by S K Rizzolo
“We don’t know everything yet, ma’am. But whatever you can add will be of help.” He made a guess. “Were you perhaps the one to serve when they visited?”
“Yes, sir. They always took our private parlor, and I’d bring their tea. Miss Constance liked to pour out for her friend, so I’d just leave it.”
“She told you her name?”
Mrs. Royster looked surprised. “Why yes, sir. Once her gentleman friend was behind time, and we had ourselves a bit of a chat.” Her face softened. “She was worried that I looked done for, after me to rest.” Briefly, her hand drifted over her stomach, and Chase saw that she was pregnant. With her slight frame and voluminous apron, her condition hadn’t been readily apparent.
Her eyes glistening with tears, she continued, “She was the one what worked hard, always bent over those papers fit to make your head ache. Planning a school for poor children and their mams, she was. Ah, a saint, that one, and I won’t hear nothing said against her.”
“Your husband received quite a different impression of the lady’s presence here.”
She dashed tears away with her sleeve. “What do you expect? To him, there’s only one reason to put a man and woman alone together. Besides, you can ask my friend Polly Welles over at the York. She’ll tell you same as me.”
A sense of anticipation stealing over him, Chase leaned closer. “What would she know of this?”
“I didn’t tell Evan because he’d just claim the York be stealing our custom, but Miss Constance and her friend used to meet there from time to time. Not so often as here, of course.”
Now that is something Daniel Partridge forgot to mention, thought Chase. Curious, that. Chase would call upon Polly. Thanking Mrs. Royster, he took himself off.
Ten minutes later he stood in the taproom at the York, requesting to speak to Mrs. Welles. The rather stern-faced man behind the counter, presumably her husband, gave him a clouded look, but obliged by calling his wife in a voice that practically vibrated the rafters. The woman who presented herself a moment later presented a strong contrast to her friend Mrs. Royster. Strolling casually toward them, Polly Welles emanated confidence. She too had left her youth behind, but life seemed to have been kinder to her. Her cheeks were unlined, her eyes still bright.
“What are you shouting for?” she demanded of the man behind the counter. “I’m up to my elbows in pickles this morning.” True enough, a strong, sharp odor had wafted into the room with her.
The man jerked his head at Chase. “This gentleman is asking for you. What’s your business with my wife, sir?”
Chase nodded pleasantly. “John Chase, Bow Street. I’ll take just a few minutes of her time, if you please, and she can tell you all about it later. It’s nothing that reflects poorly upon Mrs. Welles or this establishment.”
Polly’s husband thrust out his jaw, seeming inclined to argue. She said, “Oh, give over, do, love. You’d think he had something improper in mind. We’ll have our little talk over there where you can keep your eye on us.”
She pointed to a corner table. Turning to Chase, she gave him a grin and a broad wink. “Not such a bad thing to have a jealous husband after all these years. He looks fierce, but he’s a gentle sort unless someone trifles with me.”
“One can hardly blame him for being careful, Mrs. Welles,” Chase replied gallantly, earning him a delighted laugh from the woman and another glare from the husband.
Declining her offer of refreshment, he followed her toward the table and sat across from her. She regarded him with friendly interest.
“I’ve just been speaking to Mrs. Royster at the Bull’s Head,” Chase began. “She told me of a conversation the two of you had about a certain lady and gentleman frequenting both your establishments.”
She knew immediately whom he meant. “Yes, sir. They’s unusual, you see. We don’t often get folk of that stamp. Literary sorts, yes, as well as artists, players and such. But no gentlemen quite so genteel, and definitely no ladies.”
“Mrs. Welles, you must have heard of the woman who was strangled and trampled in the street near here?”
Smile fading, she nodded.
“She was the same woman who had been coming here and to the Bull’s Head with her friend.”
The color blanched from Polly Welles’ face. “Was it him? Did he harm her?”
“I don’t know yet, but I can promise you I intend to find out. Will you help me by answering a few questions?”
“Of course, I will.” Her brows snapped together. “Ask me. Though I don’t know anything to the purpose.”
Her story was much the same as Mrs. Royster’s. Constance Tyrone and Daniel Partridge had taken luncheon at the York some four or five times. Again, they bespoke a private parlor and seemed to be hard at work. When Polly had entered the room to serve, they were always engaged in earnest discussion.
“I never saw him so much as touch her hand. Still, when he looked at her, he had such a light in his eyes. I would have thought they were brother and sister but for that.”
“What of the lady?”
She considered. “I don’t know. Oh, she liked him, sir, but she wasn’t the type to go for a little pleasure on the sly.”
“You’ve been enormously helpful, Mrs. Welles.” Chase smiled at her. “One more question: when was the last time you saw them? Try to remember the exact date if you can, please ma’am.”
“Let’s see.” She stared fixedly at the wall behind him. “It wasn’t too long since. In fact, must’ve been about a fortnight ago.”
Chase’s heart began to pound. Partridge had said he had last seen Constance Tyrone back in October.
“Are you sure, Mrs. Welles? Can you pinpoint the day?”
“Yes, I can,” she cried, jumping to her feet. “I keep a record of our best paying regulars, so when next they stop with us I always know what we served. That way I can tempt ’em with a new dish or two.”
She walked quickly across the room and went behind the counter. Her husband, watching her curiously, started to ask a question, but she shook her head at him. Returning to Chase with a logbook, she flipped to the appropriate page.
“Here it is, sir. The lady and gentleman were here the afternoon of Monday, 11 November. Tea that day with fritters and plum cake.” She looked at him. “When did you say she passed on, poor soul?”
Chase didn’t answer, instead pulling the book closer and reading the entry for himself. And there it was: Monday, 11 November. Daniel Partridge had tea with the victim on the last day of her life.
Watching him curiously, Polly Welles said, “Nothing out of ordinary happened. Just talk as usual.”
“How long were they here?”
“Oh, a couple of hours, say from a trifle past two to about four.”
Chase stood, holding out his hand and smiling down at her. “I am grateful for your assistance, Mrs. Welles.”
Once outside, Chase wended his way through the traffic, a cold drizzle slapping at his face. He would seek out the curate Thaddeus Wood at St. Catherine’s to find out if he had remembered anything more. Maggie saw the victim leave the Society about two o’clock that Monday afternoon, but no one so far had admitted to seeing her return, even though the boots proved she must have. And Partridge had lied. He was, in fact, the last known person to see Constance Tyrone alive. What else might he have neglected to reveal?
Entering the churchyard, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. A figure in a dark coat lay prone under the rosebushes that lined the wall.
The man was scratching among the leaves while grumbling, “Bloody thorns, blast the mud…”
Chase approached with a cautious step till he came up behind. “Are you in need of assistance, sir?”
Chapter Thirteen
Buckler had encountered no trouble following Donovan’s directions through the churchyard to the garden. He had stopped by the reception area of the St. Catherine Society to call on Penelope Wolfe, but was informed by a suspicious old woman that Mrs.
Wolfe had “gone off.” Thus dismissed, he turned to his true purpose.
The grounds were all but deserted in this inclement weather and for good reason. With everything so tangled and muddy it was difficult to move about. Moreover, since the Irishman could not remember exactly where he’d found the slipper, several clumps of shrubs all needed to be searched. At least that was what Thorogood had decreed, and it was left to Buckler to worry about the practicalities. He had already worked his way along the ivy-covered wall toward a shed obscured in the overgrown foliage, but for all his effort, had discovered precisely nothing. He did not even know what he hoped to find, anything out of the ordinary he supposed.
Well, there was nothing here but very ordinary mud, rotting leaves, and insects. He had turned over enough rocks now to be unmoved at the crawly things that skittered away at his inspection. Lying on his stomach on the damp ground with his head sticking under a bush, he was about to admit defeat.
But when the figure materialized above him, shadowing what faint light filtered through the storm clouds, he too felt like skittering into some kind of shelter.
“Are you in need of assistance, sir?” the man inquired.
Water spilled from Buckler’s hat brim into his eyes as he rolled over to confront a harsh-featured, implacable face. “Just…having a look around.”
“I’ll help you up, shall I?”
A hand extended to haul Buckler to his feet. Buckler brushed himself off, grimaced at the mud stains on his coat, and used his handkerchief to mop his face, thus gaining a few moments to salvage his composure. When he felt slightly more presentable, he looked at the man and wondered what explanation to offer.
“I came to call upon a friend at the St. Catherine Society, but found her out.”
“You’ve taken her absence rather to heart,” the man replied, gaze flicking toward the muddied knees of Buckler’s trousers. “Or did you expect to find her under that bush?”
Buckler forced a smile. “You are mistaken, sir. My motive for being in so…uh…singular a position is professional. I am Edward Buckler. A barrister.”
“I own I had a rather different impression of our eminent gentlemen of the Bar. I am relieved to discover, after all, that you barristers do occasionally venture into the real world and can only hope your client prizes such strenuous effort on his behalf. You do have a client, sir?”
The certainty flashed into Buckler’s mind that this was the Bow Street Runner whom Penelope had described last night. He said, “John Chase, is it not? You are the officer looking into the Tyrone matter?”
“If I am?”
“Why, then I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He held out his hand.
Chase took it. “Why are you here, Mr. Buckler?”
The rain had begun to fall more thickly, and Buckler was forced to ignore the rivulets running down the back of his neck. “You are aware, Mr. Chase, that my original connection to the matter arose from Mrs. Wolfe’s consultation on behalf of her husband?”
He nodded warily. “I have long wished conversation with Mr. Jeremy Wolfe. Dare I suppose you are privy to his whereabouts?”
“I know nothing of him. Rather, I have been brought into the matter again, purely coincidentally.”
“I don’t much believe in coincidence, sir. You had best explain yourself.”
Buckler hesitated. He did not feel entire confidence in the Runner’s integrity, despite Penelope’s belief. However, he thought that John Chase’s expertise would prove more efficacious than his own unskilled attempts at investigation.
Chase said, “Must I remind you, sir, that this is a murder inquiry?” He pulled out his watch, frowning at the raindrops splattering on its crystal. “Blast it, man, if you’ve got something, let us have it. I’ve work today.”
“What would you say, Mr. Chase, to the missing slipper having been found somewhere in this area on the morning Constance Tyrone’s body was discovered?”
“First, I should express myself curious as to the source of your intelligence.” Chase stepped closer.
“I imagine you are well able to turn your curiosity in the proper direction.”
A spark ignited in the officer’s eyes. “Ah, so the Irishman surfaces. Assuming I am willing to credit what you say, Mr. Buckler, what precisely do you seek?”
“Have you considered the implications, sir?”
“They fairly jump out at one. If Constance Tyrone were attacked in the garden that night, the culprit must have had access to these premises after dark. Ergo, another visit to the curate is in order—for starters.”
“Exactly. Shall we finish here first?” Deliberately, Buckler resumed his task.
But as he lifted yet another thorny branch, Chase addressed him casually, as though resuming an earlier conversation. “If you barristers strayed from your sacred precincts more often, you might learn something more of the world’s ways. Perhaps then your colleagues would not be so quick to influence credulous juries to evade the law. Silks, fine cambric wipes, Nottingham lace, any item of luxury—all plummet in value just so jurors may avoid a capital conviction.”
Buckler strove for patience. “Do you truly expect them to send a poor man to the gallows for stealing a bit of cloth?”
“Why, Mr. Buckler, is not the majesty of the law at risk if mere men are allowed to trifle with it? I should think the law ought to be changed if it be wrong.” With hair plastered to his head, the officer’s beak nose was more prominent than ever. Fat raindrops struck it and rolled down to drip off its end.
“This is an absurd conversation,” Buckler said tightly. “And why do I seem to be the only one looking for clues in the mud whilst you remain on the path?”
“Miss Tyrone’s other slipper was not dirty. If she walked through these grounds, she assuredly kept to the path. Ho, this is interesting. I’ve never remarked this shed amid all the shrubbery.”
Chase pushed open the rickety door and stepped inside, his feet crunching over leaves. Entering behind him, Buckler took a moment to adjust both eyes and nose to the interior. All seemed long abandoned. Several up-ended pots had spilled their contents of withered cuttings. Spades, pruning tools, and bags of transplanting soil were scattered about.
The officer seemed particularly interested in a pile of old sacks in one corner. He bent to retrieve one that nearly disintegrated in his grip, leaving a handful of fibers.
“You’ve found something?” asked Buckler.
“I discovered similar threads on Miss Tyrone’s clothing along with some leaves. I suppose that might suggest she was here. Not that this means your client may wriggle free.”
“Why should he lead me to a murder scene? No sense in that, sir.”
Chase looked up, irritated. “What makes you believe the word of a man who would say anything to save his skin? And this may not be where Miss Tyrone was killed.”
“She had no key to the gate in her possession, I understand, and thus could not have entered the premises after the curate locked up. She must have returned from her errand in the afternoon and never left unless she was in the habit of walking around London with only one shoe.”
“Anyone could have tossed the slipper in the churchyard before I ever examined the body. We have only Donovan’s word for where he found it anyway.”
Buckler let out his breath in a frustrated sigh. “Still, it seems likely she was killed right here on the grounds and her body transported to the street to make her death appear a random assault. Surely you’ve noticed that Donovan is hardly of a size or strength to move her or to have throttled her so viciously in the first place. You should be seeking elsewhere.”
“Pull in your horns, sir,” Chase advised with maddening calm. “I do have someone else in mind, not that it’s any of your affair.” He moved away to examine the door, pulling it shut. It stayed closed, but barely.
“What is it?” asked Buckler.
“This shed is hardly secure. I cannot see how Miss Tyrone could have been held prisoner here, so
where was she between say four o’clock and her death sometime after midnight?”
Buckler looked blank.
Chase’s gaze was still on the door. “But if we were wrong in the time of death… If she died earlier, say before dark, when anyone had access to the grounds, she might have been hidden.”
Buckler interrupted. “Then how was the body transferred to the street late that night? The person who moved her would still require entry to the churchyard.”
They looked at one another. “You are correct,” said Chase.
After another quick glance around, he stepped out and set a brisk pace toward the church, his boots sloshing through the puddles on the path.
Buckler followed. “Wait,” he called. “I shall accompany you.”
***
Chase and Buckler entered St. Catherine’s. The day’s chill had permeated the walls, and Chase could hear the thin whistle of wind from without and the sound of rain striking the roof. They walked into the nave, their footsteps echoing. Chase suppressed a twinge as the damp seemed to sink into his aching knee.
A voice came out of the emptiness. “May I be of service?”
Thaddeus Wood wore a black cassock, slightly wrinkled and dusty, which hung on his thin limbs, scarecrow-like. He had apparently been cleaning the tall mahogany pulpit, for he held a rag in one hand and polish in the other.
Wood came forward. “What brings you to God’s house, Mr. Chase? Mind your step, gentlemen. The roof is leaking. I’ve set out pots to catch the water.”
The warning came just in time for Buckler, who slid and nearly tripped over one of the pans in his path. He recovered, shooting Chase an uncertain look.
After making the introductions, Chase said, “I’d like to go over your memories of the final day of Miss Tyrone’s life, sir. Something may have occurred to you that will prove useful.”
“I fear I cannot tell you anything more than I already have. May I ask if your investigation has borne fruit?”
“We are beginning to achieve results.”
“Good news indeed. Yet I am not truly surprised, for God rewards any sustained effort.” He regarded Chase with his clear-eyed gaze. “You are a man who understands that simple truth, I believe.”