Die I Will Not

by S K Rizzolo

  He managed to get a few words with Miss Elliot, the governess, by requesting that she step out of the nursery into the corridor. Pale and distracted, she barely concentrated on his questions and repeated several times that the children would wonder what had become of her.

  “Did you speak to Mrs. Leach yesterday?”

  She was gazing over his shoulder, but at this she turned her terrified eyes to his face. “No…I mean…yes, she visited Thomas and Emily.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “I will never forget the way she kissed them.” She shuddered and fell silent, tears welling up and trickling down her cheeks.

  “What did she say, ma’am?”

  “Why, nothing. I…I am not myself today. I beg you to excuse me.”

  Instinct told him she knew something. He felt the knowledge in the tension crackling between them—the governess was a remarkably poor liar, he thought. He persisted in his questioning. “Mrs. Leach did not confide in you, ma’am? If I am to discover who committed this deed, I need your help.”

  “Mr. Chase!” Isherwood, the butler, bustled up to challenge him, the footmen in his wake. “You are in a house of mourning. I must request that you leave at once, sir. This is not the time for such inquiries.”

  “This is precisely the time before the trail goes cold.”

  “Mr. Rex gave me instructions to deny you. Indeed, as he departed this morning, he warned me you might become a nuisance. You have no authority here.”

  Unfortunately, this was true. Chase stared down the sanctimonious butler for a moment, then decided to give in before the stalwart footmen did him some violence. “I’ll come back later.”

  Isherwood bristled “Don’t bother. You will not be admitted, sir.”

  Though Chase’s knee ached fiercely and he longed for his bed as a repentant sinner yearns for salvation, he turned his steps toward Bow Street, where word of the murder had been received. There he waited for two hours in a small, uncomfortable anteroom until the Chief Magistrate was ready for him. This time Read did not offer a chair but kept Chase standing in front of the desk.

  “I take it you’re tired of your employment at Bow Street?” the magistrate said without preamble. “Otherwise, there’s no accounting for your blatant disregard of my instructions.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I did tell you I would pursue the inquiry.”

  “Now we have two corpses on our hands instead of one. Dear God, what were you doing at the Adelphi last night? How were you the one to find the body?”

  “Mrs. Wolfe summoned me to search for Mrs. Leach.”

  “Mrs. Wolfe again. I won’t have it. How dare you, Chase? I told you to stay out of this mess. If you think I will stand for your bringing this office into disrepute, you’ve chosen the wrong man to cross.”

  “Disrepute?”

  “I’ve had a word dropped in my ear. It seems your Mrs. Wolfe’s father was a traitor, a blackmailer, and likely a murderer. And I don’t doubt she is cut from the same cloth. Damned disreputable, I say, sir. Damned disreputable. A connection of mine at the Home Office says this woman and her husband are being looked into as possible conspirators in the Collatinus matter. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if Mrs. Wolfe’s husband turns out to be the one putting on fancy dress and sticking knives in people.”

  “They are innocent, Mr. Read. At all events, I don’t believe in the masked man.”

  “How can you be so sure? Mrs. Wolfe could be a pretty face playing you like the fool you are and ruining your prospects into the bargain. If Graham didn’t speak so well of you, you’d be on the street by now. As it is, you’ll do just as I say. You’ll have to testify at the coroner’s inquest tomorrow, but when that’s done you’ll stay quietly at home for a week or two and hope this thing dies down or the authorities make an arrest. Don’t show your face here for a while.”

  “I must seek Mrs. Leach’s murderer and find Collatinus.”

  “One and the same, Chase. Everyone says so. You stay home. God knows, you look like you need a rest, and the Home Office has the matter well in hand without any more interference from you. Disobey me this time, and you’re out.”

  Bracing himself, Chase said, “I’m sorry to disoblige you, sir, but I won’t abandon a friend.”

  Read held out a peremptory hand. “I am sorry too, but it seems you’ve made your choice. Give me your tipstaff.”

  Chase slipped a hand in the pocket of his greatcoat, bringing out his ensign of office, the baton with the brass crown that represented the authority vested in him by the British Crown. For a moment he let it rest in his palm, remembering the dissatisfaction that had acted like a slow poison in his system for the last year. At the Brown Bear when this investigation began, he had reflected upon the emptiness of his life, and now he would have to find a new way to fill it. This was a daunting prospect. For a decade he’d been an officer of Bow Street. For two decades before that, he had served in the Royal Navy, and before that he’d been a poor clergyman’s son, a boy who hated his father, wishing him dead for inflicting a cold religion and a crop of dead babies on his mother. A daunting prospect, indeed, to find out what real emptiness might feel like. Chase laid the tipstaff on the desk and thanked Mr. Read for his time.

  Chapter XV

  If Chase had been able to see below the Adelphi Terrace while talking to Horatio Rex, he might have observed the sign of a shabby public house. The Fox-under-the-Hill could only be approached through a closed-in, narrow passage called Ivy Bridge Lane that led to a landing on the Thames, where passengers embarked on boats bound for London Bridge. On the next afternoon, the pub’s back room was the site of the coroner’s inquest into the deaths of Dryden and Mary Leach. With the cooperation of the parish authorities, Rex had offered an enormous reward for information leading to the capture of his daughter’s murderer, and in the various police offices around the city, suspects had already been questioned, though whether any of the men who happened to possess black cloaks and domino masks had the slightest connection to the crime was doubtful, at least to John Chase.

  As he had foreseen, a storm of reaction had erupted. Two corpses: a staunch government loyalist killed defending his country from a traitor and a helpless woman caught in a wicked conspiracy. All London was talking about the masked assailant known as Collatinus, who must be apprehended if people were to sleep peacefully in their beds. Crowds roamed the surrounding streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of the jury on their return from seeing the bodies laid out in the Leach residence, and at the Fox-under-the-Hill, journalists plied the Leach servants with pints of porter to elicit fresh details.

  This story had almost but not quite trumped the latest news in the Princess of Wales scandal. Reformist MP Samuel Whitbread had gone on the attack in her defense, challenging Lord Castlereagh, leader of the House of Commons, and lambasting the Tory press for its slanderous statements against the Princess. Whitbread referred scornfully to Carlton House editors given license to sit in judgment on the innocent, even as they raked in honors for publishing perjured depositions. As Chase waited his turn to testify, he found his thoughts returning again to Dryden Leach and his connection to the Prince. Leach had stood to profit from the Collatinus affair, but his wife had put a stop to that—and to him. What a vile world we inhabit, and then we dwell with the worms.

  In their testimony, the surgeon Thomas Fladgate and Horatio Rex repeated the tale of the masked man. Sidestepping ticklish questions about why he had kept Leach’s true condition a secret, Fladgate asserted that Mrs. Leach had begged him to be silent because her family was in danger. Predictably, Rex corroborated this evidence and spoke of escorting Penelope Wolfe to visit Mary and discovering his daughter’s absence. Fladgate also described the injuries of both victims in graphic detail, with those of Mrs. Leach evoking grimaces and head shakings from the crowd.

  Soon it was Chase’s turn in the witness box. Aware of
Penelope and Buckler watching him from the back of the packed room, he also felt the mocking, baleful regard of Fred Gander, sent his way from the specially designated area for journalists near the front.

  “According to the footman, Mrs. Leach could not have gone out by the front entrance,” Chase told the jury. “The butler found the kitchen door unlocked about midnight and secured the bolt. I assume Mrs. Leach stole out of the house unseen, intending to return the same way. It appears she carried her husband’s pistol on her person, probably to defend herself.”

  The Coroner showed his disapproval. “Why on earth would she go out of doors alone so late?”

  “Her husband had just died under tragic and mysterious circumstances,” Chase replied carefully. “A note was delivered to her earlier in the evening. I take it she had urgent business.”

  “What of this Mrs. Wolfe we’ve heard about? Mrs. Leach stepped out to meet her perhaps?”

  Chase did not look in Penelope’s direction. “No, sir. She believed her father would bring Mrs. Wolfe to her the next morning.”

  “Mrs. Leach would hardly go voluntarily to the Dark Arches, Mr. Chase. Which makes me question whether the villain somehow broke into the house and abducted her!”

  “No sign of forced entry. The house was full of servants. It seems logical that she went out to meet someone and this person is responsible for her murder.”

  “Well, sir? What do you think happened?”

  “Whether or not she went on her own to the Dark Arches, her life ended there in a hidden place where the crime could be perpetrated.”

  “Indeed, the poor soul stood no chance. This Collatinus likely held a knife to her throat. It wasn’t enough to silence her husband, but the villain must also slay an innocent woman.”

  Sitting up straighter, Chase delivered his next response in a ringing tone. “We have no evidence that Collatinus murdered either victim. Neither is there evidence that the same person killed both Dryden and Mary Leach.”

  “Of course it was Collatinus. Do you suppose we have two masked assassins roaming the streets of London at one time? I believe we’ve not yet come to that in a civilized country.” The Coroner laughed at his little joke, then turned a sneering look on Chase. “You are singularly uninformed, sir, for a Runner.”

  He lost his grip on the fraying ends of his patience. “You asked me what I think happened. I believe the murderer sought information from Mrs. Leach. Her clothing was soaked. He pushed her head down in a water trough to make her speak. Possibly, she refused to comply, so he beat her to death. Is that enough information for you?”

  “What lady’s knowledge is of interest to an outright devil?”

  “She knew a murder victim called Nell Durant. Perhaps Mrs. Leach could identify Mrs. Durant’s murderer—or she had found out who Collatinus was.”

  “You cast aspersions on a poor murdered lady? You saw what that monster did to her with your own eyes!”

  “A vagrant boy came upon a gentleman in the Arches sometime after midnight. We must find this man.”

  “No gentleman in this case. ’Tis plain enough. Mr. Leach had enraged Collatinus with his courageous replies to these infamous letters”—here the Coroner rustled the pages of newsprint in front of him and slapped his hand on the table—“and the wicked brute attacked Mr. Leach in his own office. When he feared Mr. Leach had named his attacker, Collatinus went after Mrs. Leach too.”

  “The porter Peter Malone was a witness to the attack on Leach. He has disappeared. If you are right, sir, where is Malone? Why hasn’t he come forward? Moreover, Mrs. Leach wrote a note in her memorandum book, which suggests she knew her danger. The note designates a relation to care for her children—the tone is desponding, that of a woman who meant to put herself in harm’s way or take her own life.”

  “By asking a murderer to pummel her to death? You dishonor her memory.”

  It was no good. The Coroner maintained his obtuse hostility, and the panel merely stared at Chase, horrified by the possibilities his testimony raised. The jurors wanted the simpler explanation, the one with the most dramatic appeal. They did not want to imagine that people of wealth and influence had done anything to deserve this tragedy. Far easier and more entertaining to believe in a masked villain.

  After the inquest ended with the expected verdict of “willful murder against person or persons unknown,” Chase caught Buckler’s eye, nodding toward the door. They should escort Penelope home without delay in case the journalists, especially Gander, had observed her presence. She allowed her friends to take an arm on each side as they walked briskly up the steep passage leading toward the Strand. But they had not gone more than a few yards when a voice called, “A word with you, Chase. My, you’re in a hurry. I’ll take but a minute of your time.”

  They halted, and Buckler directed a worried glance at Chase. Slowly, Chase turned to face Fred Gander who hovered a few feet away, his face wearing a gleeful expression. “Not now, Gander. I’ll speak to you later at the Brown Bear.”

  “That won’t do. Besides, I see you’ve got your friend Mrs. Wolfe with you. As it turns out, I’ve a few questions for her.”

  “I said not now, Gander. We are late for an appointment.”

  “No, no. You won’t fob me off. The public has a right to know. You’ve done me a scurvy turn, Chase. You took my money and left me high and dry.”

  Releasing Penelope’s arm, Chase opened his pocketbook to extract several notes. He strode over to Gander and shoved the wad in the journalist’s coat pocket. “There’s your money and a bit more for your trouble. Come to the Brown Bear tonight. I’ll see you satisfied.”

  Gander pantomimed moral outrage. “Hush-money? It won’t work. The public won’t like to hear of a principal officer of Bow Street stooping so low. Consorting with a suspect in a murder inquiry too.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Stop making mischief.”

  “I don’t, eh? I might have tumbled to your game sooner but for the uproar over the Princess of Wales. But this masked man story will round out my pamphlet delightfully. I see just how to do it. I’ll make a heroine of the Princess—a woman, like poor Mrs. Leach, beset by an unscrupulous man. Not content to hound his poor wife almost to madness, the Prince Regent gets himself involved with a woman who turns up dead. Twenty years later, her friend is killed too! I’ve been reading the Collatinus letters, old and new, and having a few interesting conversations with my sources. It’s been suggested I cast the Prince as victim of this piece, but I’m not having that version.”

  “You may rip His Highness’ character to shreds for all I care,” said Chase. “Leave Mrs. Wolfe out of it.”

  “You see, I had to ask myself, why did Mrs. Wolfe visit Dryden Leach on the very day he caught a knife to the chest? And I had no answer until it was whispered to me that her father was the original Collatinus and this N.D. was a celebrated courtesan in league with the Jacobins! And the Prince’s lover. Too, too delicious, my friend. All too opportune for those of us taking up Princess Caroline’s cause.”

  Buckler said to Penelope, “Stay here.” Approaching the journalist, he seemed to loom over him. Though the barrister was not a tall man, he could give a good five inches to Gander, and the shadows playing over Buckler’s face in the dim passageway made him look markedly dangerous. “Watch yourself,” he said. “You don’t want a libel suit. You have plenty of meat to offer your readers without dragging Mrs. Wolfe’s name through the muck.”

  “Mr. Edward Buckler? I’ve seen you plead in the Old Bailey. Here’s another deliciously interesting question: Are you Mrs. Wolfe’s knight sans peur et sans reproche? I should think a married lady would stand in no need of such defense.”

  “Buckler.” Chase laid a hand on his friend’s arm.

  But Buckler shook him off, eyes alight with a cold fire that made him look like an altogether different person. He leaned forw
ard to grasp Gander by the lapels of his coat.

  “I grow tired of being manhandled by you and your friends, Chase,” the journalist observed in a plaintive tone. “It ain’t polite. Tell Mr. Edward Buckler to release me.”

  By this time Penelope had joined them. “Let him go, Mr. Buckler. If I agree to speak to him, he may at least report the truth.”

  “No,” said Chase, “you do not know this man. He will twist your words out of recognition.”

  “A sensible lady,” approved Gander. “Would you care to tell me why you went to Mrs. Leach’s house on the night she was killed? Strange, isn’t it? You always seem to be on the spot for a bit of villainy.”

  Penelope addressed him like a teacher scolding a rather dimwitted student. “She was an old friend of my family. You don’t understand, Mr. Gander.”

  He smirked at her. “I understand one thing, madam. If we are looking for the new Collatinus, we must consider you a prime candidate. But in that case, who is the masked man?” His gaze scanned insultingly over Buckler, who stared back into the gloating face with its avid eyes and twitchy mouth.

  Before the journalist could say more, Buckler’s fist had struck him in the nose. Blood spurted out and dripped down Gander’s chin to land on the hand still holding the journalist’s coat. With an exclamation of disgust, Buckler let go and, reaching in his pocket, took out his handkerchief. Deliberately, he wiped his fingers clean and turned away in disgust.

  “We’re leaving,” said Chase.

  Gander smiled through the blood staining his teeth red. “Mr. Edward Buckler,” he said thickly, “you may be sure your blow will be repaid with interest.”