by S K Rizzolo
Not one for religion as a general rule, Chase was always a little leery of those who invoked the Lord in all too human situations. Too often he had known men to use God as a cloak for hypocrisy or an excuse for failure.
He said abruptly, “We need to know of anyone you recall seeing on the church grounds the afternoon and evening of the murder. Anyone at all, sir.”
“Just those I have already mentioned. I am afraid the details are indistinct since that day was much like any other. Miss Tyrone’s death has been a terrible blow. I fear many of my flock will suffer at the loss of one who fought so tirelessly for the poor.”
“Your own duties must keep you much occupied in the parish, sir.” Chase was well aware that most curates were paid only a pittance for their labors while their superiors garnered the real profits of the living.
“Yes, the rector has entrusted much of the daily business to my hands. You see, Mr. Stonegrate is also in possession of the livings for several other parishes.”
Buckler spoke for the first time. “Your flock is happily blessed in so devoted a shepherd.”
“The Church is my life. Though the labor is hard, the rewards are great.” His smile lit up the dimness.
What rewards? Chilblains? Thrice darned socks? Try as he might, Chase did not understand men like Thaddeus Wood, just as he had never understood his own father. Watching Wood pick up one of the pots and pour some of the excess water into another vessel, he observed, “No doubt the Reverend Mr. Stonegrate looks to his own reward?”
Wood looked stricken. He kept his eyes on his pans as if fascinated suddenly by the plink of the drops striking the metal. Buckler cast a frowning glance at Chase and asked quickly, “I take it the rector is not much concerned with the St. Catherine Society?”
“Miss Tyrone was essentially autonomous in her activities. The work she did was important and she herself an exemplary Christian.”
“I won’t argue with you there, sir,” said Chase, “but I should like to inquire if you ever saw Miss Tyrone accompanied by a gentleman friend? Dark, handsome fellow?”
Buckler raised his brows. Chase ignored him.
Wood said fiercely, “She had no gentleman friend, sir. Miss Tyrone was a virtuous woman devoted to her calling in life. I will not for a moment countenance the wagging of foolish tongues. Spiteful people who never once in their lives possessed a spark of imagination to pity the suffering of others, or lifted a finger to aid the unfortunate.”
The curate’s growing passion had smoothed his speech and burnished his cheeks with color. For the first time Chase could understand how this rather meek man might command the respect of a parish. “Friendship comes in many forms,” he reminded Wood. “I did not mean to suggest anything dishonorable.”
The curate nodded, self-consciousness returning.
Buckler asked, “Whom do you recall seeing that last day?”
“I encountered Mr. Bertram Tyrone in the churchyard about half past three. He had been round to the Society and found his sister gone out. We exchanged a few words before he went on his way.”
“You actually observed him take his departure?” said Buckler.
“No, for I went back into the church, but he said he’d see her at home later. Why should he linger?”
Chase exchanged a glance with Buckler, then said quietly, “Anyone else, Mr. Wood?”
“Just the Tyrones’ coachman and Mr. Strap, the surgeon. I saw them walk down the path together and out the gate about five. The coachman came every day to collect Miss Tyrone. As for Mr. Strap, I believe he had an appointment which, of course, she failed to keep.”
“You locked up about half past five, is that right? Was anyone left on the grounds?”
“It’s hard to say, Mr. Chase. Miss Minton often departs earlier, at perhaps four, so as to get home before nightfall. The doorkeeper, Winnie, normally locks up the Society buildings and goes out through the Church after a short interval of quiet prayer. But she apparently went home ill that day, so I assume one of the other women closed up.”
“Fiona, I think,” murmured Chase and was surprised to see Wood give a faint start, his hand clenching on the rail at his side. Suddenly alert, he said, “You know Fiona, do you not?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Did you see her leave?”
There was something more here. The curate had withdrawn again behind a carefully wooden face and was ostentatiously checking his pots for about the fifth time. Buckler, looking rather like a drowned fox with his red hair straggling over his collar, stood regarding him, his expression intent.
“No, I didn’t see Fiona leave,” Wood admitted at length. “I returned to my own lodgings soon thereafter. She must have slipped out unnoticed.”
“There was no one else on the grounds that night so far as you know?”
“Only Mr. Stonegrate. He was in his office working all that evening, Mr. Chase. He fell asleep by the fire. I found him there the next morning after—”
“After you discovered Miss Tyrone’s body?” said Buckler.
“Yes,” Wood whispered, bowing his head. “I was extremely grateful for his presence, as you can well believe. It was a terrible moment.”
“I shall have to speak to the rector, of course,” said Chase. “When do you expect him, or perhaps you can provide his direction?”
The curate looked unhappy. “As it happens, sir, he is in his office this afternoon. Shall I see if he is able to receive you?”
“If you think our dirt will not offend him,” put in Buckler. “I fear the inclement weather has left its mark.” He gave Wood a charming smile.
“No matter, Mr. Buckler. It is only to be expected, after all. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I shall inquire.”
A moment later Wood was back. He escorted them through the vestry and down a short corridor, where he rapped on a door and stood aside, bidding them good evening.
A blaze of light and warmth greeted them, and for a moment Chase could not see. Slowly he made out a roaring fire and a man sitting at a large desk. Garbed in full wig, frock coat, and breeches, the Reverend Mr. Horace Stonegrate was gray-haired and fleshy, particularly around the jowls. In spite of his surplus flesh, there was not a hint of softness about him.
Though the furnishings were modest enough, the expensive wax candles indicated that the rector was a man who liked his comforts.
“You’re from Bow Street?” Stonegrate said. “What may I do for you?” Pointedly, he didn’t rise, his expression disapproving as he took in their mud-spattered attire. Magnified by his spectacles, his eyes were hard.
“John Chase, Bow Street, sir.” He paused, adding deliberately, “And may I present Mr. Edward Buckler, barrister of the Inner Temple?”
Chase had marked his man well, for Stonegrate’s manner underwent an immediate thaw. Rising ponderously to his feet, the clergyman ushered them to two chairs and faced them again across the desk.
“Well, gentlemen, your business must be pressing indeed for you to call on so bleak an afternoon. Not that I mind the diversion, for I’ve had my nose to the grindstone for some hours. Writing my memoirs, you know. Friends tell me ’twill make as good a read as any novel and imbued with much sounder principles! Mind, I don’t intend to publish, at least not in my lifetime. If, after I am gone, the family overrides my wishes and makes the manuscript available, I shan’t have a thing to say about it, now will I?”
Having directed this extraordinary speech at Buckler, Stonegrate folded his plump fingers and awaited his reply.
“Indeed, sir. Your family will presumably wish to bequeath your work to posterity,” he managed.
Unable to help himself, Chase put in, “So I should burn the thing before you die if you truly disdain exposure to the public gaze.”
Buckler gave a little cough into the silence that met this remark, but Stonegrate never blinked. Apparently the rector had selective hearing.
Stonegrate fixed his flat-eyed gaze on Buckler. “Well then. Your time is valuable
, sir, and I shall not waste it. My curate tells me you’re here about the Tyrone matter. A tragedy. But we must always remember that God’s design is inscrutable, yet merciful.”
When no one commented, he went on, “Still, fine family, the Tyrones. Not at all the kind of people you’d expect to be touched by something so…unsavory.” He shook his head sadly, removing his spectacles to wipe them. Without the distortion of the lenses, his eyes were much smaller and, if possible, even colder.
Sighing, he replaced the spectacles. “In fact, I was acquainted with Miss Tyrone’s mother many years ago. She was a handsome creature and her daughter much the same. Miss Tyrone came to me about three years ago with a proposal for the St. Catherine Society, the purpose of which was to help distressed females keep to the path of virtue.”
“An enormous undertaking for a young woman,” remarked Buckler. “I suppose she had help?”
“Miss Tyrone was associated with many of the most influential ladies of the ton. I thought it a noble endeavor and turned over two buildings on the church property for their use, as a favor really to her father Sir Giles and the other families.
“After a while, however, most lost interest in the project—not Miss Tyrone, I’ll say that. Yet I regret that her work became something of an obsession. Instead of being content with rendering what humble assistance was practicable, she began to get more extreme notions.”
Chase broke in. “I presume you mean her plans for broadening the education of the women and children in her charge?”
Stonegrate threw him a look of dislike. “Yes, and the less said about that foolish and unchristian scheme the better.”
Flicking a piece of mud from his sleeve, Chase drawled, “Just so, sir. Then perhaps we might discuss the evening of the murder. I understand you yourself were…here?”
The rector’s jowls quivered with indignation. “I mislike your tone, Mr. Chase. Yes, I chanced to be here working on a sermon and, quite worn out with my efforts, fell asleep on the sofa by the fire. My curate roused me in the morning with the news and what a shocking awakening it was.”
“Do you sleep soundly, sir? That sofa looks quite comfortable.” Chase rose and strolled across the room as if to inspect it.
“It is,” snapped Stonegrate. “A man whose conscience is at ease may rest peacefully most anywhere. If there’s nothing further, gentlemen, my work awaits.” He got to his feet to begin edging them toward the door. Quelling the amusement that had swept across his face, Buckler stood also.
Chase, who still waited near the sofa, did not budge. “One more matter, sir,” he said at his most bland. “Did you happen to notice at what time Fiona departed the Society that evening?”
“Fiona? No notion. You had better ask her if you think it important.”
“It likely isn’t.” Chase joined them at the door. “She’s rather a pretty wench, wouldn’t you say, sir? But no doubt flighty, always thinking of her suitors.” He observed the rector closely, but could discern nothing, not even a flicker. Stonegrate merely seemed impatient for them to be gone.
“Many young women are like that,” he agreed.
Buckler said, “But not Constance Tyrone?”
The rector offered a short, braying laugh. “I should think not, sir. I’ve had reason to reprimand many a poor fallen creature for her carelessness, intemperance, or even lust. Miss Tyrone, however, did not possess those particular faults.”
“A paragon, in fact?” said Chase.
“I made no such claim, sir,” said Stonegrate somberly. “Her besetting sin was pride, and the ancient wisdom is as true in these modern times as it ever was. Pride goeth before destruction.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Mama, mama.” As Sarah’s plaintive voice cut through her abstraction, Penelope looked up.
“You’re not listening to my words, Mama,” the child said reproachfully.
“I am sorry, sweet.” Penelope stroked the little girl’s dark hair back from her brow. “Mama was thinking of her work.” Grimacing, she looked down at the page in front of her. Nonetheless, she laid down her pen and pulled Sarah into her lap.
“What did you want to tell me?”
The child thrust her face closer and whispered, “I like the dragon, Mama.”
Penelope banished the lurking smile that would surely offend Sarah’s dignity. “Oh, I see. He amuses you, is that it?”
She nodded. Jumping down, she picked up a parasol and ran to engage the dragon, otherwise known as her rocking horse. After several wild leaps and a few jabs, she stopped suddenly and looked at her mother. “I shall tame him and ride him to the river, but don’t tell anyone ’cause it’s a secret.”
This time Penelope permitted herself a smile. “I’ll not tell a soul, darling, though maybe you’ll want to share your game with Frank later.”
Ever since Sarah had heard the story of St. George, the dragon had fascinated her; she invariably insisted upon a revised ending in which it wasn’t slain. Penelope hadn’t the heart to insist it was an evil creature deserving of death, for she supposed that to a child the dragon must seem compellingly exotic, more interesting even than the knight come to kill it.
Sarah did tell Frank about her game when she and Penelope arrived at the Society later that morning. The two children immediately dubbed an old, peeling stool their dragon and retreated under the table ostensibly to plan their next foray.
“Little imps, eh ma’am?” said Maggie with a grin. “I like to see ’em so full o’ spirit.”
She and Penelope were sitting on a lumpy sofa across the room, Maggie with her baby in her lap. They were alone with the children, for everyone was immersed in the preparations for St. Catherine’s Day in two days’ time. Since Catherine was the Society’s patron saint, the women would attend church together and participate in a procession. In the past the Society had also hosted a small reception for its patronesses, a tradition Constance had initiated to encourage contributions. This year, of course, the event had been canceled, but the women had pleaded to be permitted to bake their “cattern” pies and join the march. Even the children, who found Maggie a more lenient guardian than the regular nursemaid, were enjoying the break in routine.
“I like your son, Maggie,” Penelope said impulsively. “You’ve done a fine job.”
Her face reddened with pleasure, the freckles standing out. “Thank you, mum. I’m right proud of him.” She bounced the baby on her legs, but her eyes were on the two children now edging toward the “dragon” hand in hand.
“He surely enjoys your little girl, Mrs. Penelope. When I see him playing so carefree, seems there’s nothing he won’t be able to do.”
“He will do you credit one day.”
“If I’ve anything to say to it, he will.” She cuddled the infant on her shoulder, rubbing a caressing hand up and down the tiny back. “I’ll have no sluggard for a son. Not like his father.”
It was the first time Penelope had seen any hint of bitterness in the cheerfully irrepressible Maggie, but it was gone in a flash.
“I’ll apprentice him to a prosperous trade. Nothing dirty or dangerous,” she continued after a moment. “How to raise the wind for the indentures is what I don’t know, but I’ll manage somehow.”
“I make no doubt you will, Maggie. With forethought a mother may accomplish much for her child.”
Maggie shot her a grateful look. “What about Miss Sarah, mum? What do you see in her future?”
“Happiness, I hope, and the wisdom to make sound choices, regardless of what they be.”
“Beg pardon, Mrs. Pen. Surely you’re anxious for her to marry well and become carriage folk? What could be better for a girl gentle bred?”
Penelope laughed. “Nothing, I suppose.”
“Why what else? How’s she to be protected? This world’s a cruel place for an innocent on her own, and a girl is no match for a honey-tongued rogue.” Sighing, she settled the sleeping infant in the rough wooden cradle at her feet.
They l
apsed into silence, each busy with her own thoughts. At length Penelope said, “Some women choose never to be married, Maggie, and often for excellent reasons. Miss Constance, for instance.”
Maggie looked dubious. “She wasn’t like the rest of us.”
Smiling in reply, Penelope wished, not for the first time, that she’d known Constance and wondered how the Society would fare without her. Elizabeth Minton possessed great strength of character, but Penelope sensed she lacked Constance’s unique quality that had inspired those around her with intense devotion. It was all the more commendable that Constance had maintained such a bruising pace in spite of frail health.
Just then, the door opening, the surgeon Reginald Strap entered. He wore leather gloves and a driving coat. The wind had swept his pale hair from his face so that his sculpted features and prominent forehead seemed etched the more distinctly.
“Your pardon for the intrusion, ladies.” He offered an elegant bow. “I wanted to look in on Mrs. Skirl, but she’s not at her post.”
Maggie stood, bobbing respectfully. “We’re in a bit of a pother what with the preparations for St. Catherine’s Day. I imagine Winnie’s helping to bake pies in the kitchen. Shall I fetch her for you, sir?”
“No need, Maggie, is it? I shall go in search of her myself. How are your fine children? Still robust, I trust?” He stooped over the cradle and patted the baby’s downy head.
Beaming, she curtsied again. “All hale, sir, thank the good Lord.”
When Mr. Strap looked at Penelope, Maggie hurriedly performed an introduction. “A pleasure, ma’am,” he said.
Penelope rose and curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Strap. I am glad you’ve come to see Winnie, for she looks far from well of late.”
“Yes, she ought to keep to her bed, but I’m afraid she cannot manage without the few shillings she earns here.”
Maggie said, “Miss Elizabeth makes her go easy.”
“A good thing. You are fortunate in so considerate a mistress.” He hesitated. “Perhaps if Mrs. Skirl is occupied, you might tell me where I can find Fiona. I should like a word with her as well.”