Blood For Blood: A Regency Mystery (Regency Mysteries)

by S K Rizzolo

  Some quarter of an hour later, he led her to a seat, saying seriously, “Thorogood has been telling me the strangest story about Miss Barnwell, the West Country prophetess.” He described the events on Clerkenwell Green.

  “What a terrible thing if she truly is to have a child. Is it believed she will recover?”

  “Thorogood spoke to a Mrs. Gore, a sort of acolyte to the prophetess, who said the wound appears to be superficial. Mrs. Gore claims that neither she nor Miss Barnwell ever heard of Dick Ransom or his employer’s house in St. James’s Square.”

  “How then did Ransom obtain one of Miss Barnwell’s seals?” said Penelope slowly.

  “There are thousands about, if one is to believe the accounts one hears of the extent of the prophetess’ following.”

  “Mr. Chase mentioned political meetings held in a certain house in Westminster.”

  Buckler didn’t meet her eyes. “Yes, well, it seems the house belongs to Mrs. Gore, and she sanctioned the meetings, which, she admitted to Thorogood, may have been a trifle ‘indiscreet’ but nothing criminal. Men in their cups full of boasts and hot air was how she put it.”

  Penelope tapped her gloved fingers on the bench and stared into the distance, her gaze unfocused. “I feel certain that the woman who came to St. James’s Square on the evening after the murder had a very good reason. After all, she had the knife. She had either witnessed the murder or committed it herself. If you could have seen her wild grief when they apprehended her…”

  “I cannot like this, Mrs. Wolfe. You had best remain in town.”

  Smiling, she shook her head. “You worry too much, my friend. Now I must go, though an interlude in this lovely garden had done me good.” Her glance took in the trees, now streaked with long shadows, and the path still crowded with clusters of black-robed lawyers. Buckler had been steadfastly ignoring the curious looks cast their way.

  He took her hand, noticing with amusement that the fingertips of her gloves were smudged with dirt, and recalled suddenly how it had felt to hold her in his arms. “Penelope. You will take care?”

  Her eyes flew to his, startled, then dropped. “Yes, of course. If there is any trouble, I shall call upon your brother for assistance. He is a Justice of the Peace, is he not?”

  “Yes, and a very good fellow. I am glad you will have Maggie to bear you company as well. She seems a sensible young person.” He willed her to look up again. “Penelope. I wish—”

  Pulling her hand away, she rose to her feet. “I really must get back. Please tell Mr. Thorogood I shall write to him and Mrs. Thorogood as soon as I am settled.”

  Buckler sat up straight and willed her to look at him again. “No, wait. I will speak, Mrs. Wolfe, though I have no right. You are so alone, ma’am. I want you to know I am at your service whenever and in whatever fashion you should require. You would tell me?”

  “Yes, I suppose so, but I am well able to look after myself, sir. I can’t think why you should doubt me.”

  “It’s not a question of doubt,” he said gently. “Just know I would be honored by your confidence.”

  When she nodded as if she understood him completely, he found himself smiling at her, though his sense of loss was keen. “Good-bye then, Mrs. Wolfe.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Buckler,” she said and hurried away.

  ***

  Next morning, Penelope took Sarah to get some air before climbing into the traveling coach that would take them to the country. Anxious that Maggie, little Frank, and the baby would not arrive in time, Sarah wanted to be in the square where she could observe every approaching vehicle. There weren’t many at this hour when a weak sun had dissipated only a portion of the lingering mist.

  For a time they amused themselves telling stories about the statue in the center of the basin, but Sarah began to fidget and wonder over and over where Maggie and Frank could be. Penelope, engaged in a mental review of the contents of their various packing cases, could afford her only abstracted replies. At length, however, they were rewarded by the rumble of wheels as a shabby hack pulled up in front of Sir Roger’s house.

  “They’re here!” shouted Sarah, running forward.

  “Mind the horses.”

  As Sarah reached the hackney, Maggie, broad, freckled face beaming, jumped down on the pavement, a baby in her arms and a little boy clinging to her skirts. Frank released his mother and went to his playmate, who grabbed his hands and pulled him rather roughly to one side as if staking immediate possession. The two children began to chatter and cavort in circles.

  Grinning, Penelope turned to Maggie. “Thank goodness you’re here. Sarah was in a pucker you wouldn’t make it in time.”

  Maggie smiled back. “We set off later than I meant. Frank would dilly-dally over his breakfast. Then a friend of mine come by to bring us a little farewell gift.” She held up a rather crushed bunch of flowers.

  After admiring the posy, Penelope helped Maggie remove her bags and paid off the jarvey. Maggie had managed to cram her belongings into a small valise and two large bandboxes. Helping her carry these to the door, Penelope rang and instructed George to take the bags to the traveling chaise, which was being loaded in the mews.

  “Eh, but you know just how to talk to him,” said Maggie admiringly when the door had closed behind the footman. “He jumped right quick to do your bidding.”

  Penelope laughed. “Why shouldn’t he? I asked politely enough.” She glanced at the timepiece pinned to her dress. “We have about twenty minutes. Do you want to come and have a cup of tea, Maggie?”

  She parodied shock. “No, indeed, mum. That wouldn’t do for me at all. What would all these fine gentry servants think? No, I’ll take the children up to the nursery. I hear them hatching some scheme about fetching something Miss Sarah forgot. You best go stretch your legs, Mrs. Pen, and grab a moment’s peace while you can.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Penelope, a trifle ruefully, wondering how long it would take for her new “maid” to begin managing the entire household.

  As Maggie moved away, shepherding her three charges toward the door, Penelope called after her. “Baby looks well today. Did you give him some of the tonic I sent?”

  “Oh, yes, mum. You don’t need to fret about him. He be fit as a fiddle and ready for his first carriage journey.”

  Left alone, Penelope strolled back toward the basin in the middle of the square, her thoughts a little pensive. Just as she had yet to receive a reply from her father, she had not heard from Jeremy in some weeks either. She felt increasingly uneasy about her position and now about this journey out of town. But at least she and Maggie would keep busy entertaining the children—and keeping ears perked for any bits of information or gossip that might help solve Dick Ransom’s murder. Penelope had a strong notion that the key to this riddle would travel to Dorset with the household. If that was so, she could perhaps do more to solve the crime than could John Chase in London.

  She had circumambulated the basin four or five times and was ready to go inside to relieve herself and don her hat when her ears caught the sound of footsteps, and she looked up to see John Chase himself approaching. He moved toward her leisurely, his partially buttoned overcoat undulating in the stiff morning breeze. He’d removed his hat, so that his graying hair, drawn back in an untidy queue, flapped in tendrils about his face. His expression was intent, a little cold, with no welcoming smile on his lips. Apparently, he still recalled the brangle they’d had at their last meeting.

  “Good day, Mrs. Wolfe. You’re off this morning?”

  “Yes, Mr. Chase.” She spoke with stolid formality.

  He came right up to her. “A word with you. I wanted you to know I’ve spoken to all of Wallace-Crag’s servants. Their movements are all accounted on the morning of the murder, yet I cannot be certain they aren’t covering for one another. It appears that the person who last spoke to the victim during the prior evening was George, the other footman, but he noticed nothing out of the ordinary until he awoke to find Ransom
absent from his bed.”

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  Chase didn’t answer her question, but instead went on inexorably. “The family and the upper servants are another matter. They all sleep alone so there is no one to say whether or not they were in their beds when Ransom was killed. Sir Roger was not roused, and that secretary fellow claims he had been working late and dozed over his papers. Oh, and Ashe says he caught some of the commotion below and was awakened, but his wife told us, you will remember, that her rest too was undisturbed.”

  She felt herself softening. “So you’ve come to warn me that the villain may very well be a member of Sir Roger’s household, or, indeed, of his family?”

  “Yes, though I suppose anyone might have broken into the garden. The gate is easily breached.”

  Folding his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the iron railing and continued in a low, musing tone. “Typically, there are a limited number of motives for murder. Murder within a family for reasons of financial gain or jealousy. Crimes of passion between two lovers. Murder of master by aggrieved servant or vice versa. And slayings committed in the course of another crime such as robbery.”

  “’Tis clear this wasn’t a robbery.” She hesitated, wondering if she should repeat that old cat Mrs. Sterling’s slander of Julia. Could it actually be that a lady of fashion would so far forget herself as to engage in intimacies with her footman? Penelope feared she knew the answer to that question.

  “There is another possibility,” she told Chase. “How about murder so as to prevent the discovery of a secret?” She hesitated, then told Chase about Julia’s reputed absences from her chamber at night and about the damp cloak found stuffed under the counterpane.

  His gaze sharpened. “Do you suspect the husband anxious to avoid the scandal of an unfaithful wife? I have reason to think Ashe’s attentions may be turned elsewhere, but perhaps, after all, this was a crime of passion. But where does Rebecca Barnwell come in? She had the murder weapon in her possession. By the by, when you saw her that night, did you not notice that she is with child?”

  “She was wearing a heavy cloak. But I do not see how a woman such as Miss Barnwell should be roaming the streets of London and spending the night in the parish lock-up.”

  “I thought at first she was connected to Dick Ransom in some treasonous plot. Now I wonder if I had it the wrong way around. What if she was known to someone in this household before Ransom’s time? What if Ransom came to St. James’s Square because of her?”

  Penelope frowned. “I have never heard her spoken of by anyone here, Mr. Chase.”

  “I have some reason to suppose that the virtuous Miss Barnwell may have a scandal in her past, possibly an illegitimate child.”

  “A child! How extraordinary. I have heard no reports of that nature. What will you do now, sir?”

  Straightening up, he pushed a strand of hair from his face and thrust his hat on his head. “I shall seek out your Covent Garden knife-seller for one thing. Good-bye, Mrs. Wolfe, for the present.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Yes, I must go in. They’ll be wondering what’s keeping me.” Looking over Chase’s shoulder, she met the fixed gaze of the bronze statue, King William III as a Roman general. “Did you ever notice the molehill under the horse’s hooves? It quite fascinates Sarah.”

  Chase swung around. “What?”

  “The molehill. That’s what killed William while he was riding at Hampton Court. Sarah wanted to know if the statue-king knows it’s there. I told her that the statue captures the moment just before the king’s horse strikes the molehill. He’s quite safe really.”

  Part VI

  Long into the night, Rebecca listened to the voices that swelled in anger, then dropped to murmurs that seemed even more menacing. She sat, shivering, in the hard chair by the window, limbs cramped, eyes raw with fatigue. She had tried to pray, but the words failed her. She had thought of marching into the next room to confront the Committee, but was afraid and ashamed. What if they would not believe her?

  Resting one hand protectively over her belly, she shifted her bulk to find a more comfortable position. In the years since Janet had secured her release from the asylum, Rebecca had labored to bring the word of God to the suffering, the despised, and the poor. She had transcribed the powerful voice of the Spirit into dialogues and pamphlets by the handfuls, rallied rich and powerful men under her banner, and traveled the length of England, mile after weary mile, addressing assemblies of her followers despite a paralyzing fear of public speech. It seemed unfair that now, even as the fruition of every hope, every promise of glory, hovered within reach, she must discover that the past had not loosened its grip after all…

  She must have dozed off, for suddenly Janet was shaking her, bending over to whisper, “Rebecca. They’re ready for you. Be careful what you say.” In carrying tones, she added, “She is awake. Give her a moment to collect herself.”

  Rebecca looked up to find herself surrounded by a circle of faces. The light from the adjoining room was at the men’s backs so that their features were mostly in shadow. But she read neither pity for her distress nor any hint of the reverence she had come to accept as her due in the way they loomed over her without speaking. Involuntarily, she shrank back.

  “Do not crowd her,” said Dick curtly. “I have no doubt she will satisfy us.”

  “Satisfy us? Let us hope she is able to do so,” drawled the one called O’Callaghan, whom Rebecca feared above all the rest of the Apostles. She could never recall the time she had seen him lift his wine glass and pretend to be drinking Christ’s blood in a mockery of the Last Supper without shuddering at the blasphemy. Dick, the boy Rebecca had watched grow to manhood, often seemed a stranger to her when in O’Callaghan’s presence.

  She forced herself to sit erect. “Ask what you will. I am ready.”

  O’Callaghan nodded at Dick, who went to turn up the lamp. In the stronger glow, Rebecca saw that the Irishman held a sheet of paper between his lean, elegant fingers, and her heart sank. Waving it to and fro, he said, “You wrote this letter today, Miss Barnwell. It is apparently not your first, as you chastise the recipient for not as yet favoring you with a reply.”

  “You have no right to intercept my correspondence, sir.”

  “Who is this man, this fine gentleman of St. James’s Square no less, to you? Why should you, a woman of God beloved by thousands, write in such terms—” Here he broke off to refer to the sheet in his hand. “I beg you do not fail me. I must know the truth before I face the coming ordeal, or I cannot answer for the outcome. So much depends on your mercy.” He looked at her, one brow cocked, a sardonic gleam in his black eyes.

  “Miss Barnwell has not been herself of late,” broke in Janet with another warning glance in Rebecca’s direction. “Her rest has been disturbed and her…spirits have become depressed. Great events will soon overtake us. She must be excused for showing the strain we must all feel. There is nothing serious to concern us, and I swear I will watch over her the more carefully.”

  “Can you stop her from slipping out in the dark to roam the streets? What do you intend to do, keep her under lock and key for the rest of her days?” A look flashed between O’Callaghan and Janet that Rebecca did not understand, just as she had never understood her friend’s overly rich dress and seemingly bottomless purse when her lover, Dick’s father, had long since died in poverty.

  “We cannot afford any ill reports,” one of the other men burst out, “not with the time so near. We must not call attention to ourselves.”

  “Be silent,” snapped Dick, but it was too late, for Rebecca was on her feet, anger burning through her veins.

  “You seek to use me for your own ends, but beware, gentlemen. The Lord acts in His own time and His own way. ’Tis folly to think He has need of you.”

  “No, but you do,” said O’Callaghan and grinned. “For when the dust has settled, we shall be the ones to place the scepter in your hand and the cloth of purple on your b
ack.”

  Dick snorted. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. You know that’s all a hum, and so should she if she’s got any sense left. When we have declared a Republic—”

  “Dick!” cried Janet. “You are offensive. I think you should leave, all of you. I will speak to Miss Barnwell myself. Nothing can be done tonight at any rate.”

  He looked sheepish. “I am sorry, Mother.”

  They turned to go, O’Callaghan with the rest, though he cast one more probing glance at Rebecca before he followed in Dick’s wake. Suddenly exhausted, she groped for the chair at her back and subsided. The voices retreated, but Rebecca scarcely noticed, for her anger had turned to ashes, and the prospect of the hours of darkness ahead appalled her. There was a humming in her ears, and then, as if from a distance, another sound, faint but unmistakable. Rebecca moaned, rocking faster.

  “Tell me, Rebecca,” pleaded Janet. “Whatever it is, let me help you, or let Dick, if you require a man to act on your behalf. You would not see everything we’ve worked for jeopardized.”

  “My baby. I must go to it. Please. Make it stop crying.” She gave herself to the rhythm.

  “Baby?” Janet gripped her shoulders, forcing her to halt. “Look at me. Your child is safe. He is to be the Most High whose birth will usher in the millennium. Christ is your bridegroom, and you conceived His child when He poured the Spirit into your flesh.”

  Rebecca opened her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “You do not understand. It was a…a long time ago.”

  Janet stared in shocked silence, and Rebecca watched her face twist in anguish as she seemed to grasp something of the truth. Her hands tightened on Rebecca’s shoulders.

  “You ignorant, ugly slut,” Janet said viciously, shaking her so that her head snapped back. “What man would want you?”

  With that, she slammed out of the room, leaving Rebecca to discover, almost two hours later, that Janet had forgotten to lock the door.

  Chapter XVII