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

by S K Rizzolo

  His voice intruded. “Why Mrs. Wolfe, viewing my collection must have distressed you. Come sit down in my office, and I shall bring you a glass of cordial.”

  “No, I had much better go now, sir. Thank you again for a most informative experience.”

  He frowned. “I cannot deem that wise, ma’am. What if you were to swoon in the street? You ought to rest for a few minutes.”

  After leading her to a small sofa, he picked up a bottle of cordial sitting on a side table and poured a generous splash. Sipping the drink he brought her, Penelope took a determined grip on herself. At least holding the glass gave her something to do, and the brandy helped. She glanced up, daring one look into Strap’s eyes to see if he suspected her, but saw only solicitous concern.

  “Thank you, sir. I do believe the suffering of that poor creature in the operating theatre discomposed me more than I had any notion.”

  Unfortunately, this momentary rally of her courage ceased abruptly when he sat down next to her and removed the glass from her hold. Taking her hands, he smoothed his palms over her gloveless skin and lifted her fingers to plant a gentle kiss on the inside of one wrist. “Ah, Mrs. Wolfe. I do hope you are feeling more the thing.”

  Penelope pulled away. “I am fine, sir, though some air would be welcome.”

  “No hurry, ma’am. It is natural that the coarse reality of surgery should disturb you. And I compound the offense with a demonstration of all my beauties. You must forgive me.”

  “You misunderstand, sir. I found your specimens most intriguing. As for the operating theatre, I admit I did not relish the blood. Yet, truthfully, it was more the spectacle that was so repugnant. It did not seem as if that unfortunate woman was deemed worthy of anyone’s compassion.”

  His expression darkened. “I show my compassion for a patient by operating with all the skill and dispatch of which I am capable. What would you have, Mrs. Wolfe? Crying over her would hardly help and might possibly kill her were I to make an error.”

  Penelope watched him. She’d retrench in a hurry if she had any sense and get out of this room somehow. But if she didn’t catch a glimpse of what lay behind his façade, she might never have another opportunity. After a moment, she spoke. “I cannot imagine you capable of error, Mr. Strap, for I am certain your methods are quite…deliberate.”

  The telltale tightening at his jaw was so faint she almost missed it. As it was, that and an instinct screaming too loudly to be ignored were enough to tell her her surmise had been correct: she faced Constance Tyrone’s murderer. She must leave this place and get to Bow Street.

  “I am hardly perfect, ma’am,” he said into the silence. “What human being is? I make mistakes and live to regret them. But I can honestly say that to master the challenges of my profession is everything to me. I promise you young Fiona will receive the highest standard of care, that is if she can be persuaded to put herself in my hands.”

  The rage slicing through Penelope took her by surprise, and she glanced away quickly, afraid it would show. Picking up the cordial, she took one last sip and set the glass down with a snap. “I am quite restored now,” she said, rising, “and must return home immediately. Perhaps you may show me the wards another day.”

  Strap got to his feet. “I confess I do not know what to make of you, Mrs. Wolfe. Did your experience in the operating theatre today give you such a disgust of surgeons that you are inclined to doubt our good faith? Or is it something else?”

  Their gazes fused, and for a long moment Penelope was helpless to break away, aware that her fear and her knowledge were plainly revealed. Then her eyes flitted toward the door just beyond Strap’s solid figure as she calculated whether she might step around him and how many paces might bring her to freedom.

  He studied her, unmoving. “You appear agitated. I must insist you sit down and finish your refreshment. It will do you good.”

  He took a step closer, and Penelope picked up the glass as if to comply. But she found herself doing something she could never afterward understand. It would have made perfect sense to toss the cordial in his eyes and run.

  Instead, she raised the glass and threw it across the room. Spraying its sticky contents all over the desk, it crashed against the wall and fell in fragments to the dragon carpet. With Strap’s attention diverted, Penelope darted around him, fumbled at the door, and was out before he could react. She fled down the corridor, retracing her earlier steps. Surely there would be people about in one of the main quadrangles.

  Behind her, Strap’s footsteps pounded in pursuit, and she had to force herself not to look around. All she need do was find someone, anyone, nurse, patient, or visitor, and she would be safe.

  Turning into the large quadrangle, Penelope paused for an instant to get her bearings. She must proceed back through this and the middle yard before reaching the court by which she’d entered. But then she recalled the porter’s warning that the front gates would be locked by four o’clock.

  The surgeon was almost upon her. With no time to do anything else, she crouched down by a white stone pilaster, praying the gloom would hide her.

  To her profound relief, a nurse came out of one of the wards and moved toward the statue in the center of the court. She carried a large basin in her brawny arms; a bunch of keys clanked at her waist.

  Penelope was about to emerge from her hiding place when Strap hailed the nurse. “Hi, you there, a pox-ridden lunatic has escaped the foul ward. Inform the porters, and make sure the accident gate is secured. That should be her only means of egress. I believe I can restrain her myself, but assistance may be required.”

  “Yes, sir.” The nurse hurried off to do his bidding.

  As Strap’s keen eyes began to sweep the shadows, Penelope sucked in air and slouched over. She was so frightened that her brain repeated the same thoughts over and over in an endless circle of panic. She lifted her head, daring a peek. It was a mistake. It seemed Strap looked right at her, his cold stare unerringly seeking out her shrinking figure. Penelope froze, but released her breath when he moved away.

  Then she was on her feet, poised to run. Thankfully, her mind had cleared, terror subsiding to a hard lump in her gut. She recalled passing St. Thomas’s church as well as the chapel in the adjoining court. Perhaps the pastor or hospital chaplain would help her.

  “Come out, Mrs. Wolfe,” came Strap’s amused voice. “I thought I glimpsed you a moment ago, and I see I was right. Do be reasonable.”

  Penelope ran pell-mell across the paving stones, bruising her feet in her thin-soled boots. She dashed through the colonnaded passageway and gazed about wildly. To her left was the church, the accident gate at its side, to her right, the chapel. But there were men clustered about the gate, blocking her access, and others approached from the direction of the chapel. No one had noticed her yet.

  Moving forward more slowly, she tried not to attract attention. She made it across the courtyard before the shouts erupted.

  “Mr. Strap, Mr. Strap. She’s there,” someone said.

  “Yes, I see.” Strap’s voice sounded quite close, but Penelope did not wait to find out, slipping ghostlike toward the portico between the cross buildings.

  But suddenly she knew she wouldn’t make it that far, for the surgeon was nearly at her shoulder, his arm reaching out to seize her. She could hear his labored breathing. Just ahead beckoned a stairwell: her only choice. She ducked inside.

  With Strap at her heels, she flung herself up the stairs. Gaining the landing at the top, she remembered she had come this way earlier. Surgery was just through the door, with the herb garret beyond. And the church was below. Perhaps she might hide in the operating theatre, then find her way out through the church once the hue and cry died down.

  Slipping through the door, she confronted a wall of blackness, stumbled forward, and tripped over a low table. Several objects clattered down with her. Penelope groped with her fingers until they closed around sharp steel. A surgeon’s knife. Pain lanced through her hand. With
a muffled exclamation, she retracted her fingers only to reach out again more cautiously. This time she grasped the handle.

  At her back Strap said, “She’s gone in the theatre. Not to worry. Two of you may ascertain that the ward entrance is locked. The rest remain here. Give me that flambeau, will you? I shall go in alone and speak to her. Facing you chaps might scare her out of the few wits she still possesses.”

  She heard laughter. Another voice broke in. “Watch yourself, Mr. Strap. She may be vicious.”

  Fleeing through the entrance to the standings, Penelope clambered to the top, then crouched down. Strap entered and shut the door, his long shadow shooting across the wall. Face encircled by torchlight, he went to the lamp on a table and lit it. “You are utterly contained here, Mrs. Wolfe. I’ve seen to it we shall not be disturbed.”

  Penelope squeezed her body against the wooden planking and clenched her jaw to prevent her teeth from chattering. The chill air was foul with the unwholesome odor of sawdust and the sweeter scent of old blood.

  He continued methodically to another lamp which sat by the wash basin and ewer. Soon he would be bound to catch sight of her, but he paused in the middle of the floor, seeming in no haste to begin his search in earnest. Instead he began to speak in ringing tones.

  “Syphilis withers many a life, ma’am. Think of the youth whose one blithe foray into dissipation saddles him with a potentially incurable illness. One that may prevent his seeking an honorable marriage lest he infect his wife and unborn children. A disease that may seem to be vanquished only to break out anew with even more devastating effects.

  “You did not accept my offer of a tour, Mrs. Wolfe. If you had, you would have seen what ruin morbus gallicus makes of a sound body: ulcers, rotting bones, even at times a decay of the brain leading in the end to madness.”

  Strap came closer to peer upward. “And what may we offer these sufferers other than the hazardous and worthless ‘cures’ of innumerable charlatans and the pious moralizing of priests? Of what use is it to condemn a man for his debauchery, telling him his disease is sent as a curse from God? For if he be healed, he will only seek out the means to his destruction yet again.”

  He reached over and extinguished his flambeau, laying it aside. Speaking more quietly, he said, “Constance assigned far too much importance to the puny claims of the individual. Actually, science requires a breadth of vision that recognizes that humanity’s good lies in the pursuit of knowledge. Antiquated notions of morality only obscure our clearer reason—they are a luxury we can ill afford. A pity she could not understand.”

  Altering his position, he looked directly at her. “But perhaps, after all, this particular weakness is inborn in the female of the species.”

  As though released from a trance, Penelope scrambled to her feet and backed along the standings, the knife thrust out challengingly.

  “I am glad you’ve come into the light,” he called, “for indeed there is nowhere left to hide.”

  “For either of us. Bow Street is at your gate prepared to charge you with the murder of Constance Tyrone.”

  “You are overly generous in your estimations, Mrs. Wolfe. The authorities are bound by convention, and who among them has the imagination, the daring, to conceive of my purpose? What evidence could they possess?”

  “That evidence exists, sir. You admitted you are human, and humans make errors. Perhaps you have not taken that fact sufficiently into account.”

  “Stop brandishing the knife so absurdly and come down, Mrs. Wolfe.” As Strap leaned his elbows on the railing at the front of the standings, the light burnished his fair hair. “’Twould be child’s play to take it from you, but you might prefer the dignity of your own descent.”

  “John Chase of Bow Street has learned of the grave robber called Crow you employed to dispose of Constance Tyrone’s body. It would also be profitable for Mr. Chase to discover more of that loathsome hand I observed in your laboratory. This hand, I make no doubt, you cleaved from Crow’s corpse after you had destroyed him.”

  Strap laughed softly. “What next will your fancy suggest, ma’am? I suppose I couldn’t resist the…er, appeal of this specimen? Any murderer worth his salt finds it necessary to come away with a trophy? Nonsense, my dear. Will you step down now, or shall I call for assistance? You will never hold off three men rushing you.”

  “If I do, what then?”

  His eyes gleamed. “Ah, the nub of the matter. As much as I enjoy your company, Mrs. Wolfe, I cannot allow you to spout this sort of nonsense. My professional reputation is at stake, you see. Yet if you are willing to see reason, I believe we can resolve matters to our mutual satisfaction.”

  “I suspect your ‘resolution’ involves either imminent harm to my person, possibly with this very knife, or restraint in the foul ward under the guise that I am deranged. I heard you say as much to your minions.”

  “I am hardly a butcher, madam. I have no need of methods so crude. Why should we not talk further? Perhaps you may understand me better. Come down.” He held out his hand and smiled, a wry, winning smile that softened the austere cut of his nose and brow.

  She stayed where she was, saying firmly, “If you wish to converse, you may begin by explaining what medical advantage you sought from the barbarous betrayal of those who trusted you.”

  Surprise flared in his eyes. “I suppose there can be no objection to your knowing the whole, clever girl. And you must tell me more of this John Chase.” He indicated the trickle of blood dripping from her hand. “But first you must allow me to bind your finger for you.”

  When Penelope did not respond, Strap climbed up to the second row. Strangely unconcerned, he adopted the pedantic tone he had used earlier. “Have you been vaccinated against the smallpox, Mrs. Wolfe? I assure you the time is not far off when every person on these islands will be, this in spite of certain foolish and shortsighted attempts to discredit the practice. And the ultimate victory over this blight will be due to one man who dared attempt something new.

  “Mr. Jenner has proved that a related, less virulent form of disease may offer protection against the more dangerous one, and he was fortunate to have the illustration ready to hand. I speak of cowpox, which Jenner had observed in the milkmaids, and, of course, it turns out he was correct: those inoculated with the cowpox do not contract smallpox.

  “My own theory is similar. In the case of syphilis, I thought first of gonorrhea. But gonorrhea provides no demonstrable immunity to the pox. I tend to concur with recent speculation amongst some of my Edinburgh colleagues that the two may be quite distinct conditions.”

  He stole a glance at her as if to make sure she followed him. Then his measured voice continued. “So you see my difficulty, Mrs. Wolfe. How was I to find a less virulent form of syphilis that would serve as an inoculant? I decided to create one by introducing the disease to an animal, thereby changing the poison’s character. Thus, by passing the effluent through many generations of rabbits, I eventually produced what I believed was weakened venereal matter.

  “The next step was to test its efficacy by first inoculating a subject with my modified virus, later following up with an inoculation of live syphilitic matter to see if protection had been achieved. I needed an arena for these experiments, and you must see the aptness of the St. Catherine Society? First and foremost, the women are supposed to be chaste, though in the case of Fiona I clearly misjudged.”

  Indignation was too weak a word for the emotion welling up in Penelope’s throat until the desire to scream at Strap nearly overmastered her. For an instant, she experienced the terrifyingly real sensation of slashing her knife across that smooth, handsome face.

  Feeling sick, she said, “’Tis clear your little experiment failed miserably, for Fiona is very ill indeed thanks to you.” Then as another thought occurred to her, she gasped, “My God, how many of the women did you deceive? You did vaccinate the rest for smallpox?”

  “Oh yes, all but three. Fiona, you know of. Also a female called
Ursula who left London unfortunately and later died of influenza. And old Winnie. I thought it might be instructive to observe the progress of the disease in a person of advanced years even if my trial failed.”

  He added earnestly, “I had every intention of treating all three once my work was complete. Consider, Mrs. Wolfe. Can you maintain I was not justified? Think what it would mean, the suffering which could be alleviated.”

  “You murdered Constance to protect your secret. She discovered your infamy and threatened to expose you. Oh, how she must have reproached herself, for she it was who had persuaded the women to submit to your care.”

  His mouth hardened in distaste. “I easily refuted her protests. She became irrational, maddened almost.”

  “I believe it was she who confounded your infamous reasoning. You were maddened, Mr. Strap, for only a madman attacks a woman in daylight when anyone might have seen. Stay back, or I swear I shall use this knife.”

  Instead Strap took a careful step up, pausing to get his balance. “Perhaps you will, Mrs. Wolfe, perhaps not. I shall have to take my chances as we are running out of time.”

  “Stay back,” she cried, gathering up her dress. She clasped the knife hilt in front of her heart. A swift sidelong glance told her that a panicked jump over the railing might result in a broken leg, putting her entirely at Strap’s mercy. She braced herself.

  For an instant as neither moved, there was time for a prayer to form in Penelope’s mind. Had Constance too cried out in her extremity? St. Catherine, I have need of you.

  From the lobby came the sound of a scuffle, a chorus of shouts. She tried to keep her gaze fixed on the surgeon, but when the doors burst open, she couldn’t stop herself. Her eyes shifted. She caught a blur of motion as Strap sprang.

  Chapter Twenty-four