by S K Rizzolo
Purcell gave a small smile. “No sir. ’Twas a gift like. I found it when I set up shop this morning. What can I do for you today?”
“I seek word of a man named Dick Ransom.”
“I know of this man, but whether I would do right to speak of him to you is another matter. He is an agent of mankind, a warrior in the Cause of Truth. You and your kind do but seek to silence him.”
“He is silenced already. If you wish to see his murderer brought to justice, you must help me.”
“Murdered?” The lines around his mouth hardened. “Look to your Home Office spies. They’d think nothing of putting period to a man’s life to save the Crown the trouble of locking him up.”
“You may, in fact, have the right of it. I promise I intend to learn the truth, regardless. Will you help me?”
He waited while the print seller busied himself among his wares, as there between them lay the time Chase had saved gunner Purcell a flogging for some misdeed he had not committed. Chase understood full well that the man would not thank him for the unspoken reminder but that his rigid system of morality dictated its acknowledgment.
At length the stationer looked up. “Ransom heads a sort of debating society of shoemakers, printers, and other tradesmen, known as the Free Britons. They draw up petitions, sell tracts, and hold tavern meetings. Sing their songs, propose a few toasts to Natural Rights.”
“Treason, you mean? Armed insurrection? I have heard that the Jacobins would even go so far as to countenance French delusions of conquering England.”
“Nothing of the kind, so far as I’ve heard, though many see Napoleon as Liberator. At any rate, you may call it Treason.” He surveyed Chase out of black, flashing eyes. “I am of a different mind, sir, for what allegiance does a man owe to a Government that betrays its citizens into want, neglect, and misery? Have we not the duty to take our axe to the root of this Corruption?”
“Know you anything further of Ransom’s history?”
“He was journeyman tailor, as once was I before the hard times came,” he said proudly. “Ransom was apprenticed to a breeches maker. Wild, liked to kick up a rumpus with the drink and prostitutes, yet they say he quieted down, found God and his convictions. They call him the Dark Prince, you know, like Lucifer, the fallen angel, who knew what it was to sin and could be counted on not to cut up too rusty with a fellow. The officers on his committee are known as the twelve Apostles.”
“Where does this committee meet?”
The eyes fell. “Any number of places, I should imagine. Public houses. He is said to have raised divisions all over the metropolis, men to be called on when the time is ripe.”
Ripe for what, Chase wondered, his unease growing. He had always been inclined to dismiss the Jacobins as so many loons, too full of their own importance, too disorganized, and too ineffectual to be of much harm, but perhaps he had been wrong. “Give me a name, Purcell. You knew of Ransom. You must have heard the name of at least one of these so-called Apostles.”
“Can’t say as I have.”
Drawing a deep breath, Chase tried again. “You say Ransom found God. Are you aware of any connection he might have had to a female Methodist called Rebecca Barnwell? Ransom possessed one of her salvation seals. It may be that she is at the heart of these schemes and plots.”
“The West Country Prophetess?” said Purcell, his face going still. “I wouldn’t know about that either, sir.”
Chase reached out to grip the man’s arm. “These are dangerous times. A man like you can ill afford to bring down the wrath of the authorities on his head.”
Shaking him off, Purcell bent down to retrieve a few prints that had been knocked to the ground. “What do I care? I have nothing to lose,” he said bitterly. He met Chase’s look with defiance. “I have helped you as much as I can, sir. You may consider my debt paid in full.”
***
Snarling something about Chase’s lack of a warrant, the porter at the Westminster brothel slammed the door in his face. Clearly, the man had received his instructions, Chase thought, as he strode off down the street, ignoring the glances from passersby who took one look at his set face and gave him a wide berth.
Several hours later saw him no further along in his inquiries. Jaunts to several Barnwellian chapels in Southwark had yielded the information that Miss Barnwell’s residence in the metropolis was a closely guarded secret, as her followers would give her no peace were they to discover the woman of God in their midst. When Chase had inquired about Dick Ransom, he had received responses varying from blank incomprehension to indignation to outright ridicule that God’s handmaiden could be involved in something so sordid as murder.
Instead, he had been treated to glowing accounts of the imminent birth of the Savior and had shoved in his hand the tracts describing the “powerful visitation” of the Spirit that had quickened her womb. One woman attempted to sob down his coat, further exacerbating his sorely tried temper. And Chase’s efforts to discover more of Ransom’s debating society had met with no better success. After speaking to close-mouthed, suspicious tavern-keepers at half a dozen unsavory establishments, he was forced to admit defeat.
In the mellowing light of late afternoon when the soot-stained buildings were painted a temporarily brighter hue, Chase entered Bow Street office to find the veteran Runner John Townsend observing the proceedings with a benevolent air. Occupied with his attendance at Court, the Bank of England, the Opera House, and various haunts of fashion, Townsend was rarely to be seen at the police office, but liked occasionally to turn up and lord it over his erstwhile colleagues. Chase nodded and would have continued on his way to the Bench had not the older man lifted a peremptory hand.
“Mr. Chase. I hear you’ve been a trifle down pin. Feeling more the thing? I believe Mr. Read requires an officer to execute a warrant upon a baker or some such presumptuous insect who thinks to fight a duel.”
Chase eyed the portly figure in its knee breeches, gaiters, and white hat. “You are too kind, sir. No doubt you find yourself too much engaged to attend to the matter?”
“I? Surely you jest, my dear sir. I who have the privilege of attendance upon dukes and earls, and who have intervened in many an aristocratic affair of honor? Let the baker fight if he likes it, but don’t let me be so degraded.”
“It is fortunate the rest of us aren’t so nice in our notions. You will excuse me, sir?”
“Delay one instant, Mr. Chase. I have it in mind to impart a bit of advice regarding the footman with a knife to his heart in St. James’s Square. You ought to have consulted me, bless you, sir, you really ought. ’Tis said the Home Office is not best pleased.”
“What do you know of the matter, Townsend?”
He offered an unctuous smile that revealed his yellowed teeth. “I chanced to encounter a certain gentleman of fashion, shall we say, and he was kind enough to give me the hint. You are treading on some important toes.”
Chase gazed into the other Runner’s face as his hands clenched involuntarily at his sides. “I repeat. What do you know of the matter?”
“The proprietress of a certain…establishment had a word with my noble friend. Stupid of you. Gentlemen never wish their pleasures interfered with.”
“I’ve traced the slain footman to that brothel, Townsend, and stumbled onto some sort of Jacobin plot.”
“Nonsense. I cannot in all discretion say more, but you can take it from me that the patrons of the establishment in question are men of the highest order and respectability. Why, I have been there myself.”
“That makes all square then,” said Chase savagely.
“Surely, sir, there is business enough to share amongst the lot of you fellows? Why do you not seek it out and let the Home Office worry about its plots and counterplots. No profit for you and much danger of offending those whose favor a prudent man would do well to curry.”
“As you have done, Townsend?”
He shook his head. “You ought to realize that your poor efforts in
the profession can never hope to equal mine, my dear sir, but you might at least consent to take a lesson from the man who wrote the book.”
“Excuse me, sirs,” said a quiet voice, and Chase turned to find a man standing close enough to breathe in his face. His nose aquiline, his eyes large and intense, the owner of the voice had close-cropped hair and looked the gentleman in a light brown surtout and striped yellow waistcoat. Taking a step back, Chase gave a polite nod.
“Yes?”
“I am John Bellingham. I ask you to conduct me to the magistrate Mr. Read, who has had a letter of me to which I require my answer.”
Chase glanced up at the Bench, where the magistrate was clearly occupied hearing testimony. “Perhaps you may leave a message, sir?”
Bellingham stiffened. “I will not be fobbed off. His Majesty’s Government has endeavored to close the door of justice in my face, but, through the offices of Mr. Read, I shall once more solicit the Ministers to do what is right and proper on my behalf.”
Before Chase could reply, Townsend stuck a finger in the man’s neatly tied cravat. “Be off with you. Mr. Read has mentioned your name to me and showed me your letter. Beware, sir. It has been conveyed to members of the Government who will know well what to make of such as you.”
“What’s this about?” demanded Chase.
“He’s a malingerer.” Townsend took out his snuffbox and inhaled a large pinch with evident enjoyment. “He claims the government owes him redress for his own mistakes in business.”
“Heed me well,” said Bellingham, the dark blood staining his cheeks. “If I do not receive satisfaction, I shall hold myself ready to execute justice.”
Townsend dusted the snuff from his sleeve. “My dear sir, you positively terrify me.”
***
Chase managed to exchange a few words with the chief magistrate, who, impatiently dismissing the subject of the murder in St. James’s Square as well as any “crack-brained” fears about Jacobin plots, sent him off to execute the warrant on the baker. Chase could not know whether the magistrate’s reticence stemmed from a word in the ear from above, as seemed possible.
Having bound over the strutting rooster of a baker to keep the peace and stopped at a chophouse for an extremely late luncheon, Chase decided to pay a call upon Mrs. Wolfe. It had been several weeks since he’d seen her, and he wanted to discover if her considerable powers of observation had turned up any information that might be of use in his inquiry. There had to be some reason Ransom had chosen Sir Roger Wallace-Crag’s establishment to work incognito as a footman, for John Chase could not believe in the existence of a far-flung conspiracy amongst the London servants of the aristocracy.
“I cannot say if Mrs. Wolfe is at liberty to receive you,” said Timberlake, taking the greatcoat Chase thrust in his arms with poorly concealed distaste. “Should you wish me to inquire?”
“Yes, I wish you to do precisely that.”
The butler left him standing in the hall but returned about ten minutes later as Chase tapped one finger against a suit of armor that stood amongst the busts and marbles.
Timberlake frowned. “Come this way, sir. Mrs. Wolfe will see you in the morning room.”
He led Chase into a pleasantly appointed chamber with faded but pretty hangings in floral silk, a matching sofa and chairs, and a lady’s writing table. Apparently, Wallace-Crag had never attempted to implement his notion of interior décor here, as the room was obviously intended for the females in the family.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Chase,” said Penelope, rising. Dismissing Timberlake with a smile, she poured Chase some tea from the service on the table in front of her and handed him the cup. While he took a chair, she perched on the sofa opposite.
“Where have you been, sir? I was afraid you had quite forgotten all about us. Other business keeping you occupied?”
“You might say so.”
“I am glad you have come, for I have much to tell you,” she said, her expression a curious mixture of trepidation and pride.
“Proceed.” Chase’s tone was more uncompromising than he’d intended, for his temper was still frayed.
“You don’t seem especially interested, but it doesn’t matter. What I have to show you will make you sit up fast enough.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve been meddling?”
She looked down into her teacup. “You don’t understand. Some situations are thrust upon one. There are opportunities that, once spurned, are forever lost.”
“Some opportunities are meant to be spurned. Well, Mrs. Wolfe, let’s not delay. Out with it.”
Her hand went to the reticule attached to her wrist to extract a white handkerchief. She pulled back the material, but was careful not to touch the object inside with her bare fingers as, gingerly, she passed it to him. Nestled in the cloth was a smallish gold dagger.
“I believe this is the knife that killed Dick Ransom. It belongs to Sir Roger.”
Launching into her story, she spoke rapidly, describing Buckler’s encounter with the poor, mad Bedlamite and the barrister’s rather unlikely theory that the garden intruder with the scarred wrists was none other than the prophetess Rebecca Barnwell whom all had read of in the newspapers.
This idea made Chase sit up, considering what he had learned of the prophetess. But once he had heard of Penelope’s trip to the Market and absorbed the gist of her exchange with Wallace-Crag about his missing letter-opener, he was startled by a burst of anger so strong he felt his hands tremble. “You sought out this knife-seller when Sarah was with you?”
Guilt played over her mobile features. “I do assure you Sarah took no harm and was only a little frightened.”
“By God, Mrs. Wolfe. Have you no sense, or are you too much the child yourself to realize what could have happened? The knife-seller might have turned nasty, so also the man who pursued you. What might he have done to you or your little girl had he wanted to play rough?”
“Really, Mr. Chase, as if a greengrocer would accost us at Covent Garden Market.”
He was quiet a moment, trying to regain control. When he spoke, his voice was lower. “You don’t understand, do you? You can’t conceive of a world different from your own imaginings. It’s a form of conceit, Mrs. Wolfe, and of sheer willful ignorance.”
She stared at him, shocked, tears awash in her eyes. “You might never have recovered the murder weapon otherwise. The instructions were quite clear. I was to go, no one else. It is important, isn’t it?”
Swearing inwardly, he handed her his handkerchief since hers was still wrapped around the dagger. She blew her nose loudly and turned again to face him, her back very straight despite pink nose and cheeks.
He said, “Never so important as your safety and that of the child. Leave the dirty work to me, Mrs. Wolfe. It is the job for which I am paid.”
“I thought Bow Street Runners aimed to secure convictions at any cost. How else should they reap their rewards?”
Oddly, this remark hurt him. The Runners were London’s elite force of constables. The public looked to Bow Street above the other seven public offices to solve the more complex crimes. Everyone knew a Runner worked for a profit, as his salary was in actuality only a retainer. The bulk of his income came from fees, the rewards for criminal convictions referred to as “blood money,” and from gratuities. Still, these facts did not prove that greed was John Chase’s sole motivator.
They gazed at one another in silence as the tea in their cups went cold.
Finally, Penelope said with obvious challenge, “You haven’t said what you make of this woman, whoever she is, being in possession of Sir Roger’s knife. Could she be the killer, think you?”
Chase held up the blade to the light. “I cannot say.” Perhaps because he felt sorry for making her cry, he found himself describing his adventures since their last meeting and telling her of the Barnwellian seal, which, according to his fellow footman George, Dick Ransom had owned.
“Then Mr. Buckler may well be co
rrect. You must locate this prophetess.”
“I shall inquire again if anyone recalls seeing the woman in this vicinity. And I shall charge Sir Roger with his failure to report the loss of his dagger. Why should he withhold information that might help snare a murderess?”
“The woman is said to be simple,” Penelope objected. “She didn’t strike the knife-seller as dangerous in the least.”
“Leave me to worry about Rebecca Barnwell.”
Penelope stood abruptly. “As you wish, sir. You will excuse me?”
Standing to face her, he slipped the dagger into his pocket and gave her back her linen. She had not returned his. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wolfe.”
Her eyes did not waver. “One moment. You are correct that I was wrong to imperil Sarah, Mr. Chase, even if the danger was remote, but I’ve seen a great deal more than you realize. I am, after all, a woman alone, answerable only to myself and responsible for my own and my daughter’s well being.”
“Nevertheless, you do expect, even demand, that the world be less squalid, less ugly than it is. And that makes you vulnerable.”
Before she could frame her reply, he was gone.
Chapter XIII
Encountering the secretary Owen Finch in the corridor, Chase inquired, “Is your master at home?”
“No, sir. He is gone to Somerset House.”
“Lord Ashe?”
“I couldn’t say. Shall I inquire?”
He looked into the secretary’s unsmiling countenance. “If you would, Mr. Finch.”
When Finch ushered him into the library, Ashe glanced up from the letter he had been writing, nodded a curt dismissal at the secretary, and pointedly resumed his task. Chase stood some five minutes listening to the pen scratch across the paper. Deliberately, Ashe sanded and sealed his missive before he spoke. “Well?” he said coldly.
