by S K Rizzolo
“Damn! First blood; it’ll come about, however.” Out of the side of his mouth, he added, “I only told the truth, man. Can’t allow an innocent man to stand wrongly accused.”
“Yet you waited until a full day after he was arrested to speak.”
“Lord, how the bird struts. The black is just sparring, biding his time; you’ll see.”
Chase leaned in again, his voice rougher this time. “How is it that no one in your household recalls seeing Jeremy Wolfe?”
Bennington arched his brows. “Servant’s prattle? I’ve a bachelor’s establishment, nothing elaborate. Friends often come and go with none the wiser.”
The black suddenly stumbled, and the other bird struck a sharp blow at its neck. The black reeled back.
“Relish games of chance, do you?” said Chase. “I heard you lost a tidy sum to Wolfe. Strange, he doesn’t strike me as being up to your weight. Not long in the purse either.”
Bennington stared at him coldly. “You gamble?”
“Not for money.” Chase returned the look.
The black bird had retreated and was now pinned against the wall below them. The other cock dived at it viciously, tearing feathers and drawing blood. A sudden spurt sent red droplets across the arm of Bennington’s coat.
“Blast.” Taking out a handkerchief, he dabbed delicately. “Quite spoiled, damn it.”
Chase said, “Blood stains the hands worse,” and waited with interest to see the effect.
Bennington’s eyes glittered with humor. “So I am to be cast the villain of this piece? How entertaining. Yet providing an alibi for Wolfe would hardly be astute of me.”
“Unless you act to protect someone else.”
The match reached a crescendo. The black bird, in serious trouble now, attempted a final rally, launching itself at the red in desperation. Bennington, however, showed no concern. Still frowning at the marks on his coat, he waved a dismissive hand.
“You begin to fatigue me, sir. It’s a pretty thing when a Bow Street officer persists in annoying his betters.”
“I am engaged in a murder inquiry,” Chase reminded him, “and persistence must serve a man well in such case.”
“I had no part in any villainy and neither did Wolfe. I suggest you seek other game; there’s no profit for you here.”
“Nor for you. Your bird is finished.”
Just that fast the black bird lay dead amid the dirt and blood.
The crowd reacted with cheers and muted growls. Bennington cursed and extracted his purse from his pocket. His debt satisfied, he drew his coat around him, obviously ready to depart, but gave a loud sigh when Chase barred his path.
“Look,” said Bennington. “Upon occasion one has an opportunity to do a friend a small favor, and one must take it, the opportunity, I mean. But nothing wrong.”
“You’re telling me you did Wolfe a favor?”
“No, not him. He didn’t kill the girl, any more than I did. However, the fool was treading on some prominent toes, someone who can’t afford the glare of public view just now.”
“Who?”
“I cannot tell you that. I will say that this person had nothing whatever to do with Miss Tyrone’s death. Of that I assure you.” Nodding curtly, Bennington stepped around Chase and ambled toward the door.
***
Hard by Westminster Abbey, St. Margaret’s church attracted the wealthy and fashionable as well as members of Parliament. This November day Constance Tyrone’s funeral had drawn genuine mourners, many from the lower orders, as well as the merely curious. Indeed, the throng spilled onto the pavement where observers strained necks and ears to follow the proceedings inside.
Penelope had grown thoroughly chilled lingering on the outskirts of the crowd. When, at length, the service ended, she pushed her way inside, no longer surprised to note the marks of grief on the faces of many she passed. Hoping to observe something of the Tyrone family, she strolled up the nave and paused in front of the church’s east window.
A crucifixion scene, the window was divided into five compartments, three of which depicted Christ and the two thieves. A hovering angel bore off the soul of the penitent to heaven. A little demon had the unrepentant thief on its back. At opposite ends were the warrior St. George, a red dragon at his feet, overlooking a youthful Henry VIII at his prayers, and St. Catherine, flanked by her wheel and bedecked in a crown of glory, guarding a similarly kneeling Catherine of Aragon.
By turning her head slightly, Penelope could observe the family standing a few feet away with the pastor. About sixty years old, Constance Tyrone’s father had deep-set, faded eyes under thick brows, patrician features, and white hair falling back from a knobby forehead. He responded politely to remarks addressed to him, yet seemed remote.
Next to him stood two young men, so different it seemed impossible they could be related, though Penelope nonetheless took them to be Miss Tyrone’s brothers. The younger boy, with his poor posture and unhealthy, bloodless complexion, looked more sulky than grief-stricken. The elder, perhaps seven-and-twenty, was tall like his father with features cut in the same cast. As Penelope watched, the boy laid a hand on his brother’s arm and spoke a few words. She was leaning forward to catch the reply when a voice at her elbow made her jump.
“Why does the devil need yet another bad seed when Hell is already full to the brink?”
The Bow Street officer John Chase stared contemplatively up at the window. Penelope didn’t know if his remark had been meant for her ears, or if the Runner merely thought aloud. But she felt compelled to answer.
“The demon is covetous of the poor fellow’s soul, of course.” She couldn’t resist quoting softly, “And mine eternal jewel given to the common enemy of man.”
Chase laughed, causing several people clustered around the Tyrones to look up in disapproval. “Having carted off more than a few villains myself, I have never found their souls to be of great value, if, indeed, they may lay claim to such a boon at all.”
“Everyone is possessed of an immortal soul, sir,” she said stiffly, “even a contemptible being like that thief.”
“Many thanks for the reminder. Though I have yet to discover evidence of anything so hallowed in many, if not most, human creatures.” He bowed. “John Chase, Bow Street, ma’am. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”
Chase had been watching her for several minutes, tantalized by the conviction that her face looked familiar. Then he’d placed her; she had attended the inquest. He remembered finding it odd to see a young, well-dressed woman sitting unaccompanied among the journalists and assorted riffraff. Seeing her again today, he was intrigued. And when she’d tarried in the church, clearly with the intent of observing the Tyrones, he had decided to approach her.
Defiantly, she told him her name.
“Penelope Wolfe,” he murmured. “Wife of Jeremy Wolfe, the artist detained in Newgate, then providentially released. I wonder what brings you here. Inspecting a rival, albeit a dead one?”
“My husband is still imprisoned, sir.”
There was no mistaking the astonishment on her face, and he could tell his insinuation about Wolfe and Constance Tyrone had failed to penetrate. But quick to recover, she added, “As you are no doubt well aware.”
He bowed again. “Your husband was brought up at Bow Street yesterday afternoon and discharged. I’ve been round to his lodgings several times, but his landlady hasn’t seen him. You reside elsewhere apparently?”
“We live apart.” She clamped her lips shut.
“A gentleman named Arthur Bennington has come forward to claim he played cards with your husband at his house in Jermyn Street on the night of the murder. They were playing deep from about nine o’clock till dawn and never stirred from the table. The two of them even breakfasted together. Bennington claims he didn’t know Mr. Wolfe had been taken up.”
Observing the thoughts chasing across her face, Chase knew immediately she didn’t believe the alibi either. Certainly it didn’t see
m Jeremy Wolfe was plump enough in the pocket to play for the usual high stakes.
“A true disciple of Lady Luck, is he?” he asked as an angry red tide suffused her cheeks. “But perhaps your husband prefers not to confide his peccadilloes to you?”
“On the contrary, sir. I am well informed of his pursuits. You may, however, ask him yourself.” She walked away.
He caught up with her as she stepped outside. “You see, ma’am, there’s something very wrong here, and I mean to know what it is. A young woman found dead in the street. A family who won’t talk. Someone making sure your husband isn’t around to answer any questions.” He laid a restraining hand on her arm. “I mean to know,” he repeated.
She opened her mouth, no doubt to offer a blistering reproof, but instead looked at him in sudden speculation. What now, he thought?
“Mr. Chase, I confess I am anxious to learn the truth also, and not just for my husband’s sake. These past few days I have found myself wanting to know more of Constance Tyrone.” Ignoring the jostle of pedestrians, she moved aside and signaled for him to join her in the shadow of the Abbey.
“I believe Jeremy must be in some kind of trouble,” she continued. “He may be somewhat…impulsive, but he is incapable of harming anyone. And he certainly had no liaison of the nature you imply with Miss Tyrone.”
So she had understood his earlier remark; not such an innocent, this one, and no fool. Chase smiled. “Many women have been surprised on both counts, I am sure.”
She was struck to silence, looking miserably uncomfortable. “She was not the sort of woman to appeal to him,” she said at last. “But why would anyone want to harm Miss Tyrone, who from all accounts has done so much good?”
“I cannot say. Mrs. Wolfe, allow me to escort you to your husband’s lodgings. Let us hope he has returned and can answer some questions.”
“Now why should that be necessary, sir, if, as you say, Jeremy is in the clear? Still, perhaps together we may unravel this tangle a bit.”
He gave a wry smile. “I suppose any ministering angel may, upon occasion, elect to throw in her lot with the demon, ma’am. Still, should you not be in fear of a soul snatcher like me?”
Chapter Six
The rooms of the St. Catherine Society lay in a corner of the churchyard, a high hedge supplying privacy so that one almost forgot the bustle of the parish church next door. Following the curate’s instructions, Penelope made her way down a path, her steps unnaturally loud, for here the city’s noise was dampened by foliage and the calling of birds. Another late autumn day threw a gloomy canopy overhead. She was quite alone.
As she emerged into the open, two whitewashed, creeper-covered structures, one little more than a cottage, the other somewhat larger, confronted her. Mr. Wood, the curate, had told her that these close-set buildings once served as the old rectory, but today’s incumbent lived elsewhere. Penelope wondered why this property was not given over to Mr. Wood, who looked impecunious enough, but perhaps the rector garnered a greater profit letting it.
Choosing the larger dwelling, she lifted the door knocker, muffled with a black swatch, and plied it vigorously. No response. Finally, she put her hand on the latch and pushed.
When the door opened with a decided creak, Penelope stepped into a small receiving area. Chill and rather dismal, it was furnished with a couple of scratched chairs and a faded needlework settee. Next to the settee a small coal fire smoldered in the hearth. A workbox sat on the floor near a stack of brown paper bundles. There was no one about, which seemed odd for the middle of the day. However, another door beckoned to Penelope’s right, and, after a cursory rap, she entered.
Sunlight leaked through a gap in heavy damask curtains over a French window, probably a recent addition to this old dwelling. She went across the room and looked out on a terrace and tiny back garden encircled by a path disappearing into the shrubbery. In contrast to the rundown churchyard, the flower beds of pansies and marigolds had been carefully tended.
Turning back, Penelope considered the chamber. In the middle of the carpet was a mahogany writing table untidily strewn with papers. Behind the desk, a silk firescreen painted with a Grecian motif flanked a simple chimney-piece. Running along the far wall were enormous bookshelves decorated with several urns and a world globe. She was drawn across the room.
The selection ranged from the classics and books on horticulture to volumes of chapbooks and bundles of penny magazines such as the common folk read. Taking one down, she smiled. A ghost story: The Tale of the Cock Lane Ghost.
Sliding the chapbook back into place, she thought that she really ought to leave before someone discovered her where she had no business to be. But Jeremy was gone, no one knew where, and many would place a sinister construction upon his flight, make a presumption of guilt, in fact. Penelope preferred not to consider what role guilt might play in her own presence here—disobedient daughter, errant wife…
She paused, her eye caught by an open cabinet on the lower shelf where a stack of pamphlets and books seemed about to topple. Instinctively, she put out a hand to straighten it.
A cursory examination told her that the books comprised works by Bentham and Godwin and pamphlets by Cobbett, Paine, Wilberforce, and Cartwright, all reformists or radicals to whose ideas Penelope had been introduced by her father, a man unconventional enough to believe in providing his daughter with something beyond the usual lessons in music and drawing.
Thoughtful now, she lifted up one of the books and began to page through it. Why would Constance Tyrone possess these writings? In Penelope’s experience most philanthropists would rather preachify on the virtues of Christian humility than contemplate real social change. She set down the volume and took up another: Godwin’s Political Justice. But as she opened it, a slim bundle tied up in blue ribbon slipped out and landed at her feet.
Yet another sampling of political tracts, she saw when she picked up the bundle, these composed by one Daniel Partridge, current firebrand of the House of Commons. Penelope remembered her father mentioning this man as the hope of the new generation of reformers; the remark had struck her because her father so rarely spoke in praise of others.
On an impulse, Penelope slid out a pamphlet, setting the rest atop the desk, then went to the window to peruse her find in the light. But when she unfolded the tract, she saw immediately that it held numerous handwritten notations. Afraid the writing might be private in nature, she folded it up again, and suddenly stiffened.
Creak.
In the next room the outside door had opened. She heard garbled mutterings and the chink of coals. Footsteps crossed the floor. Someone fumbled at the door of Constance Tyrone’s office.
With no time for anything more, Penelope slid through the curtains and let herself out the French window into the garden, turning to shut the window behind her. Strange it wasn’t kept locked, but she could only be grateful for the escape route.
Safe in the garden, she released the breath she’d been holding and put Partridge’s tract into her reticule. I’m for it now, she thought. John Chase will be knocking at my door to whisk me off to the hell of the unrepentant thief. She would have to find a way to replace the pamphlet before it was missed.
After smoothing her gloves and straightening her hat, she followed along the path and so was able to approach the frontage again. This time when she knocked an old woman opened the door.
“You the lady Mr. Wood sent along? I looked for you, but you wasn’t on the path.”
“I rather lost my way,” faltered Penelope.
The old woman didn’t seem interested. “I’ll take you to Miss Minton. This way.” She stepped over the threshold to indicate the smaller building. Proceeding to a door off the tiny entry, she called to her mistress and gestured for Penelope to walk in.
The women were gathered around a large deal table, tall tapers at intervals providing light as they stitched at some sort of plainwork. Elizabeth Minton rose from her place and came forward, her surprise eviden
t. Penelope’s heart was pounding as she introduced herself.
“Wolfe?” Miss Minton echoed warily. She wore a severe dress that did not become her. Her cheeks were pale, her expression unyielding.
“Yes, I am Mrs. Jeremy Wolfe. May I have a word with you?”
Miss Minton glanced back at the circle of faces and frowned. The women did not appear to mind the interruption; they had set down their sewing and were observing avidly.
“As you can see, I am occupied at present.”
“A moment only.” Penelope bowed toward the open door.
She nodded. “Keep at your tasks, if you please,” she said over her shoulder as they passed out of the room.
The women bent back to their work, but Penelope could feel eyes boring into her back. Facing Miss Minton, she tried a friendly smile. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
“I must be candid, Mrs. Wolfe. I do not much care for your husband, nor can I imagine what we have to discuss.”
“I must be equally candid, Miss Minton. I cannot blame you in the slightest, but you see, ma’am, I must be acknowledged something of an expert on his character. Feckless he may be, but he did not harm your friend.”
“Oh, but he did. He did great harm to her reputation. And once lost, a lady’s good name may be mourned in vain.”
“In common fairness, you must see that my husband did not intend for his sketches to be exposed to public view. However, I am not here to make his defense, ma’am. I came to beg your pardon and to offer my help.”
“Help? You are very good, but I cannot conceive of your meaning. You should return home to your husband and discover what the example of a loving and virtuous wife may do to reform his character.”
Wrestling with her temper, Penelope had to draw a deep breath before she could continue. “Your counsel perhaps does not come amiss, madam, but I have yet to explain my purpose in coming here. In the last few days, I have read the newspaper reports about Miss Tyrone and also heard the evidence at the Coroner’s inquest. And I have felt that the authorities are merely groping in the dark. Somehow they cannot see her.”