by S K Rizzolo
“I cannot like it,” Jeremy repeated. “What business has the fellow to involve my wife in his private affairs? Have I been wrong, after all, to cultivate him?”
“But you did cultivate him. We must go, so let’s not discuss the matter anymore.”
“Oh very well, but I won’t leave you. The woman has clearly come unhinged.”
She did not answer him. How was she to explain? She chose not to believe Mary was dangerous, but Chase and Buckler would be horrified that she had agreed to Mr. Rex’s request, even with Jeremy along for protection. But the truth about Collatinus might be revealed at long last. Besides, if she was right in her suspicions, Mary’s agony of mind must be profound. She was a human creature in pain. Penelope could not turn away.
They were silent in the carriage, Rex absorbed in his thoughts, Jeremy sitting in the opposite corner, eyes shut, leaning his head against the cushion. But Rex seemed oddly nervous. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He kept glancing out the side-glass, and once, when they came to a stop, he opened it to gaze into the night.
“What is it?”
“We are being followed, Mrs. Wolfe. I saw that coach in Greek Street, and it is still with us.”
“What!” burst out Jeremy, his eyes flying open.
“Don’t worry. The men won’t bother us. They are only watching to see what we do. They seem to have been told to keep their distance.”
“That’s comforting. Who are they?”
“I don’t know, Wolfe,” Rex said heavily. “Home Office agents, I suspect. I’ve seen them lurking outside my house, and I suppose this means they are interested in your wife too. Something to do with those letters.”
“You and your daughter have drawn her into mischief. For God’s sake, she was a little child when you and Sandford were up to your tricks. What can any of this have to do with her?”
Penelope grabbed Jeremy’s hand and squeezed. “Leave it. We must first speak to Mary.”
Their journey through the empty streets was rapid, and soon they had arrived in the Adelphi Terrace. As they stepped out, Penelope risked a quick look behind her. Rex was right. A carriage had pulled up down the street, its lamps glimmering faintly in the darkness, though no one emerged from its interior. They went quickly into the house, and Leach’s butler met them in the hall.
“How is everything, Isherwood?”
“All quiet, Mr. Rex. The mistress is upstairs with Mr. Leach.” The butler turned respectfully to Penelope and Jeremy. “Good evening, sir and madam.”
“Come with me,” said Rex, brushing aside the butler’s attempt to relieve them of their outer garments. They went rapidly up the stairs to one of the principal bedchambers, and Rex knocked at a door. “Mary, I’ve brought Mrs. Wolfe to see you.”
When there was no reply, Rex knocked again, louder. “Mary? Open the door at once, I say. No time to waste. We must discuss the arrangements for your husband.”
Suddenly, a woman leaned over the banister from the landing above and then slipped down the steps to join them. A small, frail creature with a pinched face, she was clothed in a voluminous dressing gown, her hair drawn back from her face in a straggling plait that dangled over one shoulder. The governess, Penelope supposed. The woman said timidly, “You will wake the children, sir. They’ll be frightened.”
Rex did not appear to have heard her. “We must get inside. I am afraid. I am afraid of what Mary has done.” He confronted the butler, who had joined them in the corridor. “The key, Isherwood?”
“Mrs. Leach has the only key. We had orders Mr. Leach was not to be disturbed on any account.”
“We must get in. Fetch an ax at once.”
The butler went rigid. “An ax?”
“Yes, you fool. Send one of the servants to the garden shed. Hurry!”
Penelope addressed the governess. “Go to the children and stay there with them. They mustn’t be alone if they awaken.” The woman’s eyes widened, and she withdrew, stumbling over her feet in her haste.
Rex went on calling Mary’s name and pounding on the door. When the butler and two half-dressed footmen returned with the ax, Rex hefted it. “Stand back,” he commanded in a grim, determined voice.
With a grinding noise, the blade crashed into the wood around the lock, sending splinters flying. Wresting the ax free, Rex raised it again, but after the second strike, Jeremy took it from the older man, who was breathing heavily. Jeremy leveled a few more blows, the door shivering in its frame; finally, he was able to wedge the blade and part of the handle between the jamb and the door. As the footmen used their shoulders to increase the pressure, he pulled back with all his strength. There was a loud crack. The door burst open, hanging drunkenly on its hinges. Jeremy swiped a hand across his brow. “Wait here, Penelope.”
After a moment she heard Rex say blankly, “Mary isn’t here. Where could she be?”
Penelope entered, careful not to catch her dress on the splinters from the doorframe. She found herself in a well-appointed bedchamber warmed by the remains of a fire in the grate and lit by a candelabrum with several guttering candles that left much of the room in shadow. Her eyes took in mahogany furnishings, a white marble mantelpiece, and fringed curtains of green damask at the windows. Her gaze then fell on a table, which held various accouterments of the sickroom: a basin, rolls of bandages and lint, medicine bottles, a dosage spoon, and a pastille burner to freshen the air. So ordinary, she marveled.
Rex swung back to the butler. “Have the house searched at once.”
As Isherwood hurried off to do his bidding, Penelope stepped closer to the large bed and looked down into the dead man’s face. Dryden Leach lay under a green silk coverlet tucked neatly around his chin, its vivid color in stark contrast to the waxy eyelids that had closed out life forever.
***
When it became clear Mrs. Leach was not in the house, Penelope urged Rex to send a message to John Chase, but he refused angrily. Having assembled the servants in the hall, he rapped out a series of questions as they gaped at him. When had they last spoken to the mistress? Had anyone observed her departure? Was it possible they had all been asleep in her hour of need?
Isherwood winced visibly. “You gave us strict instructions to stay away, sir. Dora carried up some beef tea about six o’clock, but it wasn’t wanted. Later Henry spoke to the mistress. That was about eleven o’clock after you’d been gone for some time. The master was then breathing his last.”
The housekeeper stepped forward. “You can be sure I will question everyone, sir. Could Mrs. Leach have stepped out to fetch the surgeon or seek some religious consolation?”
“At this hour?”
Penelope broke in. “Did Mrs. Leach allow the children to bid good-bye to their father?”
The housekeeper evaded her gaze. “No, madam. But Miss Elliot explained what was happening to them. They were terribly upset, as you can imagine.”
Both the housekeeper and the butler looked shaken too. The last few days—with the household thrust out of its normal routines and filled with such fear and suspicion—must have been enormously trying. They would have wanted to uphold their authority and the credit of their employers, yet it would have been obvious that something even graver than their master’s illness was afoot. They must have been puzzled by Mrs. Leach’s unaccountable behavior: her determined isolation, her refusal to accept any assistance, her secrecy.
Rex turned to address his daughter’s personal maid, a young woman in an elegant dressing gown, probably a cast-off from her mistress. “When was the last time you saw my daughter?”
“I’ve hardly set eyes on her since Mr. Leach was brought home,” she replied in a colorless voice. “My services have not been required in this emergency.”
“Have you determined whether any of her garments are missing?”
“Her mourning cloak and bonnet, sir. A pair of boots along with
the gown she was wearing.”
Henry, one of the footmen, said, “I went up to bring more coals and trim the lamps in the other rooms, Mr. Rex. The mistress opened the door to speak to me, and I heard the master’s gasping breaths. It sounded quite like he was choking or drowning. It was horrible.” Embarrassed by his distress, he stared at his shoes.
Rex’s glare raked down the line of faces watching him with varying displays of sleepiness, defiance, fear, and avid interest. “Someone must have seen her. Could you have allowed your mistress to go out alone without a word from any of you?”
Albert, the other footman, spoke up. “Mr. Isherwood had asked me to sit in the hall, sir, in case I was needed. Mrs. Leach did not leave the house by the front door.”
“How then?”
The butler said, “Out the kitchen perhaps, Mr. Rex. I found the door unlocked some time after midnight. Ordinarily, I would have made my rounds to secure the house earlier, but we’ve been in turmoil today. I fastened the bolts and thought no more of it. Mrs. Leach must have gone that way. Perhaps she intended to meet a friend? I own it seems strange she would wish to see anyone under the circumstances, but—”
Jeremy took a step toward the door. “No doubt she will soon return. Rex, I’ll bring my wife back tomorrow when Mrs. Leach is ready to receive her.”
“No, no. I don’t believe it. Something is wrong. She would not go out for more than a few minutes without a word to anyone. What reason could she have?”
“She received a letter,” faltered Albert.
“What’s this, Albert?”
“The carrier rang the bell to give me a letter for the mistress late this afternoon, Mr. Isherwood.”
Rex’s cheeks flushed with rage, and he moved closer to the footman, his fists clenched. “You didn’t tell anyone until now? You didn’t think it might be important?”
“She asked me not to, sir,” Albert said simply.
“Did you note the receiving house stamp?” asked Penelope.
“The letter came through the Westminster Office but where before that I can’t say. Twopenny post, madam. London origin.”
Rex looked around wildly. “We are wasting time. We must search for her. Will you accompany me, Wolfe?”
“Of course, if you really think there’s a problem. But in all likelihood, she’s just gone out for some reason.” Observing his friend’s distress, Jeremy seemed to soften. “Let’s go then. Never fear, Rex. We’ll soon settle this business.”
Taking torches and lanterns, Rex, Jeremy, and the footmen split up to search the neighboring streets—to no avail. When they returned an hour later, they brought the local watchman, who had come upon one of the searchers while making his rounds.
Penelope met them at the front door. “You must send for Mr. Chase, sir.”
Jeremy went to stand with his wife. “She’s right, Rex. I doubt Mrs. Leach has gone far, but Bow Street will know what to do.”
“Best do as the gentleman says, sir,” urged the watchman, a bedraggled figure in a shabby, old-fashioned coat. He gestured with his truncheon as he spoke.
Rex’s indecision was clear. At length, he said, “I know he’s a friend of yours, Mrs. Wolfe, and I’m sure you plan to tell him of this night’s business. I’d be amazed if the fellow is to be trusted, but I’ll let him help us locate Mary—though I tell you to your head that I’ll not stand for any interference in my family’s affairs.”
Before he could change his mind, Penelope scribbled a message and gave instructions to a footman to carry it to Chase’s lodgings in King Street. While they waited, Rex and Jeremy walked off together toward the Strand. After waiting in the entryway for a quarter-hour, Penelope suddenly said to the hovering butler, “Please conduct me to Mrs. Leach’s apartments. She may have left some clue as to her intentions.”
Though Isherwood seemed surprised at this request, he bowed. “Yes, madam. Please come this way.”
They ascended the staircase to the second floor, and Isherwood opened the door to the room next to Leach’s, pausing to light a branch of candles for her. When it seemed he meant to remain, Penelope dismissed him. “Thank you. I expect you want to be downstairs in case Mr. Rex returns. I’ll soon rejoin you.”
After Isherwood was gone, she made a slow circuit, briefly examining a wardrobe hung with stylish gowns, then stepping in the adjoining dressing room to lean over a table with jars and perfume bottles scattered across its surface. In the bedroom a wing chair was drawn close to the fire near a small satinwood table upon which rested several books. The neatly made bed with blue damask hangings offered no clue as to when Mary had last taken her rest, and there was a fine film of dust on the furnishings, the housemaids apparently having slacked in their work during their master’s illness.
About to approach a small drop-leaf writing-table, she hesitated. What if Mary should return to find a near stranger rifling her private papers? Penelope knew that vulgar curiosity was part of her motivation for being here, but she felt a growing urgency. What if Mary had done something desperate? Was that why Rex’s manner had seemed so strange because he too feared something of this nature? She still did not trust Horatio Rex, though he seemed genuinely worried about his daughter.
Penelope went to the desk. It had two small drawers with a built-in workbasket underneath. This contained delicate stitchery tools, tambour frame, and embroidery threads along with a pen-knife, quills, and sticks of sealing wax. After a cursory examination of these items, she turned her attention to the drawers, first opening the top one, which contained only a writing board and some blotting paper. The other drawer was empty. While there was no sign of the letter Mary had received tonight, Penelope supposed she might have put it in her pocket or destroyed it. But what had happened to the rest of her correspondence? Mary had swept her desk clean of every scrap of paper except for her pocket memorandum book.
She had divided the pocketbook into the categories “Letters upon Business,” “Daily Occurrences,” and “Memorandums and Accounts.” In this small volume, she had recorded housekeeping details and the particulars of servants’ contracts, as well as information about domestic purchases and taxes. Penelope was about to set the book aside when she discovered a short note written in the flyleaf. Dated this very day, it said in a ladylike, flowing script: If I cannot return, summon my husband’s cousin Elizabeth Moore. She is a kind soul and will not judge my darlings by the sinful wretches who are their parents. I beg her to persuade the children that they would be better and happier in new lives. Sick at heart, Penelope read this note several times as dark trepidation stirred anew. If she could hope that Mary had gone on an errand and would soon return, she would feel less oppressed. As it was, it was too easy to imagine Mary Leach making a hole in the river, a creature driven to seek her end. Perhaps she had been unable to live with the guilt of her husband’s death, or had thought she would inevitably be exposed for her crime.
Penelope returned to her task. After a few minutes of unproductive search for any hidden drawers, she gave up to approach the chest, a mahogany piece with lion’s paw feet. Isherwood would be wondering what was keeping her. She sorted quickly through a pile of stockings, shifts, stays, and gloves, finding nothing of interest here either. But as she rummaged through the bottom drawer, she unearthed a small leather purse with a fold-over, silver-edged lid fastened by a clasp. Slowly, she lifted the clasp. Nestled in the white silk lining were a silver fork and a silver-bladed fruit knife, both with tortoiseshell hafts decorated with small, curving gold plates. Below these plates, the hafts were engraved with a triple plume emerging from a crown, which was inscribed Ich Dien. ‘I serve.’ This was the heraldic badge of the Prince of Wales, she remembered. The set was a lovely keepsake, the sort of pretty trifle a lady might receive as a gift from an admirer—a royal one in this case.
She was replacing the fruit knife in its sleeve when she noticed a larger silk compartment holding
a third item, and her fingers closed over the object to pull it free. In her hand she held a larger, sturdy pocketknife with a matching handle decorated with the same triple-plume device as the other pieces. Penelope extended the blade; it was about four inches long and fashioned of steel, not the precious metal of the other knife that could only be intended for cutting soft fruits. This one looked well able to do some damage, she thought, as she examined it more closely. On this piece, the small inlaid gold plate on the knife’s haft was engraved with the initials “N.D.” Nell Durant. The set must have been a present from the Prince Regent to Nell, but why did Mary have it?
She was still inspecting the knife in her hand when the door opened, and John Chase entered the room. “Mrs. Wolfe!” He hurried toward her and took the knife, laying it atop the chest of drawers. She looked up into his tired face. Stubble bristled on his chin, and strands of graying hair had escaped from his queue to lie across his weathered cheek. She felt immense relief at the sight of him, for she knew him well enough to recognize the concern under his curtness.
“Where is Wolfe? I had understood he accompanied you to this place.”
“He went with Mr. Rex to seek Mary. Mr. Chase, I’ve found—”
“Wait a moment.” Chase addressed the butler, who stood watching them. “Leave us now. I will organize the search presently.”
Isherwood withdrew, his disapproval clear, and Chase went to close the door. “Tell me now from the beginning.”
When he had listened to her story and read the note in the memorandum book, he removed the fruit knife and fork from the case in order to run his fingers along the interior of the lining.
“Could Mary have used this pocketknife to attack her husband?” asked Penelope.
He picked up the larger knife, weighing it in his hand. “Without a doubt, but we cannot know for certain. See here. A few spots of blood have stained the lining. It seems Mrs. Leach didn’t get the knife quite clean before she restored it to its place.” Chase held up the purse to show her, and Penelope shivered, thinking of Mary returning home with a bloodstained knife in her pocket. And to have her husband—her victim—placed in her tender care!