by S K Rizzolo
In contrast, Jeremy was in high spirits, the habitual discontent for the moment eased. On the way home from an evening at the theatre, he was full of restless energy, crossing and uncrossing his legs, squirming in his seat, and flexing his fingers as he talked.
“Aphrodite rising from the sea foam? Not that mushroom’s overripe daughter! I had to remind them of their place, of course. Never mind it cost me the commission.”
“Cost what?” She had been so intent on his face that his words did not immediately sink in. It was often like that with Jeremy.
Suddenly irritated, he said, “Dash it, you’ve been like this all evening. Are you sickening for something?”
“Just a headache. I heard what you said, however. I take it we shall be practicing economies for a time?”
His hands stilled. Then he sighed audibly and pressed his head back against the squabs, his face finding the only slash of lamplight in the coach. “I didn’t mean anything,” she began, “but if—”
“You do not have to say it. I could tell precisely what you were thinking.”
It was true enough that her expression often betrayed her.
“Jeremy, I would not have you immortalize merchants’ daughters unless you wish to. At least not on my account.”
After a quick sidelong glance, he stretched his legs and returned to the contemplation of his gleaming boots, a perfect picture of artistic isolation.
Penelope watched him. Sometimes she got so tired of the constant playacting—the endless reassurances, the blithe schemes, the unspoken agreement that Jeremy had with everyone in his sphere that no sordid realities need intrude.
Before she’d remembered to guard her tongue, the words were out: “But why not a merchant’s fat daughter, Jeremy, if she also has a fat purse?”
Splash. A passing barouche had driven a sheet of water into her face. She transferred the child to her hip, angrily brushed at the water, and trudged on, thinking with longing of sun-warmed Palermo and of her father.
It had been too long since she’d seen him, and indeed, Sarah had never met her grandfather, whose standing as erudite radical made him celebrated in his adopted country. Penelope remembered him as always the dynamic figure at the center of some gathering, she the observer. After her mother’s death she had become his hostess, learning to smooth rifts in conversation with a prompting question or provocative remark. And there were the slow, happy days when it seemed she had nothing to do but read and study and take long walks.
Here in London it was hard to imagine the isle of Sicily with its orange and lemon groves and glorious mountains. No, more real in the growing darkness was the fear Constance Tyrone must have felt in the last moments of her life. Though the larger streets were kept fairly clean and well lit these days, the city still harbored myriad foul, hidden places where wealth and family would be no protection and brutality lashed out all too often.
Yet Penelope believed that Jeremy, for all his faults, was not capable of such viciousness. He was vain, self-serving, shallow, but no murderer. She had not been able to turn him away when he returned the day after his midnight visit. Pale, almost sick, with no trace of his usual jauntiness, he had begged her to attend the Coroner’s inquest. And she had gone. Now, arms tightening around Sarah, she saw with relief that a coach stand was just ahead.
A quarter-hour later she entered her lodgings to find Mrs. Fitzhugh hovering in the entry. A woman in her middle fifties with a lined, sour face, the landlady grumbled, “Rather late, Mrs. Wolfe. I’m afraid your dinner will be spoiled. Moreover, a gentleman”—she hesitated over the word—“awaits you in the parlor.”
“Hungry, Mama,” whined Sarah, awakening fully.
“Soon, darling.” No doubt the caller was merely the printer Mr. Cotton, there to offer her a bit of work destined to swell the pages of his newest periodical. Though Mrs. Fitzhugh thought him some sort of cousin to her lodger, she never scrupled to show her disapproval of his occasional visits despite the fact that his was a gray, inoffensive presence. As for Penelope, she appreciated the printer’s uncommon willingness to oblige by coming to her, understanding full well that he acted at her father’s behest.
But when Penelope thanked the landlady and walked into the parlor, it was to find a stranger standing near the window. A small man with slicked-back, oily hair and glistening eyes, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and presented her with a card: Mr. Jedidiah Merkle, Solicitor.
“An honor, ma’am. Most…grateful for an…opportunity to broach a certain…matter with you.” He spoke at a curiously measured pace with frequent pauses as if he found it necessary to feel his way through each sentence.
Mystified, Penelope said, “Pray be seated, sir. If you will give me a moment.” She gestured to a nearby chair.
“Thank you…good lady, but this one…will suit me… better.” He pointed to the window seat.
She put Sarah down, but the child immediately clung to her leg. After struggling out of her own damp cloak and bonnet, she removed Sarah’s wet garments.
When at last Penelope took a seat, the man leaned forward, coming uncomfortably close. Mr. Merkle wore a loud, flowered waistcoat and puce colored breeches. She could smell his pomade.
“Your unfortunate…husband…is not without…friends.”
“Really, Mr. Merkle.” She looked again at his card.
“Oh yes. And these…friends have…entreated me to set your mind at…ease as to the…ah…affair of your husband’s… Let me assure you that he will soon be…restored to the… bosom of his family.” He put his hand into another waistcoat pocket and removed his snuff box. Lifting the lid, he took a pinch of snuff and inhaled with great enjoyment.
“My own mixture.” Merkle waited for her response.
“Oh indeed.” She wondered if he expected a compliment.
“Of course, dear…lady I came at…once to allay your very natural…concern. But no…need, ma’am, no not in the…least.”
Sarah tugged at Penelope’s sleeve. She reached down to pull the child into her lap, but Sarah continued to wiggle and whine. At this time of day, she wanted nothing more than her dinner, a story, and bed. Penelope didn’t blame her. Merkle, quite at his ease, sat patiently.
“Are you acquainted with my husband, sir?” she said at last.
“I have not…the pleasure.”
Penelope’s eyes met his. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Mr. Merkle. Be so good as to speak plainly.”
His fingers slid into yet a third pocket. This time he held a bank note. “I have been…instructed to bestow…this upon you and to…assure you that Mr. Jeremy Wolfe stands in no…danger from this…misunderstanding.” Smiling, he picked up her hand, stuffed the bill into it, and patted her arm. He seemed to think the matter settled, for he rose to his feet.
Penelope stood also. “I cannot accept this. Who are these friends of my husband’s?”
“Now think…nothing of it.” He walked across the room to retrieve his coat and hat. “The twenty pounds is not a…loan, but monies…owed to your husband for…services already… rendered.”
“For what sir?”
“Do not…trouble yourself about the…details, ma’am. Everything has been…taken care of. Good evening to you… and the child.”
She marched forward to intercept him. “Sir, will you not tell me who sent you here?”
“Why, no…ma’am. Would you have me…betray my client’s…confidence?”
With that he bowed and left. Penelope stared after him, holding up the bank note. “Well, what do you make of that?”
“Hungry, Mama,” said Sarah.
Chapter Four
ONE HUNDRED GUINEAS REWARD
(To be Paid on Conviction)
BRUTAL MURDER!!
WHEREAS,
in the early morning hours Tuesday last, Miss CONSTANCE TYRONE was most foully Murdered by some person unknown. Barbarously Strangled and Trampled in the street, she was discovered outside the East Gate of St. Catherine�
�s Church. A Hackney Coach which it is supposed may bear some connection to this Crime was seen in the vicinity.
Missing is One Slipper, pale blue satin with white satin Rosette and Grecian Tie. Also missing, believed stolen, is a Crucifix in Gold Filigree bearing the victim’s initials and set on a fine gold chain. Any Person having knowledge of such articles, or who witnessed any Suspicious Activities on the night aforementioned, is earnestly requested to give immediate Information.
By order of the Churchwardens, Overseers, and Trustees
Joshua Border, vestry clerk, Wednesday, 13 November 1811
Edward Buckler read this handbill, one of many thrust his way as he walked along Fleet Street, the others extolling the wonders of cure-all medicines, waterproof boots, or beauty enhancers. The eastward route he took today between the two churches of St. Dunstan’s and St. Bride’s once served as a path of atonement for the faithful when so many medieval prelates inhabited the area. Now, a chaos of vehicles vied for room to maneuver, inching toward Ludgate Hill and St. Paul’s or pressing west with equal futility to the crush around Temple Bar.
Buckler had risen early, determined to turn the morning to good account. Accordingly, he had spent several hours perusing the press accounts of the Constance Tyrone inquiry. The authorities had moved quickly for once, arresting Jeremy Wolfe two days after the body had been found. Not surprising, Buckler reflected. Street scum may murder one another with impunity, but as soon as violence touches one of Society’s own, the voices cry out.
The papers had all struck the same note of outraged virtue tinged with panic. Moreover, the debate about London’s lack of a centralized police force had been revived with the usual arguments both for and against reform. Supporters insisted the time had come. The lawlessness of London’s streets demanded it. Opponents waxed poetic about the need to safeguard English liberties—just think of the abuses of the powerful, secretive French police. Both sides, however, agreed upon the need to resolve the matter quickly. The pressure to find, convict, and execute Constance Tyrone’s murderer would be intense, a fact which boded ill for Buckler’s potential client.
As for Jeremy Wolfe, twenty-four hours could seem an eternity to one unaccustomed to Hell: Newgate with its well-earned reputation for filth, debauchery, and inhumanity. Felons, whether tried or untried, small thief or brutal killer, all herded together, though debtors were separately confined, and women had their own cramped area of the prison. It was said that first time offenders thrown in with hardened criminals were so thoroughly corrupted in this school of vice that a life filled with depredations inevitably followed.
Passing St. Bride’s, Buckler continued to the Old Bailey and turned north to approach the prison’s grim façade. The stark, soot-stained walls rose unrelieved to the heavy cornice, the only ease for the eye offered by a series of empty niches originally designed to hold figures. With almost no windows to the exterior, Newgate presented a blank face to the world.
Ringing the bell, he waited for the turnkey to descend from the lodge. The turnkey, clad in a shabby tailcoat and carrying a lantern, merely grunted in response to Buckler’s request and led him through a heavy, nail-studded door and down a stone passage toward the Felon’s Side.
It was hard to tell which direction they headed as they followed the damp, gloomy corridor through a series of gates and gratings, each one unlocked and locked in turn by Buckler’s companion. The passageway was crowded with streams of visitors shuffling with heads down: women with hungry children at their skirts; men with furtive faces probably come to plan new robberies with the prisoners; journalists visiting one of their number imprisoned for seditious libel; pie men hawking their wares.
“How much farther along, my man?” Buckler murmured.
“The name’s Gus.” The turnkey stopped in front of a gate with bars through which Buckler could see a narrow courtyard. Gus took him through the yard and up some stairs into one of the wards.
It was not the worst Newgate had to offer, at least not compared to the common felons’ wards where a prisoner who lacked the desire or the funds to indulge in the general licentiousness might be stripped of his clothes and tried by mock tribunal. Jeremy Wolfe must have paid the entrance fee to the master side as well as the required “garnish” money to his fellow inmates.
This room was large with benches, a deal table, and wooden barrack beds where the prisoners slept, eighteen inches allotted to each. About two dozen men loitered as close to the sea coal fire as possible, wrapped in rugs against the chill. No one was shackled; all apparently had the funds to pay for “easement,” as they called it here. A handful of prisoners played cards, several others looking on listlessly. Some men perambulated about the ward; a few lay with eyes closed on pallets. Most looked drunk.
Wolfe was easy to pick out. He sat on a low stool with drawing pad in hand at work on the profile of a fellow prisoner. A candle flickered beside him, casting uneasy shadows on the wall.
The turnkey blustered over and placed a heavy paw on the artist’s shoulder. “Painter man,” he growled, “your lawyer’s here.”
Jeremy Wolfe stood and laid his work on the table. Straightening his coat, he stepped away from the turnkey to take Buckler’s measure. “Indeed. You’re not what I expected.”
Gus said, “You ain’t his lawyer?”
Buckler addressed himself to the artist. “Mrs. Wolfe asked me to pay you a visit.”
“My wife sent you? I thought…well, I am glad to see you, sir. Won’t you sit?” Wolfe indicated a corner of the room where they perched on a bench. The turnkey remained, but at a respectful distance.
The artist wore buff pantaloons and a well cut coat, but his linen was soiled, his cravat untied. The stubble on his chin and unkempt hair betrayed that he had endured an uncomfortable night.
Buckler said, “I need to ask you a few questions. I don’t yet know if I can assist you, but anything you divulge will remain confidential.”
“I have not been formally charged. They can’t keep me here forever.”
“No. Unless the magistrates decide to commit you for trial.”
“On what grounds? A trumped-up charge? A few drawings and a letter that says precisely nothing? And all this due to nothing more than a bunch of doddering fools in a panic lest the public see them for what they are.”
“You did write to Miss Tyrone?”
“Yes, I was dissatisfied with our progress. She had missed several sittings, and it had begun to seem unlikely I would complete the project by year’s end. You knew I had been commissioned to paint her?”
“So your wife has told me.” Buckler took out his notebook and pencil. “Who proffered the commission?”
“Her father, Sir Giles Tyrone.” He chuckled. “You see it’s not enough to have wealth if one wants to cut a dash in polite society. One must also possess the finer accouterments.”
“A portrait.”
“A professional portrait,” corrected Wolfe. “After all, ’twould be a comfortable possession, hanging quietly on the wall for all the world to admire. More restful than its model certainly.”
“You mean, I take it, that all was not well with Sir Giles and his daughter?”
“Who’s to say? I did wonder why she had consented to the sittings. Not at all the sort of thing to interest her. One can but conclude it was at the behest of her father.”
“What makes you think she didn’t enjoy it?”
“Champing at the bit from beginning to end. Quite a challenge, I must say. The problem was she had no vanity. Usually I can count on that to keep the ladies in place.”
Wolfe himself was hardly a restful person. He had the trick of listening to his interlocutor’s words with another part of his mind someplace else. In some men this might be a sign of greatness. In Jeremy Wolfe it seemed to indicate both a high-strung temperament and an intellect busily seeking its own advantage. Fingers drumming, one booted toe tapping, he appeared to find sitting still a torture. God knew how he would manage should hi
s incarceration prove lengthy.
“Where did you hold your sessions with Miss Tyrone?” asked Buckler.
“One day when I’ve secured a proper patron I shall have rooms for painting and a gallery to display my work. And assistants with books of engravings scurrying to do my bidding.” He smiled. “In the interim, I am forced to content myself with visits to my clients, in this instance the family home in Great Queen Street.”
“Did she talk to you much?”
“No. That was part of her fascination. I had the feeling she didn’t have much to say to anyone, about personal affairs at any rate. Though she’d blow the gaff about her work readily enough.”
“Fascination?” Buckler wondered what the artist had felt for his client. Though his tone was flippant, he seemed to have observed Constance Tyrone keenly. Part of his stock in trade or something more?
“Yes, she was intriguing. Fearfully independent, didn’t give a tinker’s curse what anyone thought, yet she could charm when she chose. I know only one other woman who can hold her own quite that well.” He looked up, his expression regretful, and Buckler felt the pull of liking for the first time.
Wolfe continued, “But if you’re wondering whether I was in love with Miss Tyrone, the truth is she scared me out of my wits. Too intense by half for a frippery fellow like me. God knows I’ve gone that road before.”
Their eyes met in sudden understanding.
“What did Miss Tyrone tell you of her work?”
“You heard she founded the St. Catherine Society? I suppose it was a respectable endeavor for a gentlewoman initially. It’s one thing to help serving maids and paupers learn their Bible. It keeps them humble, in their place so to speak. If they hope for something better, they don’t expect to get it in this life.
“But she talked a lot of nonsense about everyone having the right to a thinking life. Even the Irish, mind you, and the lightskirts off the street. She raised a breeze or two with that.” He laughed again, maliciously.