by S K Rizzolo
Strickland’s voice seemed to rise unnaturally loud. “Open up.” He pushed against the door until it gave, then marched in, his men remaining outside to face the crowd. Chase entered behind him.
Climbing the stairs, the stench of excrement hit them like a blow. At the top they found a cramped room. The only furnishings in evidence were a plank table, one ancient bedstead, and a loom. No fire for warmth. Paper had been painstakingly pasted over cracks in the oversized window to protect the silk and provide some semblance of comfort, Chase assumed.
Strickland had cornered Donovan, a short, prematurely bent man, eyes blazing in a thin face. Gaze locked on Strickland’s, he took one step backward. Huddled against the wall were his wife and a child, so small they could have been dwarfs cowering in some cave. The woman’s tiny hands clutched at her child.
“You come along quiet,” bellowed Strickland.
“Not till I know what I done,” came the answer. Donovan glanced wildly at the door, back at his wife. She wept silently, and the child burrowed its face in her apron.
“You’d best come with us, lad,” said Chase quietly. “We mean no harm to your family.”
“Who are you?”
“Bow Street,” said Strickland, a joyful demon light in his eyes. He picked up Donovan by his hair and pushed him against the wall. Against the officer’s beefy arm, Donovan was a pitiful bag of bones. As the Runner slung him higher, Chase said, “Strickland.”
“I’ll handle this,” Strickland said over his shoulder. “These people need to respect the law.”
Letting Donovan slump at his feet, he slapped cuffs on him and dragged him across the floor to the stairs, the family in the corner watching in dull silence.
But the gathering outside showed no more respect to Strickland than the weather did. In spite of the driving rain, the circle had tightened.
“Turning ugly,” said Farley, meeting them at the door.
Chase felt a current flow through the spectators. He heard someone shout, “They come for Donovan today, they be coming for you tomorrow.” Voices roared in agreement.
“You Irish back off now,” Strickland shouted.
Holding their pikes lengthwise, the constables pushed against the bodies, trying futilely to create a pathway. When the people saw Donovan clamped under Strickland’s arm, they pressed even closer.
“Take him that way,” called Chase urgently. He pointed at an opening between the buildings, presumably leading to an alley. Nodding, Farley began to edge forward. Strickland, swearing now, tapped one of his men on the shoulder, jerked his head toward the gap, and began to struggle toward it.
In the scuffle the costermonger’s barrow tipped and came crashing down, scattering metal bits to be ground under foot and buried by mud. The vendor let out a howl, dropping to his knees. The water poured down his bent head. Almost falling over him, Strickland recovered and stumbled on. He kicked aside the coster’s goods as he went.
Chase had just reached the mouth of the alley when suddenly a great bullock charged out of the street opposite, a shouting, laughing mob in its wake. By chance, the throng had picked this narrow court for their mad sport of running the bull. They had probably shoved peas in its ears or driven an iron-pointed stick into its body to enrage it. Now the goliath ran straight toward the rabble gathered at Donovan’s door.
Screaming, people rushed in all directions, but their efforts to disperse only confused the bull. It found itself in an enclosed space with no apparent way out, the storm only inflaming it further. Shaking its head to clear the rain, the bull shifted first in one direction, then another, and pawed the ground. Finally, it turned toward Strickland and Donovan, still pinned to the side of the building.
Strickland tried to raise his tipstaff, but the crush of bodies bore him inexorably back. Seeing his opportunity, Donovan wrenched out of the officer’s grasp and began to inch away. Chase watched him go. There was nothing he could do. He crushed his own panic, letting the wave of fleeing people wash by. Farley and the rest of Strickland’s band were swept away. The bull, alone now in the center of the court, lowered its head and made as if to plunge after the scattering crowd.
Chase reluctantly drew one of his pistols and approached the beast. Raising the pistol, he clicked the cock with his thumb. He sighted the massive head, made sure of his opening, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell. Flint struck against the steel frizzen, sending a shower of sparks into the pan. And Chase held his breath for the eternal moment between the flash of priming powder and the roar of the main charge.
The bull fell to its knees, face buried in thick mud. Blood oozed from its wound and mingled with the rain and filth to form a dark puddle on the cobbles. The mob had dispersed into alleys and shop doors, leaving only the officers, a few unconscious bodies, and the costermonger still scrabbling in the muck. Strickland was cursing again and clutching at an injured wrist. Of Donovan there was no sign. Chase put away his pistol and sighed heavily.
***
At dusk in Temple Gardens the barrier between past and present turned fluid and ghosts walked. Here and there if Buckler looked closely he caught a glimpse of knights filing toward the ancient round Church, heads bowed in penitence. He might see a lawyer, aged and crow-like, bending toward the peacock courtier at his side or a group of clattering students on their way to a revel in the Hall.
Buckler didn’t mind the spirits. In fact, he preferred their company to that of the general run of human. For the ghosts reminded him that man’s petty cares, so all consuming in life, would one day become nothing more than fit matter for an amusing story.
Failing lasting glory, the best one could hope for in death was anonymity. To be remembered as a villain was not a fate that appealed to Buckler. Even less would he like to be the butt of some jest for centuries. And in the Inner and Middle Temple, memories were long, men of law having a tendency to speak of long ago events as though they had happened yesterday.
They still talked of the day in 1669 when the Lord Mayor, summoned to the Reader’s Feast, dared to enter the Temple bearing the City Sword aloft, blatant provocation since neither learned society acknowledged itself as part of the City’s jurisdiction. Determined to humble him for his temerity, a group of irate students struck down the sword and chased the Lord Mayor into ignominious retreat. Buckler thought of this fellow anytime he felt inclined to self-importance—which wasn’t often these days.
Most evenings he took a solitary walk about the grounds, dressed in a voluminous coat and wide-brim hat. After long days spent huddled over his desk, he needed the air to reinvigorate a dulled brain. Usually, he had to force himself to leave his fireside, and some days he just couldn’t manage; the lethargy was too strong.
Now he paced slowly through the rain-freshened gardens and the various courts and small streets, utterly familiar and prosaic territory that regained its mystery with night’s advent. He was thinking of the Constance Tyrone affair, his clerk, Bob, having just told him of Bow Street’s ill-fated foray into Bethnal Green. The evening papers had vaunted the news in a mixture of gleeful satire and outrage, making much of the bovine “accomplice” that had allowed the Irishman to escape. The outcome, however, was no laughing matter: there was still a killer on the loose, whether or not the authorities had seized upon the right man in Kevin Donovan.
Buckler was curious too about the fate of Penelope Wolfe, though he knew himself to be well out of that muddle. Learning of her husband’s disappearance, he had wondered what she would do. Possibly, the absence of a feckless husband might not make that much difference. Buckler had asked Thorogood what on earth had driven her to marry Wolfe in the first place; he couldn’t imagine a more ill-suited pair. In typical fashion, Thorogood had shrugged and delivered himself of a bit of wisdom courtesy of the ancients: something about overmastering passion conquering all reason, as Buckler recalled.
Entering Fountain Court, Buckler came suddenly upon one of his colleagues, Mr. Leonard Crouch, rising young luminary of
the Bar in spite of, or perhaps because of, his unremittingly obnoxious efforts to bring himself into view. Buckler wished he could retreat, but Crouch had seen him.
“Ah, Buckler.” At the sound of his voice any lingering ghosts fled in dismay. “I’ve just been round to the Grecian to see Thompson. Wanted to tell him my news, a good bit of luck. Seems I’m to be briefed in the Ship’s Bank matter.”
“Well done,” said Buckler.
“Not that Fortune is entirely responsible. All it takes is a word, my friend, a word in the right ear, and the thing is accomplished.”
Carrying a wine glass in his hand, Crouch still wore a long, black gown and white neck bands, but had removed his wig. He always took pains to appear older, for he worried that prospective clients would not entrust their delicate affairs to so young a man. Accordingly, he had modified his stride to a dignified walk and styled his hair in a fashion more suited to a man of fifty than to one barely in his thirties.
They strolled together toward the fountain, passing Middle Temple Hall, an Elizabethan structure with its oak double hammerbeam roof. Smoke from the Hall’s central open fireplace was pouring out of the roof’s decorative cupola.
“As for you, Buckler, ’tis well and good to make a name for yourself, but I wouldn’t defend any more corpses were I you. One such case has a sort of piquancy. Any more, however, and you stand in danger of making yourself ridiculous. Not a very lucrative field either, as I rather think you won’t find a steady supply of dead men in need of your services. Unless you decide to represent the victims of grave robbers.” He gave a bark of laughter. “I tell you this as one devoted to your interests, of course.”
Buckler tried to look suitably somber. “Of course. But who was to know? Perhaps other grieving relatives will be emboldened to seek redress for their wrongs. It is indecent to imprison a dead man for debt, not allowing him a Christian burial. Justice was served.”
“Justice? It’s not about justice. A pretty word, but we do a job, my friend, defending or prosecuting as the case may be. We owe it to ourselves to get ahead in this business. Which means working toward one day taking silk and finally making something of our lives. It’s a contest, Buckler, as much a sport as a bout in the ring or a run on the turf, but with even more at stake. Only a few win.”
Buckler nodded and leaned against the fence. If he had to listen to Crouch, he might as well be comfortable. But perhaps his companion would take himself off, for the evening grew markedly chill, and Crouch, creature of cramped chambers, convivial pubs, and stuffy law courts, was hardly the type to appreciate fresh air. He loitered, however, raising a finger to Buckler’s face.
“Never give quarter to the enemy. That is why the Corsican Rogue has been so successful. I tell you, if you spot weakness, you must pounce on it, throwing all at a breach in the lines. That is the course we must follow to win this accursed War. And that is how I intend to prevail in my personal affairs.”
“Brilliant, my boy.” Ezekiel Thorogood popped up from behind the fountain and stood applauding gently. “Perhaps you should advise Wellington. Though I hear a waiting game is more to his taste.”
Silhouetted against the shooting water, Thorogood took a handkerchief from his pocket and removed his spectacles to wipe the spots. Then he dabbed his brow and pronounced, “Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed Tuo Nomini da gloriam. Not to us, O Lord, not to us, but to Thy Name give the glory.”
It was the old battle cry of the Knights Templar, intended to rouse the monks’ blood as they charged into the fray against all infidels. Crouch, taken aback, gaped at Thorogood, but true to his calling made a rapid recovery.
“Behold. The perfect illustration of my lesson: knight errant and respectable attorney.” He bowed to Thorogood. “Or should I say knight error and rapscallions’ attorney.”
He smiled at his own wit, adding, “Consort with his like, Buckler, and when I am K.C. you will still be here whiling away bootless hours in these gardens.”
“He shall indeed be in a garden by the time you are a King’s Counsel,” replied Thorogood. “Resting comfortably beneath a fine headstone. Be off, Crouch. I need a word with Buckler.”
Without another word, Crouch turned on his heel and hurried back toward the coffee house, completely forgetting to moderate his stride.
“Well,” huffed Thorogood, “you can thank me for ridding you of that priggish boor. But why the deuce can’t you be in your chambers when a man has need of you? I am far too old for pursuit.”
“Oh, did we have an engagement? Remiss of me.”
He chuckled. “None of your cheek now. I thought we might have a little chat is all.”
Buckler looked at him in patent disbelief. “A social call? I knew there must be a reason why any respectable barrister would as soon sit down to dinner with a housebreaker as consort with you attorneys. What is it, Thorogood? Not another affair that no sooner sends me into the hell pit of Newgate than it evaporates?”
“Strange circumstance that, though the object was achieved. An innocent man was set free, and justice was served, however circuitously.”
“Justice? It’s not about justice; it’s… Now you’ve got me quoting that ass Crouch.”
“Do be careful, Buckler. I should hate to have to drop your acquaintance. I’m far too old to make new friends.” He paused. “Would you be interested to know the status of the Tyrone matter, especially in regard to young Mrs. Wolfe?”
“Has the husband returned then? I hope they shall live happily ever after.”
Thorogood’s shrewd glance raked his face. “By Jupiter, I didn’t realize she had struck you so. A distinguished looking woman, I agree, but irrevocably leg-shackled. Too much spirit for you anyway.”
Buckler knew better than to deny it. “I find many women striking, but married ladies strike me with fear rather than admiration.”
Thorogood laughed again and gripped his shoulder briefly with a large hand. “No, Jeremy Wolfe is still missing and likely to remain so if you ask me. I fear my friend Mrs. Wolfe and her daughter must contrive on their own. Which is not entirely a bad thing, one reflects, as Wolfe could make matters most unpleasant for her should he choose to exert his prerogatives. Appropriate her funds or even take the child.”
“How does she manage anyway? An independent income?”
“Her father makes her a small allowance, and she writes the odd piece for publication, yet I believe she has ambitions in quite another direction.”
“Indeed?”
“She wants to write biography, something like Boswell did with Samuel Johnson, I suppose. Take a renowned subject and record the particulars of his life in order to offer up a living portrait.”
Buckler didn’t comment, focusing his gaze on the sky. It was that indescribable color that one only saw just when darkness gained the ascendancy while the last of the light lingered. Thorogood’s next words snapped his attention back.
“Actually, I came to tell you of an intriguing visit I received today from Mr. Jedidiah Merkle. To speak of another beetle-headed man of law. Worse than Crouch, I vow.”
“What did he want?”
“Difficult to fathom, friend, but clearly there was some thought possessing that little mind. He spoke in riddles. From what I could gather, he desired to inform me that should Mr. Jeremy Wolfe’s wife find herself in any need, his ‘esteemed client’ is willing to come to her aid. Merkle didn’t explain why this unnamed client is prepared to assist a woman who is presumably a perfect stranger.”
“Did he say where Wolfe is?”
“No, but I have the greatest faith we shall find out in due course. Come, I’ve a fancy for a short stroll, then possibly some refreshment at a local establishment. What do you say?”
Thorogood led the way toward the river at a brisk pace. “The days grow short and all the shorter for me, I fear. I’m not getting any younger, my dear Buckler.” He coughed.
“I waste no pity on you, old man. Fit as a stoat and married to a handsome widow mu
ch your junior.” Buckler looked at him in sudden suspicion. “Whenever you start to play on my sympathies, it’s usually to induce me to take on some dubious scheme for which I might receive the grand remuneration of several chickens or a cask of ale. If I’m lucky.”
Thorogood kept going, his reply floating back. “May I remind you that our last adventure was reported by all the major papers, and you came out something of a hero. Moreover, those chickens made quite a sumptuous feast. Pecunia non olet.”
Buckler halted. “Quite right: money does not smell, but the chickens certainly did. By the by, where are we going? I’ve already had my walk. I’m more than ready for that refreshment you mentioned. Besides it’s cold and will be even colder by the river if that is your destination.”
“Just a trifle farther.” Thorogood’s portly figure hurried toward the Temple stairs, starting down. He didn’t look back.
“Watch it,” Buckler called, exasperated. “It gets slippery just there. I don’t fancy explaining a broken limb to your wife.” Hurrying to catch up, he followed the lawyer down the stone steps.
Thorogood turned to address him, all trace of his habitual good humor banished from his countenance. “You were right, Buckler. I do have a matter for your consideration. You see, I’ve been approached by a man with wife and child. He has been wrongly accused of a heinous crime. He is poor and of an unpopular faith.”
Buckler sighed. “Another one, Thorogood? But couldn’t we discuss the matter in more comfortable surroundings?” He shivered in the sharp wind blowing off the Thames and pulled his hat lower on his head. Below them the black river tumbled by.
“He is being made a scapegoat. The authorities need an arrest to save face, and the government wants a hanging to placate the mob.”
“Wait. I begin to understand. Is this innocent man Irish by any chance? By the name of Donovan?”
Thorogood remained silent.
“God save us if it isn’t the Tyrone business again. The man is as good as gallows meat according to the news sheets. I thought he was on the run. Here is my best legal advice: tell him to leave the city—escape to Ireland or make his way to America.”