by S K Rizzolo
“Help will come.” She squeezed his hand. “I promise. It will come.” Feeling the wetness of tears on her own face, Penelope put her cheek to his lips a second time, seeking desperately for breath.
She heard footsteps and looked up to see George, gripping a decanter of brandy, accompanied by Lord Ashe, garbed in a rich velvet dressing gown.
“Come away, Mrs. Wolfe,” said Ashe. “Assistance will arrive shortly. You can do nothing further here, will only distress yourself to no purpose. George tells me that life yet lingers. Perhaps Dick may survive.”
“No. I feel certain he is gone now,” said Penelope. She released her grip on the cold fingers, accepted Lord Ashe’s proferred hand, and came shakily to her feet.
“You shall have the brandy then,” he said, taking her arm to lead her back toward the terrace. But first perhaps you will like to wash your face and change your dress?”
Penelope gaped at him, at first unable to fathom such concern with so trivial a matter as her appearance. But as her gaze followed his to the bloody streaks smeared across her dressing gown, she understood.
Chapter II
Edward Buckler propped his elbows on the balustrade and gazed out over the river, his dog Ruff patient at his side. On winter days the omnipresent London soot mingled with the fog to form a gray pall that blanketed the river, enveloping him in its embrace. Then Buckler could not see the wherries and barges that plied the waters below, though the shouts of the watermen reached his ears as if from a vast distance.
Tasting soot on his tongue, he raised a hand to brush the black flecks from his cheek and nose. He liked days like this, for a man could make his way through the streets to stand on this bridge as if alone in all the world. And when a ray of sun chanced to strike the cloud that hovered always ahead, the atmosphere glowing suddenly golden-orange, the effect was truly beautiful.
He glanced down at Ruff, who looked back with a kind of weary trust that never failed to bring a smile to Buckler’s lips. He ought not to keep the dog so long from his breakfast, he thought. But as he turned to go, he saw a figure emerging from the mist and approaching at a rapid pace along the footpath. An arm lifted in a vigorous wave. On Buckler’s part, too, recognition was instantaneous even without the aid of the lamps that remained lit at this hour.
“I’ve been round to your chambers,” boomed Ezekiel Thorogood. “Bob told me I’d likely find you here. Fortunate for me as I have a particular desire for a word with you.”
“Here I am, as you see.” He turned back to lean on the balustrade.
Thorogood chuckled. “That hardly sounds promising, but you will alter your tune once you hear my news. I don’t suppose you’ve any fresh business of your own?”
“I’ve been pondering the brief Greer sent my way. I’m not so certain I wish to take it on.”
“Why not? It’s not as if you anticipate a full calendar, Buckler. Never mind that right now. I came to talk to you about Penelope Wolfe.”
Buckler was silent, reflecting that of all the topics of conversation, he had not expected this one. Why this should be so he wasn’t sure, as he knew the old lawyer was very good friends indeed with the lady. Penelope Wolfe did enter Buckler’s thoughts at odd moments, especially when his eyes rested upon Ruff, the ragged companion she had foisted upon him. He felt he had done his duty in helping Mrs. Wolfe to obtain her current position as a lady’s companion—and tried not to think much about her otherwise.
“Well? You are not curious? I own I had thought better of you than that.”
“I don’t suppose you mean to discuss the lady’s affairs here. Shall we retire to my lodgings, or would you rather proceed to the Grecian and take some refreshment?”
“Neither,” Thorogood boomed again over the din of wheels rumbling on stone. “We must go to my office.”
Buckler glanced at him, surprised, and noticed for the first time that the lawyer’s long face fairly quivered with a suppressed excitement, and his hat was squashed at an awkward angle on his head. “Not a social visit?”
“Not precisely, no. Let us get out of this confounded fog.”
Buckler accompanied him down the walkway and into Chatham Place, where a hackney awaited them. The fog had begun to lift as a sharp breeze flirted among the clouds, blowing, subsiding, blowing again. Finding Thorogood strangely quiet during the short journey, Buckler sank into himself, seeing but not really seeing the familiar scene glimpsed through the coach window.
The streets roared with traffic of all sorts, mud-bespattered carriages, massive lumbering wagons, carts laden with meat or vegetables, the occasional flock of sheep driven by harassed guardians, and, of course, endless, teeming humanity in all its color and stench.
Unlike his friend, who seemed to thrive on the City’s jostle, its ability both to feed a man’s senses and to spice his life with challenge, Buckler preferred more convivial, eminently civilized surroundings such as his usual haunt, the Grecian Coffee House. It wasn’t that he disdained challenge. On the contrary, he liked it well enough within defined limits that suited his temperament. Take fencing, for instance. His Italian tutor was well pleased with his progress, and Buckler enjoyed the choreographed parry and thrust, the footwork, the slow but steady increase in stamina. Not that fencing was a particularly useful skill these days, but that was beside the point.
Reining in his scattered thoughts, Buckler looked at Thorogood, who sat opposite, hands wrapped across his expansive waistline. As semi-retired attorney and perennial thorn in the side of established order, he often claimed he’d earned his corpulence and would apologize to no man for any evidence of a healthy partaking in life. Fruges consumere nati: born to consume the fruits of the earth.
“You must go at once to Mrs. Wolfe,” Thorogood said as if resuming an earlier conversation. “I’d go myself only I don’t suppose Lady Whoosit should welcome a visit from a fat old fellow like me.”
“The name is Ashe, as you are perfectly well aware. What’s the trouble with Mrs. Wolfe?”
“I don’t know that anything is.” He met Buckler’s eyes, his own suddenly serious. “And yet she didn’t seem quite her usual self when I saw her last. You wouldn’t have thought of that eventuality when you suggested she live there amongst people not of her own kind. What I should like to know is whether or not they are your kind?”
“She needn’t stay if she doesn’t like it,” Buckler said, exasperated. “I’ve not seen Julia Wallace-Crag, or I should say Lady Ashe, in years. Wallace-Crag’s estate adjoins that of my brother. I’ve known the family to speak to my entire life.”
“Good. An entry will be useful.”
“I think perhaps I should be better off steering clear, if only to save myself a good deal of bother. You do recall the last time?”
“Sometimes, my friend, I can’t but think you are a man of sixty clothed in a younger skin. Have you no red blood in your veins, no sense of adventure?”
Buckler looked away, suddenly stung. “As much as any man, I suppose, in so far as the call of business permits.”
Thorogood smiled. “Where is the difficulty then? You have no business at present.”
They had arrived at their destination. After a brief tussle over who would pay the jarvey, which Buckler won by thrusting coins in the man’s hand, they crossed the road at Lincoln’s Inn Fields where over two centuries earlier Anthony Babington had been hanged, drawn, and quartered for his role in the Scots Queen plot and where today the goliath plane trees brandished their massive arms.
Entering an old mansion that had been partitioned and sublet to lawyers, they set off down the corridor, glimpsing rows of clerks at work on their high stools. At his own door, Thorogood paused, breathing heavily, then motioned for Buckler to precede him inside. There was a long silence as Buckler’s gaze swept round the room.
With its heavy furnishings covered in cheerful red brocade and towering shelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, these chambers had always seemed welcoming. Not today. A chair had been
pushed over on its side to spill its innards from a wound in the seat cushion. Some vindictive hand had tossed his friend’s treasured books willy-nilly to the carpet. The desk drawers had been upended on the window seat. And, amongst all the debris, fragments of glass glinted like fairy dust.
“He came in through the window,” said Thorogood.
Buckler turned to face him. “What’s this to do with Mrs. Wolfe?”
***
Seems peaceful enough, thought John Chase as he climbed out of the hackney after the boy. A maid was scrubbing a doorstep as a sedan chair rounded the corner from King Street. A drover passed, guiding two cows toward the park, and across the way, Josiah Wedgwood’s china showroom had opened its doors for business.
Chase stood gazing at the elegant three-storied buildings of red brick with stone dressings. In the center of the square, an iron rail framed an equestrian statue of William III, a gallant figure presiding over a large circle of water. Something in the essential character of St. James’s Square suggested endurance and safety, hardly surprising, he told himself, for the rich knew well how to create such illusion.
When the message had arrived that morning, he had been abed with no forewarning that the day would bring anything beyond the ordinary round of tracking down pilfered snuffboxes or serving papers on unlicensed tavern-keepers. Arriving at Bow Street, Chase learned that Sir Roger Wallace-Crag had sent for him by name. And though Chase had questioned the shaken messenger boy during the short journey in the hackney, little information, beyond the barest facts, had been forthcoming.
As he turned to ascend the steps of Wallace-Crag’s home on the square’s north side, the door opened to reveal the butler, countenance rigid with disapproval, probably because Chase had not rung at the servants’ entrance.
“I’ve brought him,” said the boy, pulling at his livery and glancing uneasily at his superior. When the butler merely nodded in dismissal, the boy turned with obvious relief and made his way to the area stairs, disappearing below.
The butler said, “I am Timberlake, sir. Please enter.” He held the door wider.
Chase crossed the threshold into Stygian gloom. Pausing to allow his eyes to adjust, he saw that he stood in a vestibule crowded with scores of antique casts and marbles. Candles flickering in brass sconces threw deep shadows.
“Is that the man from Bow Street?” said another voice, and Chase found himself regarded by a slight man with a heavy-lidded, unfocused gaze and a drawn complexion that looked as though it rarely saw the sun. Chase did not miss the look of dislike that crossed the butler’s face, but Timberlake said merely, “Yes, Mr. Finch. Will you escort him to the master?”
“Certainly.” He bowed slightly. “Owen Finch, secretary to Sir Roger.”
Chase said, “I should like to see the corpse first, if you please, then view the spot where Ransom was found.”
“That seems a sensible proceeding if you are to report on your observations.” Finch glanced at the butler. “That will be all, Timberlake.”
When the butler had retreated, Chase went on, “I should also like to speak to the person who made the discovery. I take it you have moved the body? No matter, though my job would be much the easier had nothing been disturbed.”
“I need hardly tell you we are not accustomed to doings of such nature in this house, Mr. Chase.”
“No? I should imagine not. In any case I shall need to interview the maids and footmen, indeed all of the servants, afterwards. Is there a small anteroom suitable for the purpose?”
“Of course. If you’ll come this way.”
Chase followed the secretary under an arch into a wide hall. Here more marbles, bronzes, vases, and busts lined shelves on either side. Greek, Roman, Egyptian, there seemed no order to the display. Rusting suits of armor stood guard impassively. Along the graceful staircase rising to the first floor was a series of painted enamel plaques with gilt-framed Italian-looking portraits set above.
Passing several doors, Finch stopped at one, opening it. “We thought it best to carry him in here, sir, until you arrived. The doctor who has been to examine him waits to speak to you. The parish constable also.”
“In good time,” Chase murmured. He recognized the feeling that had overcome him. Part exhilaration. Part dread. Part a sense of fellowship that makes one keenly regret any loss of human life, be the victim a stranger or not.
Chase stood back politely to allow the other man to enter before him, but Finch shrank back. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I, sir? When you are ready, the lady will no doubt be pleased to relate her story.”
There was a note in the secretary’s voice that Chase did not comprehend. “Lady?” he echoed. Was he to be honored by Wallace-Crag’s daughter Lady Ashe, a well-known leader of fashion who, the boy sent to fetch him had confided, resided in this house with her husband? About to articulate the question, he stepped into the room and halted in his tracks. No lady had dreamed up this decorating scheme.
It was like entering a cathedral crypt. Narrow and dark, the chamber featured all manner and sizes of crosses: stone, wood, gold, silver, some bejeweled, others crude and plain. They hung in uneven rows on the moss-green papered walls and clustered on tables and the chimney-piece. Windows bordered by margin lights of blue glass lent an eerie color to the space; incongruously, however, the furnishings were of the conventional style. Chase fumbled in his pocket for his spectacles. Behind him the door clicked shut, and he was alone.
The young man lay on a sofa that had been pushed out of place into a corner. Someone had draped a piece of serge over his form as if in an attempt to preserve the decencies. But there was nothing decent about this death, as Chase saw when he lifted the cloth.
A single clean blow had pierced the man’s bloodstained blue coat and embroidered gold silk waistcoat to penetrate the chest cavity beneath. From the looks of the wound itself, the knife had been extremely sharp, but not large. A stiletto?
Interesting that the footman had been fully dressed in livery; clearly, he had not been called out in the night unawares. On that thought Chase slipped his hand into one of the coat pockets. Nothing. But when he tried the other, his fingers closed on something delicate and velvety smooth. Frowning in puzzlement, Chase drew forth a cup-like leaf on which two egg-shaped buds had formed. This he slipped into his own pocket. Then, as he bent over the body to continue his examination, he heard the door behind him open again. Chase turned, expecting to see Owen Finch, and once more was struck dumb.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” said a familiar voice.
Removing the spectacles, he stared. “Good God. It’s Penelope Wolfe.”
***
“What do you know of this business?”
“Very little,” replied Penelope, “though it was I who discovered the body and asked that you be summoned.”
Chase studied her. The same thick dark hair, fastened too severely under her cap, the same liquid dark eyes, but without the usual warmth in her cheeks. He suddenly remembered how much he liked this woman, that is when not annoyed by her arrogance or her indomitable naïveté. And he made another discovery. It didn’t surprise him in the least to find her mixed up again in murder.
“You needn’t remain in the room. I’ll finish my examination and come to you presently.”
“I shall stay. There will be questions.”
He had heard the edge in her voice that told him very plainly to leave be. “Tell me what’s happened then, from the beginning.”
As she faced him, Chase fixed her eyes, which showed a tendency to stray toward the body. Outwardly, she was composed, but he could see she felt the queer, trembling excitement that often accompanies a shock. She looked utterly out of place framed by the absurd glut of crosses.
It had been two months since he’d last seen her at the attorney Thorogood’s Christmas dinner. Chase recalled that she’d asked about his family, and he had actually spoken of his son growing up in America. It was a day he thought of often, one that had seemed
to hold loneliness and disillusion at bay. And this celebration had occurred on the heels of the Saint Catherine affair, which Penelope Wolfe had been lucky to survive. He wondered how she’d fared since and whether her ramshackle husband was still missing. He wondered, too, what the devil she was doing in this impossible place.
“At what hour were you awakened?”
“About half-past six, I should think. Time for the housemaids to be at their labors.”
“Without the slightest notion what might await you, you went downstairs, leaving young Sarah? Your daughter is with you, I take it?”
She flushed. “Yes. But I wasn’t certain what I had heard, only that it sounded like a night cry, and I could not simply go back to sleep. I found the housekeeper and butler in the library.” She sat down on a brocade-covered chair and gazed at her clasped fingers.
“Is this cry likely to have issued from the mortally wounded man?”
“I cannot say. It sounded…uncanny. We all heard the moaning. I was certain some poor soul was in torment, and I couldn’t bear it. So I went on the terrace, and George thought he saw something move. Then I spotted Dick. I thought at first we might save him.” She moved to the narrow sofa where the man lay and gazed down into the face Chase had left uncovered. “He was too young to die.”
Approaching to take her arm, Chase steered her toward the door. “Will you take me to where it happened?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling a little self-consciously as she looked up into his eyes. “The servants have already declared their intention to avoid the spot. You see, they have long been convinced of something amiss in this house, and Lady Ashe only encourages them in these fancies, I’m afraid, for she dearly enjoys all the romance of a mystery.”
“Your employer?”
