by S K Rizzolo
“A shilling to view the animals. Though this time of year they be unduly lethargic.”
As instructed, Chase replied, “I’ve come for a special showing.”
Glancing back over his shoulder, the keeper lowered his voice and drew closer. “Two shillings then.”
Chase produced the coins and followed his guide toward a series of tall archways set in a semi-circle. Within each arch was fixed an iron grating behind which animals sulked in murky dens.
The pens appeared tidy and commodious enough, despite the keeper’s grumble that the menagerie had been sorely neglected during the war with France. They were built in two stories with the bottom allocated for the animals’ daytime use, the top for sleeping. In one cage Chase made out the dim form of an old tiger curled in the shadows. In another, two leopards watched him with coal-ember eyes. A wolf lurked in a third.
“Take care to stay back, sir. Lethargic or no, these beasts ain’t nothing to trifle with.” The keeper paused, then added reflectively, “It’s a funny thing, but the ones as were whelped here in the Tower are more vicious even than them taken wild.”
As he spoke, he approached one of the dens and fumbled with his keys. A click, and the iron gate creaked open. “In here, sir. I’ll return presently.”
Chase stepped into the gloom, finding himself in a vacant half-moon shaped chamber. A musty animal smell assailed him. Uncertain, he gazed about until he saw that a glow flickered from the upper story. He approached the stairway, but hesitated upon the thought that this could be a trap. Then a voice he knew whispered from above.
“Come on up, Chase.”
The upper room was low and cold. A tallow candle set on a low stool provided the only light and warmth. There was no other furniture in the room save for a thin mat tossed over a pile of straw.
“Nice crib, Packet,” said Chase.
“My own little bit of paradise. I’ll move the glim so you can sit. I wouldn’t want you to spoil your pretty trousers.” Noah Packet took the candle and lowered himself to the dusty floor.
Taking the offered seat, Chase stared down at his companion. Packet looked drawn and ill, his deep-socketed eyes blinking in the light. Streaked with dirt, his black suit hung in enormous creases on his slight frame as if it had been slept in more than once. But he was not the sort to squirm under scrutiny.
“What did my friend the keeper relieve you of?”
“Two hogs,” said Chase indifferently.
He smiled. “Worth every penny?”
“That remains to be seen. What’s amiss, Noah? Why the deuce did you bolt to this hole?”
He didn’t really expect Packet to tell him. While the two were friends, they met purely in the course of Chase’s work. A small-time thief who earned a bit on the side in trading information, Packet continually astounded Chase with what he was able to glean from his always unnamed sources. Chase suspected that, in addition to having an excellent ear for servants’ tattle, Packet was not above delving in rubbish heaps. But if he could come up with gold this time, even while in hiding, that would be talent indeed.
Packet said, “Let’s just say I’m here on account of a small misunderstanding. I’ll manage. In the meantime, ’tis best to play least in sight. I got your message, however, and it may be I can help you some.” He paused. “I ain’t seen you much of late, Chase. You been busy larking with that gentry mort what’s aiming to make a civilized man of you? Mrs. Wolfe, was it?”
Chase grinned. “No, I haven’t seen Mrs. Wolfe, at least not until the other day. Once again it’s a matter of business, if you catch my meaning.” A long, low wail cut through the darkness, sending shivers up his spine. “Good Lord, Packet.”
“Just an animal, or maybe a ghost?” He gave a croak of a laugh. “Ain’t always easy to tell the difference.”
“What’s being said about the killing at Sir Roger Wallace-Crag’s house in St. James’s Square? I saw the victim buried today.”
Packet ruminated, eyes sliding up the stained, damp walls, then sweeping back to Chase’s face, only to flit away again. “I ain’t heard much. Just that the poor sod was found in the garden with a knife sticking in his chest.”
“Actually, the knife was gone, but, yes, you’re correct. Any whispers about who’s responsible?”
“Nothing prigged? No cracksman then, not that any I know of would try their lay in that part of town.” Packet cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together. “This fellow get on well with his employer?”
“As far as I can tell, yes. There’s also Sir Roger’s son-in-law, Lord Ashe.”
“I hear he ought to be one satisfied man with so young and beautiful a wife. They say she’s an heiress too.”
“A happy couple?”
Packet laughed. “What should I know of the nobs and their doings? Besides, they’re wed, ain’t they? Here I was thinking the rich got their scruples.”
“Noah. Answer the question.”
After a few more chuckles, he said, “All right, all right. Naw, I ain’t got nothing on Ashe. You’ve put me in mind of something though. A bit o’ servants’ talk about the lovely lady’s papa.
“Seems a few years back Sir Roger invited one of the kitchen maids, a pretty young thing, to his study. He said he wanted her to pose for a picture in his book. Of course, she thought he had something else in mind and must’ve thought she could earn a bit on the sly. Only it didn’t come out that way.”
“What happened?”
“She said something to let him know she’s willing like. Then he flew out at her like she were a she-devil. He cut up savage till the poor girl was nigh hysterical.”
“Odd. What of his picture?”
“Oh, they took care of that afterwards, he dressing up like some sort of barbaric priest, she playing the part of nun or some such while another bloke took down the whole in his sketch book.”
“Packet, what do you know of a woman called Rebecca Barnwell?” he said, obeying an impulse.
Chase had heard Barnwell’s name from the footman George as they faced each other across the table in a local pub. George had been more forthcoming than Chase had expected, and Chase was glad he’d thought of conducting his interview away from the square. Well worth the price of a few pints.
“Dick?” George had said, taking a long pull from his mug and replacing it carefully on the table. “I can tell you one thing I noticed, sir. He was right anxious to go along with Lady Ashe when she did her shopping and morning visits. He promised he’d make it up to me if I let him be the one.”
“Did he tell you why he wished to accompany her?”
“I thought it was on account of her being so…you’ll forgive me, sir, I mean no disrespect.”
“You thought he admired her beauty?”
“Yes, sir, that’s just it.”
“What else, George? Don’t be afraid to speak up, no matter how unimportant you think it might be.”
Chase had waited patiently while the young man hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. At length, George said, “There was a time or two when Dick asked me to cover for him for a few hours. You’ll think me a paltry fellow when I tell you I didn’t ask why. You see, I liked him, sir, and thought we ought to oblige each other when possible.”
“A shame. I shall have to seek elsewhere to discover what Ransom’s lay may have been.”
George flushed. “I’m sure poor Dick was honest, Mr. Chase, but I admit I wondered. He dropped his purse one day, you see, and a wad of notes tumbled out. Where’s a servant to get that kind of blunt?”
Chase digested this. “What makes you so sure he was honest?”
“He was God-fearing, sir. He used to pray on his knees every night before bed and read his Bible. Hours and hours sometimes, he’d be that troubled in his mind. Dreams too, thrashing in his bed all night long. Then there was the seal.”
“Seal?”
“You’ve heard of that west-country prophetess Rebecca Barnwell? He had one of them seals of hers which he used to ma
rk his place in the Bible.”
Chase had heard of Miss Rebecca Barnwell and her ministry. Had Ransom been after his own little piece of salvation? If so, he was not alone. It was said that thousands followed the prophetess, daughter of a West Country farmer. But who had removed Ransom’s seal and why?
“I found no seal when I examined Ransom’s Bible, no loose papers or inscriptions of any sort.” He whistled softly. “Did Dick have a particular reason to fancy himself in need of salvation?”
George’s eyes were sad. “Don’t all mortals hunger for that promise?” He slammed down his mug, wiping off his mouth, and Chase knew he’d gotten all he could.
Now, Packet, his face wearing a curiously arrested expression, groped in his coat. “You mean the preacher lady?” He pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Chase. It was a sort of certificate, bearing these words inscribed inside a circle:
The Sealed of the Lord
The Elect precious
Man’s Redemption to Inherit
The Tree of Life.
To be made Heirs of God and Joint
Heirs with Jesus Christ.
At the top someone had scored through the original recipient’s name, substituting Packet’s instead. The signature at the end of the inscription, though an untidy scrawl, was clear enough. Rebecca Barnwell. Chase flipped over the certificate. On the back was a piece of broken sealing wax, imprinted with the initials “IC” and two stars. Iesus Christus. Jesus Christ.
“Where the devil did you get this?”
“They cost a pretty penny. It’s a ticket to heaven or so they says.”
“You believe it?” Chase studied the seal in the candle glow. “Are these people capable of violence?”
“Bible folk out to save the souls of the poor? Could be. Maybe they think it’s their duty to rid the world of a few sinners.” He stopped to consider. “Though it hardly makes sense if you think the world’s about to end anyway. Why not let the Almighty do the dirty work?”
“You have yet to explain why you have one of their seals, Noah.”
Packet folded up his document and restored it to his coat, giving his pocket an absent-minded pat. “Ah well, when you play the long shots of the game like I do, it’s best to cover the odds. Who knows what a small bit of forethought might do?”
Chase shook his head. “You prigged it, didn’t you? Doesn’t that make a difference?”
“Nah. I don’t suppose them at heaven’s gate has time to check the signatures so careful. Too crowded like.”
“What of this Dick Ransom? He forged the character he gave Timberlake, the butler, and I’ve not been able to discover any trace of him prior to his employment in St. James’s Square.”
“Can’t help you there, but since you mention Rebecca Barnwell and her minions, I do know a titbit that might interest you, especially since I know how you feel about them as wear the mask of godliness.”
Chase thought of his own father’s terrible Christianity that softened not a whit even in the face of loss and grief and of his mother who had dutifully borne him twelve children, of whom five had lived. He nodded.
Packet went on musingly, “There’s some that say you don’t need no sackcloth and ashes if your faith be pure. Seems like a fine bargain to me. Give your heart to God—and do what you will with the rest.”
A rattle at the lock below announced the arrival of the keeper. “Time for you to go.” Rapidly, Packet recited the rest of his information, his eyes avoiding Chase’s face, his voice low and hoarse.
As he listened, Chase’s excitement grew. At last a solid lead to pursue. Getting to his feet, he slipped a few shillings into his friend’s outstretched palm. “Noah, if there’s anything I can do…”
Packet’s eyes flitted around the den, but he gave a philosophical shrug. “This’ll buy me some warmth at any rate,” he said as his fingers closed convulsively around the coins. “Anyway, I’ve got my salvation seal to give me a lift if matters get desperate.”
Chapter IX
Somehow the girl called Belinda looked familiar, like the stranger on the street who tantalizes one with haunting recognition, a memory only obtained, perhaps, in a dream. She was carefully and expensively dressed in fine muslin of ingenue white. Loose hair framed an artless face dominated by wide eyes and delicate brows. Her only ornaments were a tiny pearl ring on her right hand and a locket around her plump, white neck. At first glance, John Chase felt her fascination.
“Don’t look so worried,” he told her. “I mean you no harm.”
“You may not intend wrong, sir, but if the Mistress knew you were speaking to me…how did you get in here?”
“Greased the porter’s palm, miss. I am a Bow Street officer, and he didn’t want any trouble for himself or this establishment.”
She shuffled her feet in their tiny kid slippers. His eyes traveled around the room. A thick Aubusson carpet overlaid polished floorboards, the room well warmed by the coal fire in the grate. Delicate watercolor paintings of St. Paul’s Cathedral and other London scenes adorned the walls. A mahogany wardrobe and dressing table glowed with cleanliness, as did the nightstand upon which sat an open Bible.
There was the bed, voluptuously large with enormous pillows and a green silk counterpane, next to which stood the girl. As his gaze fell on her again, he saw the birch flagellation rod she had been attempting to thrust out of sight with her foot. It had blended well with the greens and browns in the carpet, but now his gaze fastened upon it—and held. Noticing his interest, she stopped her furtive movements.
“I seek word of a man called Dick Ransom,” he said curtly. “Your doorman seems to think you may be able to help.”
She looked confused. “Why ask me?”
“He’s dead, you see, and I am investigating his murder. I have reason to believe he may have been known here. A client possibly?”
“He’s dead, you said?”
“That’s right, miss.”
Her hands twisted together. “I know nothing, sir! He was not our…client. We welcome—”
“Rich men, I think. Town swells, members of parliament, a judge or two? No, Dick Ransom was only a footman from a house not far from here.”
“Footman?” she exclaimed with some relief. “Dick is not a servant. There has been some mistake, I thank God for the sake of my poor Mistress.”
“You must tell me what you know of this man, miss. What is he to your Mistress?”
He willed her to look up and meet his gaze, and after a moment she did. To his surprise, he saw genuine regret etched on her face.
“I am very sorry, Mr. Chase, but you have no right to question me thus. I know Mrs. Gore would not like it. Let me take you to her.” She slipped gracefully toward the door which he had closed upon his entrance.
“Gore?” he echoed. That was the name Ransom had given with the false address for his character.
Turning, she blinked at him. “Yes, she is mistress of this establishment.”
“Belinda,” he said, using her name for the first time, “you will do her a very great favor by speaking out. I could make matters most unpleasant for you all, as I’m certain you realize.”
She debated a moment, then said, “Our Mr. Ransom dines here on occasion with a group of other gentlemen. Some sort of debating society, I was told. No ladies permitted, and Mrs. Gore doesn’t like us to mention it to the regular clients.”
“Were you yourself friendly with Ransom?”
A blush spread over her face and neck. “I am acquainted with him, sir,” she said with dignity and stood with head bowed like a child awaiting a parent’s punishment for some misdemeanor. Chase felt a surge of emotion, equally compounded of anger, frustration, and disgust. He told himself he pitied her, but knew that wasn’t quite true. He wanted to believe himself immune to all she represented, but knew that too was a lie. The mask of godliness, indeed.
“That would explain why the doorkeeper sent me to speak to you, miss,” he said finally. “He di
dn’t seem to think your mistress would care to encounter a police officer.” Chase gestured at the Bible. “You’re fond of the Good Book, Miss Belinda?”
“I…I suppose,” she said in surprise. “There’s one in every room here, and we have prayers morning and evening in the parlor downstairs.”
Chase digested this. It fit, of course, with what he’d learned of the murdered man thus far. But just who was Dick Ransom, and what sort of rig had he been running? He wondered too what the purportedly religious Ransom had made of this place and especially this girl. Apparently, he had not objected to her company. Nothing’s simple in this life, he reflected wryly, especially when a whore looks like someone’s young sister. Or a Raphael Madonna.
“You ever hear of the prophetess called Rebecca Barnwell?” he said conversationally.
“Why, yes. Like I said, my mistress is a devout woman, and I believe Miss Barnwell is a friend of hers. There’s really nothing more to tell, sir. Mr. Ransom is a gentleman, always courteous and well spoken, but I don’t know him, not really. We’ve spent an evening or two in one another’s company, that’s all. Now, you must go, or you will land me in difficulties.”
“No harm done, miss. I’ve no doubt Mrs. Gore guards her treasures most carefully.” He kept his eyes on her face. “And yet perhaps Ransom was one of the few men in the world who could be trusted to be alone in a room with someone like you?”
A tiny smile curved her lips. “I wouldn’t be so certain about that, Mr. Chase.”
Thanking her, Chase opened the door and stepped into the deserted hallway, glad to escape the closeness of the chamber and its occupant. As he descended the staircase, he caught the sound of voices and the chink of silver and glassware coming from the dining room. He’d timed his visit well, and now, if luck would hold, he could be on his way with none the wiser. He would be back, but it suited him to postpone his interview with the madam for now.
***
In the entry, he nodded pleasantly to the doorman, pressed another coin in his palm, and waited while he opened the door. Emerging into King’s Place, he strode down the street, scarcely noticing the light rain that trickled from a lowering sky.
