by S K Rizzolo
Leaning over, he deposited the leaf in Chase’s palm, then dusted off his hands with a quick, impatient gesture. “Ransom looked down and said, ‘Many nuts, many pits.’ Pits, meaning graves, Mr. Chase.”
***
Late that afternoon, Penelope found Sarah in the room filled with crosses. The little girl stood at the head of the sofa where Dick Ransom lay, her back to the door. She appeared expectant, her head tilted in a listening position, as if awaiting some signal. One hand squeezed at the fold of her pinafore; the other was slightly outstretched.
Unbidden memory froze Penelope in her tracks. She was a child again at her mother’s funeral, clutching at her nurse’s calloused, heavy hand. The nurse whispered a steady stream of endearments in Italian and held Penelope so close as to overwhelm the child with the acrid smell of her sweat, stronger even than the heady aroma of flowers and incense. From time to time, Penelope looked up, seeking her father, who stood alone, a few feet away, his face composed in harsh lines. But mostly she stared at the dusty flagstones at her feet, kneeling when directed, or rising again to have her face pressed against the black material of the nurse’s skirt.
At length, the woman had led Penelope firmly to the casket, saying softly, “Touch your mama, cara, so you will always remember.” And, obeying, Penelope had erupted in noisy sobs that set the congregation murmuring and caused the nurse to yank her outside into the courtyard. At that time, she’d been a great deal older than Sarah and was soon heartily ashamed of her behavior. She had been so afraid her father would be angry with her…
Penelope came to herself with a start just as Sarah extended her hand to brush her fingertips lightly over the side of Dick’s face.
“Sarah,” she exclaimed in horror, “what are you doing?”
Flinching at the sharpness in her mother’s voice, the child spun around. “Mama. I wanted to see what he’d do if I touched him.”
Penelope swept the child into her arms and hurried into the corridor. “They will take him away soon, but you mustn’t go in there again.” She pulled the door closed behind them. “Do you understand me, Sarah? You must not.”
Sarah looked solemnly into Penelope’s face for a long moment, then decided she was aggrieved enough to cry. “You hurt my feelings,” she sobbed, drumming her little fists on Penelope’s shoulders. “You’re mean, Mama.”
“I didn’t intend to, Sarah,” said Penelope, guiltily aware she’d have done better not to overreact. “Where is Mary? Did she put you down for a sleep, love, and you decided to get up on your own?”
“Yes,” said Sarah, relinquishing her anger and snuggling into her mother’s neck.
Penelope carried her into the library and settled them both into the wing chair by the hearth. Sarah soon dropped off again, but Penelope didn’t want to move her. It was comforting to feel the child’s warm weight in her arms and to sit thinking of nothing.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Owen Finch entered, dressed in a heavy coat, a blue woolen scarf, and boots. His wide-brimmed hat, slightly too large, covered most of his lank graying hair. Under the hat, his eyes were shadowed with fatigue.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Wolfe. I just came to collect my drawing materials. Sir Roger has asked me to go to Leadenhall Street to sketch a Roman tesselated pavement that has been discovered under the carriageway. He said you had agreed to accompany him to view it one day soon?”
“I did, sir. No doubt it will be a fascinating experience.” Seeing him glance uneasily at the sleeping child, Penelope added, “You needn’t worry about disturbing Sarah. She sleeps like…” She broke off, dismayed.
Finch rushed into speech. “No, no, I should hate to disrupt such peaceful repose, madam, and you yourself so clearly enjoying a bit of quiet. If you’ll give me but a moment, I’ll be on my way.”
Moving jerkily to a cupboard in one of the bookcases, he removed a box of drawing pencils, a miniature easel, and a portfolio, then went back to stand over Penelope. In spite of these encumbrances, he bowed, and a piece of paper fluttered to the carpet.
“You’ve dropped one of your drawings. May I have a look, sir?”
He gave it to her, it seemed reluctantly. “It’s not finished.”
“Near enough,” she replied as she studied it. The foreground showed a white-bearded Druid in hooded cloak, knee-length tunic, and sandals. At his belt hung an axe and a small bag; he carried a divining rod of hazel in his hand. Ancient oak trees formed the picture’s background.
“The Druids were greatly skilled in divination and interpreting omens. They studied birds in flight to perform augury and also divined the future by poring over the entrails of sacrificial beasts.”
“You’ve done a fine job with his expression. He seems utterly clear and confident, though somehow I cannot like him. There is a self-absorption there, as if only his objectives matter. I shouldn’t like to be the helpless creature wriggling under his knife.” She smiled to take the sting from her words.
He did not return the smile. “The Druids are said to have practiced human as well as animal sacrifice, Mrs. Wolfe. Caesar wrote that Druidic priests preferred thieves and brigands for their ceremonies but would at times seize upon even the innocent. The strong have ever preyed upon the weak.”
“Indeed? You are knowledgeable, sir, and no doubt of great use to Sir Roger with his monograph. I believe you have been in his employ for many years?”
His gaze broke away. “You exaggerate my importance. I merely assist Sir Roger. I myself should never care to undertake such a project.”
Chapter IV
When John Chase left St. James’s Square, he did not at first pay much heed to two men who sauntered in his wake along Pall Mall. He was thinking of Penelope Wolfe in that strange household and of Dick Ransom, who must have been more than he seemed to get himself murdered. Unless, that is, he had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong moment.
And passing the long row of columns that screened off the entrance to Carlton House, the Prince Regent’s London residence, Chase wondered idly, as no doubt did many passers-by, what the devil those columns did there, for they supported nothing but their crowning entablature, were only there, it seemed, to spoil the view of the mansion behind. He was not a man prone to metaphor, yet he supposed the philosophers might find food for reflection in those columns, showy and extravagant, but useless. They spoke somehow of the present age.
With such thoughts for company, he nonetheless made sure one part of his mind was fully aware of his surroundings. Any Runner would do the same. It was a matter of expediency, in the event he should later need to recall information, or in case such vigilance might one day be a matter of survival.
As Chase glanced back, the taller of the two smiled slightly. This was a stoop-shouldered man with a thin, sharp face and red, pointy ears. He wore a blue coat with brass buttons and lumpy boots. His companion, heavier-set and considerably dirtier if his execrable linen were anything to judge by, carried a fine Malacca cane with which he tapped out a rhythm on the paving stones.
After Chase had continued up Haymarket and down Panton Street to Leicester Square, the men still dogging his heels, practically breathing down his neck, his irritation flared. Reaching into his greatcoat, he took out his gilt-topped baton, the Bow Street emblem of office, and faced them. “May I be of assistance?”
The man with the cane replied boldly, “Your pardon, sir, but mayhap you can. We thought as since you been to inquire about the goings-on in St. James’s Square, you might have a word or two for us.”
Journalists already? But neither of these blokes ran true to type, he thought, nor were they flourishing their inevitable notebooks. “Who are you, and why do you want to know?”
Pointy Ears answered this time. “A friend of the late lamented sent us, sir. Quite broke up by the news, he is, and couldn’t come ’imself. He’ll be glad to know what’s what. And there’s the matter of some property as was lent to the fellow as has turned up his toes. Our friend is anxious for
its return.”
“Property? Of what sort?”
“I couldn’t say exactly,” said the shorter, dirty one, taking his turn. “Papers, I should think, or something of that nature. You find anything out o’ the way amongst this Ransom’s effects?”
“Who are you?” Chase repeated. “Give me your names and direction and that of your friend. I’ll deal direct with him.”
The two men looked at each other. “Afraid that ain’t possible,” said Pointy Ears at last. “Not to worry. He knows where to find you.”
“Bid you good day then, sir,” said the other, and bowing, gave a toothy smile and a jaunty lift of his cane.
Before Chase could respond, they had stepped around him and set off down the street at a rapid pace, almost colliding with pedestrians in their path. Chase was after them in an instant, waving his baton and shouting as he went. “Stop, you hedge-birds! You filthy knaves!”
Pointy Ears glanced over his shoulder. Seeing he was being pursued, he tugged his companion’s arm. They broke into a run. Chase followed grimly as his old knee wound sent agonizing shafts of pain up his leg and spine. Still, he managed to keep them in view as they traversed several smaller streets. But when they turned up Long Acre and put on a burst of speed, he quickly lost them.
Cursing, he paused, undecided. This area was crowded with coach-builders as well as furniture makers. All around him, workmen went about their trades, and patrons alighted from carriages to conduct their business. Chase stopped one carpenter walking with his tool-bag slung over his shoulder, but was rewarded with a stony stare when he tried to describe the men. All up and down the street it was the same. No one had seen, or would admit to having seen, the two men.
Finally, giving up, he returned to Bow Street police office, where the magistrate on duty was Mr. Graham, who had proven himself a constant friend. It was he, in fact, who’d helped Chase to become an officer after an initial assignment to the foot patrol. Chase had known Graham’s son in the Navy, and when Chase had found himself in London after resigning his own commission, he’d looked up his old friend’s father. That had been a decade ago.
Although the court was deserted, Graham still sat at the table behind the bar. At Chase’s entrance, he pushed aside his paperwork. “You’re late.”
“You received my message about the murder inquiry, sir?”
Graham’s eyes sharpened, but when he spoke his tone was mild. “What’s the world coming to when murder occurs in St. James’s Square of all places? I don’t doubt we’ll be hearing from the Home Secretary in the morning. He’ll want to know an arrest is imminent. Shall I be able to so inform him?”
“No, sir.” Chase had spent the day talking to Sir Roger’s servants and the square watchmen. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary, though a portrait of the slain footman had emerged: well-spoken, courteous, and sober in mien.
“Humph. No doubt you’ll be pleased to inform me as soon as matters do take that desired turn?”
“Yes, sir.” He was grateful he was not the one to contend with official shilly-shallying and thick-headed interference. No, John Chase just did his job, alone for the most part.
Graham was studying him closely. “Well, what do you make of it? Robbery?”
“Possibly, sir, yet nothing is missing from the house, nor is there any sign of forced entry. Moreover, this young man was reputedly of good character.”
The magistrate nodded. “Any known enemies? Love affairs gone sour? Family problems? Financial reverses?”
“Too soon to say. No one seems to know much about his background. He was quite close-mouthed. One curious thing, sir, the servants all agree Ransom was a Londoner, but Wallace-Crag has reported an exchange he had with the man in which Ransom quoted a bit of country lore about hazelnuts. I should add I found a hazel leaf in the dead man’s pocket.”
Graham frowned. “If this is intended as some sort of message, what are we to understand by it?”
“I don’t know. Sir Roger seems to think Ransom may have had an omen of disaster and taken the hazel to protect himself or possibly to assist in crossing between this world and the next. Or perhaps the murderer placed the greenery in the dead man’s pocket.”
“Come, Chase, this begins to seem a fairy tale. Whoever committed the crime had a serious purpose, however many maygames he thought to confuse us with. Sir Roger Wallace-Crag? I know of him. He has a beautiful daughter who got herself married off to Viscount Ashe. I understand he’s a bit of a cold fish. Ashe, I mean.”
“I’m to see him at the House of Lords tomorrow,” said Chase. “Purely as a matter of form.”
“Get on with it then, but be careful. I hear the man is jealous of his dignity. See that you don’t raise any hackles.” He turned back to his papers, and Chase was able to take himself home.
Having missed his dinner, he would have to make do with cold meat and bread in his room, though Mrs. Beeks, his landlady, would have held the meal for him had he not given strict instructions to the contrary.
When he entered, Leo was lurking on the stairway. A fair-haired, sweet-faced boy with terrifying courage and a staunchly independent mind, Leo had once tended to make a hero of his mother’s lodger, an actual Bow Street Runner. Lately, however, Chase had noted a slight lessening of the glow, as if the boy had begun to realize that a man over forty, graying and somewhat shabby, who tied a poor neckcloth and slurped his soup, wasn’t entirely suitable material for adoration. Chase was relieved.
“Evening, sir,” said Leo, popping down the stairs. “I was wondering when you’d come in. You missed dinner!”
“So I did. I trust you had a good day?” He’d been making an effort recently to be more forthcoming with Leo and his brother William after Mrs. Beeks had tearfully confessed that the boys were sometimes hurt by his seeming coldness.
“Oh dreadful dull, sir. Nothing much ever happens around here.”
Chase regarded him a moment. “Be glad of it.” With a nod, he limped toward the stairs.
“Leo,” came a voice from the kitchen below. “Is that Mr. Chase, and you keep him talking after a long day? Ask him what he fancies for his supper.”
“Yes, mum,” Leo shouted, then spoke quickly to Chase in a low tone. “One of my chums said some of the Runners ain’t above laying a trap for a man just so they can collect the reward for his conviction. I didn’t believe it for an instant, but I knew you’d tell me true.”
Chase suppressed a groan. It was certainly true that honesty was a somewhat rare commodity amongst his colleagues; the system itself discouraged this virtue. Not that he was about to admit that to Leo or tell him about the persistent rumors dogging certain of the Runners…
“It rather strains credulity that the magistrates would permit such villainy. Those of Bow Street are much respected and have a reputation throughout the land to uphold. Tell your friends so, Leo.”
“Leo!” Mrs. Beeks cried again, sharp with impatience. “Did you give Mr. Chase his letter, and what about the dinner?”
Looking sheepish, the boy darted to the hall table and put the letter in Chase’s hand. It was from Abigail in Boston, and Chase suddenly found he could neither speak naturally, nor endure the sudden curiosity in Leo’s eyes. Bidding Leo goodnight, Chase continued up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door behind him.
It wasn’t till much later, after dining on the meal Mrs. Beeks had insisted upon providing, that he took his seat by the fire, donned his spectacles, and opened his letter, his left hand cupping a glass of brandy, which he drank slowly to savor the heat. His eyes went first to the bottom of the page, where eleven-year-old Jonathan had added his bit to his mother’s letter:
Dear Father:
I hope this finds you well. We are fine, though Mother says she fears Spring will forget all about us here in Boston. My schoolmaster believes our two countries may soon go to War. Would that mean we could not receive your letters?
I told Mother I should like to go to sea and defend our right
to trade freely. But she asked me if I would care to fire on my father’s countrymen, and I had to say no. Still you were in the Royal Navy when you met Mother, weren’t you? I know you would understand.
Yes, he would, Chase reflected, proud of his son. The letter concluded with the usual wishes for his continued good health, then came Jonathan’s postscript: May I travel to England to see you one day?
Good question, he thought, stretching his legs to get more comfortable.
***
“What will you wear, mum?” said Maggie, standing at the wardrobe, a doubtful expression on her face.
She knew as well as Penelope that only three choices presented themselves: a well-worn gray wool, a staid navy silk, and a creased light muslin in which the wearer would freeze in the drawing room drafts.
“The silk, I suppose, Maggie,” said Penelope absently, her attention focused on Sarah at the window. What made the child so intent? Was it her own reflection in the glass, or something else? The slump of her shoulders and a certain air of dejection gave Penelope pause, made her heart sink with a vague dread. She crossed the room to Sarah’s side and brushed a hand over her hair.
“What do you see, love?”
Sarah pressed her nose against the glass. “Rain, Mama. Does the rain fall where Papa is? He will be wet through if he is out of doors.”
“No, love,” she said with forced cheer. “Don’t you remember he is in Dublin teaching little girls like you to draw? He has his umbrella, of course, or he is warm by the fire as we are. You need not worry.”
Sarah nodded, and Penelope looked up to find Maggie watching them gravely. Upon Maggie’s arrival, Penelope had informed her of Dick Ransom’s death in a hurried undertone. And after the incident in the cross room, Penelope had had to explain more of the facts to Sarah too, not that a four-year-old had any real understanding. But she had observed the doctor coming to make his examination, followed by the woman responsible for the washing of the corpse. The maids went about their work, red-eyed, and Timberlake and Mrs. Sterling were grim-faced.
