiller could object. “Yet we hear of condemned criminals pronounced dead on the gallows only to revive.”

  “I suppose that occurs rarely, or at least might have done before the invention of the drop scaffold. And such ‘resurrections’ appeal greatly to the popular imagination, I don’t doubt.”

  “Still, based on the medical evidence as you observed it, might Miss Tyrone have lain injured but alive for a time before the carriage struck?”

  “Yes.”

  He was opening his mouth to continue when a vociferous “Ahem!” burst from Thorogood. As Buckler glanced his way, the old lawyer gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and took out a handkerchief to pat his weathered cheeks.

  Buckler turned back to Strap and thanked him for his time, grateful he had avoided the pitfall that besets even the ablest of counsel, the one question too many that risks an answer that might destroy all the good one has just accomplished.

  Mr. Justice Worthing looked keenly at Buckler. “The court will presume you have some purpose in these questions that will be revealed
at the proper time.”

  “I do indeed, my lord.” Buckler resumed his seat. Ostentatiously engaged in blowing his nose, Thorogood did not look up.

  The pawnbroker to whom Donovan had sold the slipper ornament testified, and again Quiller allowed Crouch to do the questioning, which was soon accomplished.

  Buckler stood to address the witness. “Is Mr. Donovan a regular client of yours?”

  The pawnbroker agreed.

  “What sorts of goods does he bring to you?”

  “Just about anything. Old clothes, bits of cloth, iron, occasionally a broken ticker.”

  “Nothing of value generally?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So you must have found it rather curious when the accused brought you an obviously expensive piece of trimming.”

  “I did, sir.”

  “But he brought nothing else? Not the victim’s matching slipper rosette for instance? Nor her filigree gold cross?”

  “No.”

  Buckler looked at the Bench. “Nothing further, my lords.”

  Friday was waning into late afternoon. Finally, Quiller questioned his last witness, the Bow Street officer Strickland, who related the story of the arrest attempt and the subsequent riot in Bethnal Green. Buckler disliked the Runner, a truculent, beefy type, on sight yet could tell the man’s blustering appealed to the jury. As Strickland would have it, Donovan had done no less than willfully touch off a destructive rampage that was only put down by the officer’s heroic intervention.

  Even Quiller seemed annoyed after a while, for the witness insisted upon saying more than was required. Then it was Buckler’s turn.

  “When you arrived to arrest the defendant, was he not inside his house?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Answer the questions as they are put to you, sir,” snapped Worthing.

  Ignoring Strickland’s glare, Buckler continued. “Did the accused address the crowd in any way. Exhort it to anger or violence?”

  “No, but it was his fault. If he hadn’t—”

  “Did you search the lodgings of the accused after he made his escape? What did you find?”