by S K Rizzolo
Red-beard watched the officer a moment; then to Penelope’s surprise the four men slunk away, disappearing into the tavern.
“Smarter ’n they looks,” commented the little man.
“Stirring up a hornet’s nest, eh Mrs. Wolfe?” said Chase. “That could have been trouble.”
“You exaggerate, Mr. Chase,” she said coolly, though a queer trembling reaction had started in her abdomen. “I’m here for the St. Catherine Day celebrations, though I seem to have inadvertently wandered away from the others.”
“Let me escort you.” He reached for her arm.
She pulled away, annoyed by his condescension, and gazed pointedly at his companion, who cleared his throat and stared right back.
Chase sighed. “Forgive me. Mrs. Wolfe, may I present Mr. Noah Packet. Mr. Packet, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“Pleasure, ma’am.”
Before she could respond, Chase interjected, “Mr. Packet was just leaving. I’ll see Mrs. Wolfe home.”
“By all means, Chase.” He sent a courtly bow in Penelope’s direction. “You go on now and play the gallant. I’ll be off.” He tipped his cap and sauntered away.
Chase turned back to Penelope. This time he managed to take her arm and spin her around. “This is no place for you. You are well out of your element here.”
Penelope let herself be guided. “I told you. I am here for the procession. Though very likely I was not in any real danger from those men, it seems fate produced you at an opportune moment, sir.”
“I do not believe in fate.”
“Why not, at least for today? St. Catherine is the patron saint of spinners, and the Fates spin out human destiny.”
“Have it as you will.”
Back on Rosemary Lane, Penelope looked around for her friends, but the procession was well out of sight by now. Though she had no intention of admitting it, she was glad of Chase’s presence. They stopped in front of a clothing stall.
“You’ve an interesting friend, Mr. Chase,” she observed. “Does he live nearby?”
“Packet?” A gleam of humor lit his eyes. “I imagine he has recourse to several domiciles, all of which he strives to keep unknown. He’s a prig, you know.”
“Prig?”
“A thief, madam. But good company nonetheless.”
“You are friends with a thief?”
He grinned. “You see, Mrs. Wolfe, he’s useful. Makes it his business to know what’s in the wind and profits mightily thereby.”
“Oh,” said Penelope. “Have you learned something new?”
“Something I’ve discovered for myself. Daniel Partridge met Constance Tyrone that last afternoon.” He waited as if to gauge her reaction.
“Perhaps Mr. Partridge did not dare to tell you. Why don’t you ask him?”
“Easier said.” He laughed in derision. “The clever fox has surrounded himself with protectors. He’s hiding in plain sight. And just today one of the magistrates at Bow Street dropped a word in my ear. I am to let our distinguished lawmaker alone.” Again he gave her that assessing look.
“We know that Miss Tyrone returned to the Society that day, sir, and now that Donovan claims he found the slipper in the churchyard… Where did Mr. Partridge go afterwards?”
“To a meeting with supporters. He remained there in full view of at least fifty people until around nine o’clock, after which he reputedly spent a rather pleasant evening with your husband. I am unable to account for their precise movements, however.”
“There is another possibility. The rector of St. Catherine’s, Horace Stonegrate.”
His face froze in surprise.
Voice lowered, she told him Fiona’s story, fighting the color that wavered in her cheeks at the mention of such intimate matters. Chase’s expression darkened as she spoke of the girl’s despair, but he looked skeptical about her claim of prior innocence.
“Bound to say that, isn’t she? If Fiona truly has infected the rector with the pox, he might make matters most unpleasant for her, not that that would remedy his little problem.”
He laughed, then held up his hands at her glare. “Peace, Mrs. Wolfe. I grant you ’twould be worthwhile to speak to Mr. Stonegrate again, especially as it appears the murderer must be closely connected to the victim. Stonegrate was at St. Catherine’s that night. Wood, too, for that matter.”
“And Mr. Stonegrate has a possible motive if Miss Tyrone did approach him on Fiona’s behalf.”
Chase nodded. “I should tell you that Packet has just given me the particulars of another romance gone sour. Bertram Tyrone and his intended have decided they won’t suit. Tyrone was in deep to the moneylenders apparently. He had no choice but to go along with the proposed match.”
“Indeed?”
“Of course, he has allowed her to do the crying off, but Packet says the truth is Tyrone’s the one who wanted out.”
“Somehow that fails to surprise me,” she replied, thinking of what Ambrose had said of his brother’s betrothal.
She was just about to ask if he planned to interview Bertram Tyrone again when Chase exclaimed in surprise, “Perhaps you hit the mark after all, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He peered across the street. “I meant perhaps you were right about fate, else why should I suddenly encounter Donovan’s wife? Over there.”
Penelope caught only a glimpse of a shrunken woman in a shapeless gown before Chase was off in pursuit. He had her in moments, drawing her aside. She cowered, raising one supplicating hand, but her other arm kept a firm grip on a steaming cattern pie. Though Penelope couldn’t hear their conversation, she read the fear in the woman’s face as easily as if it were shouted.
Suddenly Penelope was startled out of this engrossing drama by a quick movement to her right, and she stiffened, apprehensive that the men from the front of the tavern had returned and would find her alone.
It was a man, but not one of whom it was possible to be afraid. Slight and prematurely wizened, he had a thin face and preternaturally bright eyes. He had emerged from the alley at her back to stand stock still not three yards from Chase and the woman. By the stricken expression on his face, she knew instantly this must be Donovan himself.
Without thinking she called out, “Mr. Chase!”
He turned, coming face to face with Donovan; rather than rush him, he said, “Don’t run, lad. No more now.”
“I ain’t hurt nobody. If I go to gaol, who’ll look after her?” Donovan gestured to his wife.
“You must worry about yourself now. The next one who catches up with you might not be so considerate.” Chase took a step closer.
A few people had stopped to watch, but he waved them away, keeping his attention focused on the Irishman. And when Donovan didn’t move, Chase put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him toward a waiting hackney coach. The Irishman went without protest, not looking again at his wife.
“Come, Mrs. Wolfe,” said Chase as he gave his prisoner an arm up. “I’ll see you home after a brief stop at Bow Street.”
Penelope barely heard him, for she was watching Donovan’s wife. Left alone in the street, the woman had already begun to shuffle away, her pie still clutched in one hand.
***
“Lie to your wife. Lie to your priest. But lie to your lawyer, and you’ll hang,” hissed Ezekiel Thorogood. He kept his voice low, for there were sharp ears everywhere at Bow Street.
Buckler had watched his friend’s exasperation mount as Kevin Donovan first wept, stuttering incoherently, then lapsed into stubborn silence. Donovan claimed he was home with his wife and child on the night in question, miles from St. Catherine’s. He said he didn’t find the slipper in the churchyard until fully the next morning, later pawning it. And that was all he would say. Now they had only a few minutes before the prison van would arrive to transport him to Newgate.
It hadn’t taken all that long for the magistrates to commit the Irishman for trial at the Old Bailey. And if the attitude of this court were anything
to go by, the outcome of the trial could not be in much doubt. Sighing, Buckler stared up at the grime-blackened ceiling and thought longingly of his own cozy chambers. He was doing no good here.
There were familiar faces sprinkled throughout the court. Penelope Wolfe sat with Thaddeus Wood and Elizabeth Minton, who had both testified. Donovan’s wife, Annie, lurked at the back as if ready to flee should the law decide to collar her as well. John Chase lounged in a chair nearby. The magistrates, officious and grim, still sat at the table behind the bar, frowning over from time to time. Ignoring them, Thorogood persisted with his questioning.
“Why didn’t you tell us your wife was once a member of the St. Catherine Society? You lied about never having met Constance Tyrone.”
“I didn’t think ’twas any matter,” quavered Donovan.
Thorogood rolled his eyes at Buckler. “Acquaintance with a murder victim must be said to matter, my dear fellow. Establishes a connection, you know. And with the testimony of Miss Minton…”
Silence. Then, “She was against Annie from the start.”
“Why on earth should she be?” Thorogood gripped the man’s arm. “You must do better than that. At least a dozen people saw you in that thieves’ ken close to St. Catherine’s on the night of the murder. Moreover, what of the scratches on your face?”
“I didn’t think all those people would remember me.” He turned away sullenly.
“My boy,” said Thorogood. “Witnesses are wont to appear from thin air when there’s a chance to look important and share in a reward. I can only think that is Joan Snowden’s motive, unless you lie to us there as well. Why should she identify you as the man bending over the body in the street? Now give over.”
The tears welled again. “What if the truth gets me hung all the same?”
“Then you are no worse off,” put in Buckler. “Now tell us, were you at the tavern that night?”
“If I was, it wasn’t to hurt anyone.”
“Why then?” said Thorogood.
“For work. A fellow had need of a few men to help fetch some goods. I swear it had naught to do with Miss Constance.”
“Go on,” urged Buckler.
“We went out of town a ways. We did the job, and the man give us our money.”
“How did you receive the scratches?” asked Thorogood.
“The boxes were hidden in the bushes. I fell once, and the brambles marked me.”
“I don’t suppose your friends would verify your story,” said Buckler.
Donovan stared at his feet. “Who knows what was in them boxes? Nobody’d take a chance speaking up just to save my neck, now would they? Anyway, afterwards we hied ourselves back to the tavern for a few more drinks. I went home in the morning.”
“But first you decided to walk through St. Catherine’s churchyard,” Buckler reminded him. “And discovered—”
“The slipper,” whispered Donovan.
“You hadn’t heard of Miss Tyrone’s death?” said Thoro-good. “Why did you go there?”
Donovan merely looked at him with eyes stupid with misery. Thorogood was just drawing himself up for another attempt when John Chase came up. “Time to go, Donovan.”
Nodding, the Irishman stepped toward the officer with an oddly trusting air.
“We’ve not completed our business,” Thorogood said.
Chase smiled. “Magistrate’s orders.” He addressed Buckler. “I trust your valued exertions may not prove so much wasted effort, sir. Mr. Donovan’s position is unenviable.”
“That’s as may be,” snapped Thorogood. “Though how we are to prepare a defense if continually interrupted, I’m sure I do not know. You people have put the saddle on the wrong horse, sir, in spite of what has been heard today.”
“That remains to be seen. Good day, gentlemen.”
He led Donovan away. A sly-faced little man, one of the reporters who had descended upon the inquest, followed them out, engaging the Runner in conversation.
Thorogood gave an indignant huff. “I’ll warrant the Irishman’s innocence expresses itself even to that coxcomb, yet God forbid any such notion should be admitted. Where’s Mrs. Wolfe?” he added, glancing around. “I should like a word with her.”
“I caught sight of her and the curate escorting Miss Minton from the room a few minutes ago. Miss Minton seemed distressed, though she hid it well in the box. Of course, she was more than credible.”
Thorogood glared. “Obviously, Buckler. But that doesn’t mean Donovan murdered Constance Tyrone.”
“Pax, Thorogood. I know that. Now let’s be off before the magistrates have us evicted. I feel myself fortunate those basilisk stares have not frozen me to the spot.”
Thorogood turned to the bench and bowed, and the two men flowed out with the crowd into the chill air.
“We must think this out,” Thorogood said as they paused outside. “Walk with me, Buckler.”
“I don’t know how you come by this fondness for foot travel.” But he tightened his scarf and accompanied his friend down the street.
They worked their way toward the Thames, walking in silence for a while, Buckler sniffling and Thorogood marching on seemingly unaffected. Emerging from Catherine Street into the Strand, they passed the enormous façade of Somerset House and approached St. Mary’s Le Strand. The street teemed with carriages driven very fast; on the walkways pedestrians also moved so quickly it was obvious no one could spare the time to linger in spite of the enticements offered by stationers, drapers, and booksellers.
As they walked, Thorogood mused. “Near as I can determine several main points tell against us, the least of which is Donovan’s possession of the slipper. I think we can cast doubt that he took it off the body. Thank goodness Constance Tyrone’s gold cross didn’t turn up with the slipper in that pawn shop.”
Buckler was busy with his own speculations. Donovan had not been straight with them from the first, so why believe his latest story? The scrapes on his face looked particularly suspicious in light of the attack on Constance Tyrone only a few streets away. And Elizabeth Minton had revealed a possible motive for murder. Not only had Donovan known the victim, but he had reason to bear her a grudge. Even without Joan Snowden’s testimony, damning enough, the case against the Irishman was gathering momentum.
As these thoughts trooped through his mind, Buckler’s unease grew. And gradually he became aware that something else was making him uncomfortable. It was like trying to recall an elusive memory hovering just out of reach.
“You will have to shake Miss Snowden,” Thorogood went on. “Were I the prosecutor, I should think twice about putting that one in the box. Did you mark how hesitant she was when that old bagwig bullied her into identifying Donovan?” He looked over. “By Jupiter, Buckler, you aren’t attending to a word I say.”
Buckler had stopped in front of a confectioner’s bow window as if to admire the pastries piled in sumptuous splendor. Casually, he turned. A few yards away a young woman in a vulgar parrot green dress had also halted, but looked away when she caught his eye.
“Thorogood, do you see that woman there? She was at Bow Street.”
“What nonsense are you talking now, Buckler? Who?”
“Shhh. That one there by the bookseller. Let’s see if she follows.”
Shaking his head, Thorogood murmured sotto voce, “This may be a main thoroughfare traversed by thousands of people, but far be it from me to discourage your fancies, friend. Lead on.”
They passed St. Clement Danes and neared Temple Bar with the woman still a few paces behind. In spite of Thorogood’s professed skepticism, Buckler had to reprimand the older man several times for peeking back too often.
“You’re right, Buckler,” he whispered, “and should she follow us into the Temple, we shall know of a certain. Then we may ask her what the devil she means by it.” His eyes gleamed.
“I suppose she might work there. A laundress perhaps.”
“Have you ever seen a laundress dressed in such fashion?
For heaven’s sake, now that I believe you, stop trying to convince me otherwise.”
Buckler chuckled in reply. Passing under an old half-timbered structure, they turned into Inner Temple Lane and paused. The noise from Fleet Street faded.
After a moment they heard the woman’s footsteps. As she rounded the corner and saw them there, she froze, looking just like one of the figures in Mrs. Salmon’s waxworks a few steps away.
“Have you business with us, madam?” said Thorogood. “If so, cease your skulking and approach us direct.”
Anger flashed in her face, but she smiled slowly. “If I’ve something to say, are you willing to listen?”
A wind had whipped up so that even in this sheltered area, the cold was fierce. Buckler said, “If you’ve something to say, my good woman, please do so at once. The day grows less and less salubrious.”
“Not unless we first come to terms. I tell you, sir, you’d best be more polite if you want to learn what’s only to your advantage.”
Thorogood gave Buckler a warning glance. “Why, yes ma’am. You were present in Bow Street court today, were you not?”
She nodded. “You’re the lawyers for the Irishman. If any man seems fixed to become gallows meat, it’s him. Only I might be able to help if I’ve a mind.”
“For a price, I take it?” Thorogood asked.
She tossed her head, sending her earrings dancing. “What did you think? Ain’t worth nothing without you pay for it.”
“I must say your logic escapes me,” said Buckler. “What say you, Thorogood? Shall we walk on?”
“Perhaps we might give the lady a few minutes, my friend. Do be more conciliating.”
“You’re one to talk of conciliation,” he muttered. “You who practically devoured Donovan today.”
The woman watched this interchange warily, shivering in her thin dress and pelisse.
Buckler was shivering himself. “We had better take this conversation indoors then. Will that suit, madam?” He gave a slight bow.
“Yes indeed, you’ll be much more comfortable there,” added Thorogood in a hearty tone.