by S K Rizzolo
“What’s he doing? I want to see.” She started forward.
“Sarah.” Penelope made a grab for her and missed. The child stopped a few feet away, one knuckle in her mouth.
“Mama. It doesn’t move. What’s wrong with it?”
She didn’t sound particularly distressed, but that was Sarah’s way. Her first response to something outside her experience was always an intense desire to know more. She internalized it, pondered it, and only then expressed amusement, sadness, or bewilderment. Penelope knew they’d be talking about that blasted chicken for days to come.
“Let’s go look at the apples, shall we? Would you like one to eat on the way home?”
She stepped closer, intending to propel her daughter in the opposite direction, but found her attention caught by the slit-eyed man again. Starting to move away through the crowd, he swung his fowl back and forth in ever-widening circles as if preparing for some show of athletic prowess. People stared and shoved at him resentfully, for he seemed not to care whom he struck. Loud complaints erupted.
Several feet on, he encountered a stall where he jarred a patron rudely, earning another curse before he finally lost himself in the throng. Sarah turned away. Penelope, however, remained transfixed.
She reached for Sarah’s hand. “Come on.”
They went briskly across the piazza to the stall, where the proprietress was still busy serving her customer, a plump housewife come to have her knives sharpened. The knife woman wielded the whet stone with deft fingers, the blade turning and flashing in her hands.
Sarah pulled at Penelope. “I want my sweeting.”
“Just a moment. Mama needs to speak to this woman.”
When the housewife had departed, Penelope said to the vendor, “A word with you, if you please.”
Her voice sounded more peremptory than she’d intended, probably because the knife-seller kept her eyes averted in what seemed a pointed rudeness. Thin, but not gaunt, she wore a clean woolen gown. Her face, above a frayed and heavily darned lace collar, might have been forged from the same metal as her knives, all hard edges. She could have been anywhere from forty to seventy years old.
“Yes, missus?” She thrust swollen, bony fingers into a display case and began to adjust her merchandise.
Loosening the strings of her reticule, Penelope drew out the note. “I believe you sent this. You have a message for me?”
After a short silence, the vendor said, “I might.”
Her fingers continued to roam over the knives in their tattered velvet casing like some enormous, restless spider. At Penelope’s side, Sarah began to squirm. Market cries rose and ebbed on the wind.
“Who from?”
This time the pause was even longer before the woman replied, “I seen her yesterday, but she been around before. In a state, she was. Said as how you might be willing to help, that’s all.” Turning away, she called out in a heckling tone to another potential customer, who had hesitated over a pile of rusted iron locks.
Penelope spoke louder. “This woman is connected to an establishment in St. James’s Square?”
The woman looked her full in the eyes for the first time, a dark, heavy gaze rather like the reflection cast by her knives. It revealed nothing of her thoughts. “What’s it to me if she were?”
Was she fishing for a bribe to loosen her lips, Penelope wondered, bewildered. Would such an offering be an insult?
“Let’s go, Mama,” said Sarah, tugging insistently.
“Hush. I’m not finished.” Penelope pulled her hand away and fumbled in her reticule for a coin. She held it out. “Here. Perhaps this will help.”
The knife vendor took the coin, biting it absently. “Thank ye kindly. Truth is, mum, the old half-wit give me something for you. Probably worth at least ten quid, I’d say, but I’ll let you have it for five.”
“Five pounds? I don’t have that kind of money. Besides, I’m sure she meant for you to give it to me.”
The woman shoved so violently at one of her trays that some of the knives tipped from their slots. “That I won’t do. Get off with you then.”
When she straightened, her expression was so ugly that involuntarily Penelope shrank, tightening her hold on Sarah.
“Get off,” the woman repeated shrilly. “I won’t be cheated. You don’t belong here. You take your pretty baby and go on home before something happens.”
“There’s been a terrible crime committed in St. James’s Square,” Penelope said coldly. “Unless you want to be held accountable, you’d best be a good deal more forthcoming. I can tell you that matters will go hard for you if it’s thought that you are withholding evidence.”
“You got windmills in your head, lady. That beldame ain’t done nothing. Ain’t a thought in her head that someone else didn’t put there.”
“You won’t mind at least showing me what she gave you.”
The woman trained her unreadable stare on Penelope’s face. A fragment of conversation reached them, then laughter, shouts, and singing, but they might have been alone.
Penelope opened her reticule again and poured out the remaining coins into her palm. “Will you show me—for this?”
The woman’s gaze narrowed. “All that just to lay your peepers on it? Not to keep.”
“Done.” Penelope’s heart hammered against the side of her neck, making her feel slightly breathless. At her side Sarah was held motionless by a tension that was thick as syrup.
The woman held out her hand for the money. Then, she half turned away, reaching down into an inside pocket of her dress to draw out a package, narrow, about half a foot long, covered in plain brown paper and fastened with twine.
“Do you know what’s in there?” asked Penelope as the woman’s fingers started to work the wrapping loose.
“The old beldame told me, but she run off before I could get a glim of it.”
“You don’t know her name or where she comes from?”
“Naw. She dosses down under the stalls at night with the vagabond children sometimes. That’s why she give me this here. She said it’d most like be stole off her anyway, and she didn’t want no nonsense about it. She said you’d know what was to be done.”
The woman ripped off the last bit of twine and reached inside the paper to pull out the object. “There. You satisfied, lady?”
She held up a lovely, slender dagger of solid gold. The hilt was formed by twin serpents entwined so that their heads formed a hand grip, their eyes marked by tiny rubies. The blade itself was etched with more snakes and delicate bejewelled wheels.
“Gawd,” breathed the knife vendor reverently. “She said it were just a little knife.”
Penelope was frozen with shock. The last time she had seen the dagger was in its place on Sir Roger Wallace-Crag’s desk. He had designed it himself, she knew, and had used it to break the wax seals of the numerous letters he received. Sir Roger was immensely fond of his tiny dagger, always careful not to misplace it.
Which meant the old woman must have been in Sir Roger’s study. Which also meant she could well have dispatched her victim with this very knife and carried it away for disposal. For a moment a blank horror kept Penelope silent.
“Well, you’ve seen,” said the woman, setting her prize back in its package and glaring. “Get on with you.”
“Let’s go, Mama,” Sarah whispered, a catch in her voice.
Penelope paused, uncertain. The letter opener was vital evidence John Chase must have. But this woman would undoubtedly take the first opportunity to sell it, and it might never be recovered. And Penelope had no more money with which to offer a bribe.
As the woman watched her with increasing suspicion, Sarah whimpered a bit in discomfort, or fear. A fierce gust of wind rippled over the wrapping paper. Balanced precariously, the dagger teetered, slid over the edge of the stall, and landed in the sawdust and fruit debris at Penelope’s feet.
She reacted without thought. Snatching it up, she tossed it in her gaping reticule, hoist
ed Sarah in her arms, and ran. She heard the knife vendor’s hoarse shout of rage, but no sound of pursuing footsteps. She could only hope the woman would not want to leave her stock unattended.
“Thief, thief, thief! Stop her!” came the almost incoherent howl, somewhat muffled by increasing distance and the thick crowd.
Forced to slacken her pace to avoid a heavily loaded dray, Penelope struggled to get her breath. She felt as if everyone in the vicinity must know of her transgression by now. Hands would seize her, haul her up before the magistrate. She could not imagine the humiliation of such a moment. Then Sarah whimpered in her arms, and Penelope knew that possible embarrassment was the least of this affair’s repercussions.
“Hush, love, it’s all right,” she gasped, trying desperately to regain some semblance of calm.
They had reached the edge of the square, and just ahead was a gate that led to a side street. Overwhelmed with relief, Penelope moved toward it deliberately, trying not to attract attention.
She was reaching out her hand for the latch when a hand descended on her shoulder and a voice growled, “Here now. You wait just a minute.”
Slowly, she turned to confront a broad-nosed, wide-mouthed, greasy-haired man wearing a calf-length apron luridly streaked with vegetable stains. Penelope’s heart dived to her boots.
“Yes?” she faltered.
“The knife-seller says you got something what belongs to her.” His eyes bore into hers. “Give it here.”
For one panic-stricken instant, she held his gaze, then whirled and fled into the street. She thought for certain he would follow, but when she glanced back over her shoulder, he remained by the gate, watching her, arms folded across his stomach. Penelope pressed on. Her one thought now was to get home and relinquish her discovery to John Chase.
Sarah lifted her head. “Put me down, Mama,” she said, squirming hard until Penelope was obliged to set her on her feet. The little girl smoothed her cloak and stamped her feet to get the blood moving. She took one step and paused.
“We have to go. Take my hand,” said Penelope urgently.
Sarah looked up, her eyes serious. “Did you do something bad, Mama?” She was quiet a moment, thinking; then her face crumpled. “I didn’t get my sweeting!”
Part III
“Go on then. They’re waiting for you,” said the Master’s secretary, who had opened the door to find her hesitating in the corridor. His tone was not unkind, but to Rebecca, the pity and contempt were clear. Lifting her chin, she stepped over the threshold.
Greeted by a blaze of light from the tall windows that overlooked the garden, she was for an instant dazzled. In these last days of summer, the heat had been considerable and the temperature stifling. The assorted smells of the people in the room, perfumes mixed with sweat and the reek of gloating triumph, assaulted her senses. Slowly, the faces came into focus, and Rebecca’s heart jumped when she saw that the Master was present, leaning against the mantel. She sent him no more than a glance, but he was staring at his boots, his expression preoccupied.
Besides the Master and Mr. Finch, there was Mrs. Dobson, a black-garbed figure hovering over the Mistress, who sat in her favorite chair, her spindly legs propped on a needlework footstool. Rebecca thought the Mistress appeared more sallow, more loveless than usual, despite the richness of her green silk gown. She had lost a great deal of flesh since her last miscarriage earlier in the year.
“Come in, Rebecca,” she said in her soft, weary voice, and Rebecca went to stand in the middle of the carpet, arms behind her back and belly outthrust. She knew the Mistress was studying her and was suddenly, fiercely, glad. Let her look her fill.
There was a sharp silence; then the Mistress said, “Mrs. Dobson tells me she has spoken to you, but you are disposed to be obstinate. You know that in any other household, you would have been turned off long since.”
Rebecca bowed her head, her heart rebellious. Why should they say such things to her? She gazed down at her crisp white apron and willed herself to be calm. She knew she looked well, had taken great pains with her appearance. She knew also that she had done nothing of which to be ashamed.
“We have kept you on,” the Mistress continued, “not because we credit for one moment this absurd tale you tell to cloak your sin, but because we are a Christian household. If you would only tell the truth, it may be that we can persuade the man to marry you and give your infant a name and you a respectable future.”
Rebecca raised her face to the afternoon light that seemed to caress her skin in reassurance. “My child will have a name, the highest that can be bestowed. The Lord will not forsake His own. He has sent this babe to me for His own purposes which shall be revealed in due course.”
“You blasphemous, wicked girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Dobson, but she was staring in half-horror, half-admiration, as if nothing Rebecca did would be a surprise.
So it seemed to Rebecca herself these days. Nothing surprised her. The lie, a tiny seed buried in her soul, had grown into a vigorous, sturdy sapling that one day soon would erupt in bloom. The seed itself mattered nothing, and indeed, Rebecca had half-forgotten its origin as her life was taken up to be directed into new channels. And yet, seeing the Master now, she felt the tug of the old weakness, the old yearning. She wished he would look at her.
Stifling that thought, Rebecca said, “I speak the Truth. What do I care for your threats?” She stepped closer to the Mistress. “Can you afford to spurn this mark of the Almighty’s favor? You ought instead to ask yourself why your house should have been chosen for this honor.”
The Mistress swallowed audibly. “You mustn’t say such things, Rebecca.” Her hand rested on her own flat abdomen before she continued. “If you are not going to tell us, I’m afraid—”
“Yes, madam. You are afraid. But God hears your prayer, and it may be that He will grant it. You must take heart. You must believe.”
The eyes still fixed on Rebecca’s filled with tears, and the Master cleared his throat. “My dear, I believe we’ve heard enough.” He squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “The girl must go.”
Rebecca stared at him in disbelief. He had not once met her gaze, yet she knew him well enough to read profound discomfort in the set of his mouth and the tension in his shoulders. How could he betray her thus? For a moment, the shame, a thing of darkness, nibbled like a rat at her gut.
The Mistress spoke, voice sharp with repressed anguish. “Turn out mother and child to starve or, worse, to fall deeper into the pit of lust and debauchery. No indeed. I cannot reconcile it with my conscience, Sir Roger.”
“My dear!” he expostulated.
“Sir Roger is right, ma’am,” broke in Mr. Finch eagerly. “There are foundling hospitals to care for such children so that their mothers may be set back on the path of virtue. Allow me to make the arrangements.”
A look flashed between them: his a question, hers a tiny shake of the head. The secretary’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he said no more, though he kept his mournful gaze on Lady Wallace-Crag as if awaiting a summons to her assistance.
Rebecca drew herself up. “Do not fear for me. I have only stayed with Miss Julia out of love and fear for her safety. Her fits grow worse lately. Do you never ask yourselves what could be amiss?”
“I have not the slightest notion what you could mean.” Two spots of color now appeared high in the Mistress’ cheeks.
“My lord Ashe,” replied Rebecca, hating them. “He is evil. He says he wishes to teach the child to ride her pony, but I believe he seeks to…interfere with her. Why else should a man grown, a bachelor, dance attendance on a mere babe who detests the very sight of him?”
The color ebbed from the Mistress’ face, and, shooting Rebecca a burning look of reproach, the secretary went to kneel by her chair, offering her the cup of water from the table at her side. She took the cup with a nod of thanks and turned to look over her shoulder at her husband.
“Well, sir? What do you make of this terrible accusation agains
t your friend?”
“Pure nonsense. The girl is obviously over-wrought and proclaims these stories to divert attention from herself. We need not regard anything she might say.” He paused, then added, “Charity is all well and good, my dear, but you cannot allow her to corrupt the other servants. Let her be sent away.”
At his words, a shutter came down in Rebecca’s mind, and her knees began to buckle, the rat gnawing at her vitals. Then she remembered she was not alone and had only to look toward the light.
Chapter VIII
John Chase stood in front of the Tower of London, a grim, massive pile overlooking the River Thames. So many had met their fate at the headsman’s axe here that even the thickest of visitors must surely sense far-off echoes of pain and terror. To Chase, the Tower suggested the implacable power of the State that no puny individual would do well to bestir. Far better to let the leviathan slumber, or preen itself, in the sun.
Chase’s business would not take him beyond the outer ward of this vast fortress that was also garrison, arsenal, palace, and state prison. Entering from the west through the Lion Gate, he saw ahead, rising from the center of the smelly, unsanitary moat, the Middle Tower with its double portcullis; beyond that, the Byward Tower, even more formidable, and guarded by both soldiers and warders.
However, Chase turned right to the Lion’s Tower, the outermost of the three bulwarks of defense and home of the Tower Menagerie. As if to herald his arrival, the roar of a lion and the shrill laugh of a hyena rose in chorus round the courtyard.
He rang a bell, soon answered by a man dressed in the warder’s uniform of scarlet coat and skirt. He was of nondescript age, hunch shouldered and hairy, well suited to his position as keeper of the beasts.
