by S K Rizzolo
Her eyes glinted in triumph, and when she spoke again, her voice dripped venom. “They were lovers, all right. I’m sure he killed her because he got jealous of the other men sniffing around. I never saw a man more enamored. Or maybe he finally realized that she cared only for herself. She would betray him and his Jacobin friends as fast as she’d change her silk stockings.”
It was Chase’s turn to draw back, disconcerted by her savagery. “Did you hear Sandford leave the house, ma’am?”
“I told you. I went to bed. He was the last person to see her alive.”
“Did you know your sister had written her memoirs? What happened to the manuscript after her death?”
“It wasn’t among her effects. She must have given it away or sold it to someone.”
“And Nell’s child? She had recently given birth to a son, I understand. Where is he?”
“Dead. Nell had sent him to be cared for by a widow, who took the babe into her family for a few extra coins to feed her own children. He was a puling little creature. He died the month after the murder. It was a relief to me. I wanted no reminders.”
“Did the Prince of Wales father this child?”
She shrugged. “Nell said so, but it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Do you recall the widow’s name?”
Her eyes shifted away, and she moistened her lips with her tongue. “It’s a long time ago, sir. I’ve forgotten.”
Chase said softly, “You’re a liar, ma’am. Your nephew Lewis Durant is alive and well. Suppose you tell me the truth.”
Goggling at him like a sheep about to get its throat cut, she swallowed and gulped. “Alive? Why, what can you mean?”
“When was the last time you saw Durant? I need to find him.”
Ecclestone wrapped an arm about his wife’s shaking shoulders. “Get out of my shop before I land you a facer.”
“In a moment.” Chase turned back to Mrs. Ecclestone. “Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll leave you alone. Why did you lie?”
“I…I…men came round asking questions the other day.”
“What men? And what did you tell them?”
Her husband spoke for her. “They were from the police. We didn’t tell them nothing for the simple reason that we don’t know where the boy is. Amelia’s not seen him since he was a babe.”
Mrs. Ecclestone nodded. “It’s all Mary’s fault. It was her idea to lie. We told everyone the child had died. She said he’d be safer that way.”
“Who was the father?” Chase held her gaze to be sure she told the truth this time.
She was crying hard, her face flushed and distorted. “Who do you think it was? It was that villain Eustace Sandford, that’s who.”
Chapter XX
As the light faded from the sky, Chase waited on the street outside Penelope’s house. He had come here for the first time nearly a fortnight ago, and he could not then have imagined that he would be steeling his nerve to tell Penelope she had a brother—a brother about to be arrested and tried for seditious libel and murder. John Chase had always believed in plain dealing. Telling someone an unpalatable truth had never bothered him. If he were honest, he would admit he often relished such telling. But this was Penelope Wolfe. She had been hurt by this business, and he must add to her burdens. Standing there, Chase was aware of the watchers that lurked in the shadows. He couldn’t see them, didn’t know where they were, but he knew they were there. Let them look, he thought. What could they see? A man hesitating before he knocked at a door, no more than that. He reached up and banged the knocker defiantly.
When Maggie Foss opened the door, her face split into a smile. “Mr. Chase! Come in, and I’ll let Mrs. Wolfe know you’re here.”
“Are the other servants occupied, Maggie? I’d expect you to be with the children.”
“We got no servants anymore, sir. Mrs. Pen turned them all off and with full wages for the quarter too. We come into some funds from Mr. Jeremy’s painting, but what must she do but throw good money away?”
Chase absorbed this news, understanding its significance. “Is Mr. Wolfe at home?” He had decided it might be wise to have Jeremy Wolfe on hand to support and comfort his wife if he could be counted on for that much.
“He’s out, sir. If you’ll come with me, I’ll light you to the sitting room.” She lit a candle from a lamp on the hall table and conducted him down the passage to the room where he had sat with Penelope before. Once inside, Maggie built up the fire and excused herself. “I’ll fetch Mrs. Wolfe and make some tea, sir.”
Moving to the hearth to warm his hands, Chase thanked her, feeling strangely nervous—which was utterly unlike him. To relieve his feelings, he seized the poker and drove it into the pile of coals, sending flames roaring up the chimney.
Penelope came in. “I told Mr. Buckler I was anxious to speak to you, but I had hardly dared hope you would come so soon.”
He took her hands. “Of course, I came, Mrs. Wolfe. Maggie is bringing us some tea. Shall we wait until it arrives before we have our talk?”
She released him, stepping back to study him. “What is it? I can see you have something to tell me. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
Chase was busy mocking his own stupidity. What had made him think he could be two minutes in the same room with this woman without her detecting there was news? She had always been perceptive and annoyingly forthright, and she was looking at him now with more than a hint of impatience in her brown eyes. Stubbornly, he waited until Maggie had come in with the tea-tray and some cakes. Realizing how hungry he was, he ate a few cakes and used the delay to marshal his forces.
Too polite a hostess to challenge him while he refreshed himself, Penelope waited but seemed incapable of small talk. She left the plate of cakes untouched, sipping her tea and observing his every move.
Finally, Chase swallowed a tasteless bite and launched into a rather disjointed description of his interview with Amelia Ecclestone, emphasizing that he found her an untrustworthy witness and he himself did not credit her accusations against Sandford. Penelope did not react, and he forced himself to come to the heart of the matter. “I’ve also been this afternoon to the church of St. Marylebone. I was seeking Nell Durant in the parish records. You recall that she lived there prior to her death?”
“Mr. Rex told you that?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you discover?”
“I found a memorial erected by her sister Mrs. Ecclestone and an entry in the parish’s christening record. It says Nell’s child was illegitimate, as we knew already. According to this record, the babe was called Lewis. He was baptized in the church in June of ’94, a few days after her death and around the time you and your father left London. I checked for a death record, but there wasn’t one. Nell’s son is still alive.”
He held up one finger to forestall the eager words trembling on her lips. “There’s more, Mrs. Wolfe. Today a colleague from Bow Street brought me word that the Home Office has identified Collatinus as Nell Durant’s son. The authorities are preparing to lure him into a trap. He will likely be in custody by tomorrow night.”
“Why do you look like that? You seem afraid to speak. It’s not like you, Mr. Chase.” She was getting nervous, and he heard a hint of accusation in her tone.
He took a breath and plunged on. “When a child is baseborn, often the father’s name is not indicated in the record, but in this case the clergyman recorded it. Though it’s possible this information is not accurate, I’ve had confirmation from another source.”
“Nell claimed the Prince of Wales was the father of her child.”
“She was in debt. I believe she invented the story to seek her own advantage and obtain financial compensation.”
“If it wasn’t the Prince, then who?”
Chase reached across the table to grasp her hand. It was a small hand, sturdy
and elegantly formed, a hand that would be deft about its daily tasks and gentle to a child in illness. He held it firmly. “The record states that your father sired this babe, Mrs. Wolfe. As I said before, this information may not be accurate, but if it is, then Lewis Durant is your brother—or rather your half-brother.”
Her face went white. “My brother? I have a brother, and he is Collatinus? Are you telling me he is guilty of killing Mary Leach? At least we know he couldn’t have killed his mother. No, it seems that honor belongs to my father.”
“Drink your tea.”
For once, she obeyed him. She dropped his hand and sat in silence while she drank the tea, holding the fragile cup so tightly he was afraid she might shatter it. Finally, she said, “Did my father know about this child?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are we to do?”
Ah, the question she was bound to ask. He only wished he had a better answer. Chase told her that he hoped to obtain more information before the rendezvous at the Crown and Anchor and would try to locate Lewis Durant before the Home Office did. She listened, a faraway look in her eyes. Some color had returned to her cheeks, but he could see a rapid pulse beating at her throat.
She interrupted him as he was laying out a plan to prevent the arrest or arrange for Lewis’ defense if they were unsuccessful. “I am certain my father knew about this child,” she said. “One night when he was drunk—the time he told me about Collatinus—he made a remark I didn’t understand. He said the worst thing he’d ever done was to abandon an innocent. At the time I thought he meant her, his mistress, the woman he had injured.”
“I will do what I can for the boy. I promise you.”
“He’s not even twenty,” she murmured in wonder. She sat up straighter in her chair and seemed to banish the mists from her brain. “Yes, we must help him, Mr. Chase.”
***
After Chase departed, Penelope sat at a table in front of the fire, spooning up soup from a bowl. Maggie asked no questions but simply bustled about, delivering a low-voiced monologue about the naughtiness of the children, the chill of the evening, and any other commonplace topic that rose to her lips. She didn’t seem to expect any response, so Penelope allowed her thoughts to wander.
For years she had banished her memories of the days when she was five years old and always afraid. Her father had gone out a great deal, leaving her with a young maid called Laura, whom Penelope detested with every fiber of her small being. She cried for her mother and stormed at her father. She tormented herself with jealousy of the people who took him away from her, whose company he seemed to prefer. In retrospect, this conduct astonished her, for in later years she would never have dared flout his authority. She had dared then because she somehow understood he was absorbed in some private drama all his own. With a child’s simple logic she decided that her father had broken his promise to be everything to her in her mother’s absence. Memory suddenly assailed her, and she saw him standing in front of the glass in their dreary lodgings, as he adjusted his domino and secured a mask to cover his face. He had gone to the masquerade ball to see Nell Durant, she realized. And afterward, said Amelia Ecclestone, he’d followed Nell to her house in Marylebone…
Penelope set down her spoon. She would not believe he had lain with a woman, put a child in her belly, then raped and murdered her—just as she would not believe Lewis, a boy not quite nineteen, capable of beating Mary Leach to death with his fists. The world would say the father had killed the one woman and the son, cut from the same infidel cloth, the other. Penelope had been upset when Fred Gander published his nasty insinuations about her in the newspaper, but how small a matter that seemed as she sat brooding over her father and Lewis Durant.
When Jeremy came in about an hour later, she got to her feet, pasting a pleasant smile on her face. “Have you dined? There’s not much, but I can give you some bread and cheese.”
He went to lean against the mantelshelf, his posture elaborately casual. “I’ve eaten. Is Sarah asleep?”
She looked at him curiously. “Hours ago. She was asking for you, but I told her you’d be out late. You can see her in the morning.” Her instincts prickled. “Is something wrong, Jeremy?”
“No, nothing. What should be wrong?”
“I don’t know.” Watching him closely, she sat down again in her chair. “You seem worried. Did you have a good day?”
In an instant he had lurched across the room to throw himself to his knees and bury his face in her lap. As her hand went out automatically to caress his hair, he began to shake with sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he could command his voice. He lifted his head, and she was appalled by his expression of agony. For one wild moment, she thought he had come to tell her that Lewis Durant had been arrested or even killed. But then she perceived how foolish this was and felt an angry impatience. He was about to treat her to more of his dramatics—on this night of all nights. Any impulse she had to tell him her own news evaporated immediately.
“What is it?” When she reached out to touch his shoulder, he turned his head away.
“I cannot stay here, Penelope. One of my creditors has taken out a writ, and I will have the bailiffs at my heels tomorrow. There are debts I cannot pay.”
“We’ll pawn your watch or my pearls and settle them that way.”
He forced a weak laugh. “A mere drop in the ocean. I am bankrupt, my dear. They’ll take it all, everything we possess, and arrest me into the bargain. I can do nothing to prevent them.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know for sure. The creditors can claim nine hundred or a thousand pounds of me. Maybe more.”
Penelope’s hand dropped back to her lap. “How can you owe so much?” she said blankly. She could have told him to a penny the total of the household bills she’d struggled with for weeks, but Jeremy’s response made clear how foolish she had been to think she could salvage the wreckage. Roughly, she took his chin in her hand to stare into his eyes. “What about your friend Mr. Rex? He will help you. You must go to him.”
“I tried. He won’t even see me. I’m finished.” His voice broke. “The only thing I can do for you and Sarah is get away and save you the disgrace.”
Pushing him aside, Penelope got to her feet and took a few steps across the hearthrug. “You will leave me to face the bailiffs by myself?”
“You know you can’t be held responsible for my obligations. If I could do any good here, I would stay, but I will only end up rotting in prison. There will be other creditors—too many of them. I’ll never find a way to satisfy them all. What’s worse, I have debts of honor. I am ruined, Penelope. I’ll never hold up my head again.”
“Gaming debts? How could you? What about me and Sarah?”
Seeming to realize that he cut an absurd figure on his knees, he stumbled back to his feet. Shame seemed to rise in his throat and choke him with harsh, ugly sobs. After he had himself under control, he said, “I can’t ask you to come with me. But I swear I’ll send for you and the child as soon as I can put a roof over your heads.”
“Where will you go?” She heard her own voice from a distance. Her anger had died; she felt nothing. Later she would cry for Sarah’s inevitable confusion and grief. Now she merely wanted to get out of the room.
“I don’t know. I suppose I could go to Calais and let the French arrest me instead—or maybe I’ll return to Ireland. Somewhere I won’t be known.”
He raised his arms to embrace her, but she stepped out of his grasp and went to the door. “Go and kiss your daughter good-bye, Jeremy.”
Chapter XXI
Late in the afternoon of a blustery day, Chase and Buckler had the porch of St. Clement Dane to themselves. As they conversed in low tones, both men huddled in their greatcoats, and when Buckler stepped out of the building to envisage the lay of the land, the shrill March wind bent back the brim of
his beaver hat, threatening to rip it from his head. Hastily, he withdrew to give his attention to Chase’s terse instructions.
Across the Strand lay the enormous Crown and Anchor tavern, stretching over an entire block behind the houses and shop-fronts on the southern side of the street. The guests had already begun to pour into the tavern’s dining room to attend a reform dinner, where countless glasses would be raised to the Princess of Wales and the cause of English liberty. Lewis Durant, attempting to deliver the final Collatinus letter, would be somewhere in the crowd. Chase wished he had succeeded in preventing this meeting, but at least Packet had obtained a description of Durant from a printer’s devil, an apprentice he had managed to question at the office of the Free Albion.
Chase studied the barrister, thinking that Buckler looked a trifle overexcited, too likely to respond without calculation. It was always like this with civilians who were useful but possibly risky allies—not that there was any choice this time. “Noah Packet will be somewhere nearby. He will try to warn Durant. You must stand on Arundel Street in case Durant comes that way.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“Longish, curly dark hair and brown eyes. Tall. Slender. He has an aquiline nose and a pleasant voice. Looks the gentleman but purse-pinched.”
“What should I do if I see him first? I don’t want to scare him off.”
“Tell him he’s walking into a trap. Tell him he has a sister who wants to help him escape the city. That should get his attention.”
“Right,” said Buckler. “What time does the dinner start?”
“Five. The constables and patrol officers will position themselves as soon as the crowd provides some cover. They’ll wait until Durant approaches Gibbs with the letter; then they’ll make the arrest.”
“Where will you be?”
“Initially in the vestibule outside the dining room. I’ll station myself behind one of the columns. Thorogood will be inside the dining room, standing ready to give the signal if Durant slips past us somehow. Thorogood’s presence won’t raise any eyebrows?”