The Rose in the Wheel: A Regency Mystery (Regency Mysteries Book 1)

by S K Rizzolo

  “Nothing,” muttered Strickland.

  When Strickland stepped down, it was time for Buckler to present the defense. Since he was not permitted to address the jury on Donovan’s behalf, Buckler had a prepared statement to be read into evidence. Also, several witnesses to character were at hand, and two women from the Society, Maggie and Fiona, were prepared to testify about Constance Tyrone’s boots to show that the victim had returned to her office in the afternoon.

  But it seemed he was to have an opportunity to collect his thoughts, for the jury, pleading fatigue, issued a request for an adjournment which, in an unusual move, Mr. Justice Worthing granted. The judge instructed the bailiffs to take charge of the panel and to ensure that no juror speak to anyone on the matter at issue.

  A clamor broke out as the chattering and laughing observers got to their feet and surged toward the exit. A group of richly dressed ladies and gentlemen strolled by the dock to get a closer look at Donovan, who was absently fingering some herbs strewn on the ledge. Since a heavy band of hair had fallen across his face, Buckler could not tell if he was despairing, impatient, or merely exhausted by the rigors of this long day. Buckler himself could suddenly feel every one of the bruises he’d earned last night in capturing George Kite.

  Resolving to go and speak to the Irishman momentarily, Buckler said to Thorogood, “What do you think?”

  He flexed his shoulders. “You have contrived well so far, I’d say. Made them sit up a bit, given Quiller pause. But I cannot see what good will result without you offer the jury some bread with the jam.”

  “I know.” Buckler stared down at his hands.

  Thorogood smiled. “There’s time yet, Buckler. If you can get Kite or his friend in the witness box, Donovan may skip out of here a free man. Perhaps Mr. Chase has discovered new intelligence.”

  “If not, what then? You apprehend as well as I that things can easily turn sour. We may have raised some questions, but even such doubts may not prevent a guilty verdict, especially when the victim was young, beautiful, and virtuous.”

  “Wait and see, Buckler, wait and see.” He glanced at the dock. “Vincit qui patitur. He prevails who is patient. If you’re lucky, that is.”

  “Oh, I am patient enough, but luck may be another matter.” He looked up. “Or maybe I’m wrong. Here is Chase now.”

  Pushing his way through the crowd, John Chase had caught sight of them. If all has gone well, his timing couldn’t be better, Buckler thought.

  Chase approached, stepping around a cluster of people. He looked tired, and there was a large, black smudge across the front of his trousers.

  “I bring bad news, Buckler,” he stated flatly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Penelope came out of the Old Bailey and stood on the curb to look about for a hackney. The exodus from the court had been accomplished quickly, no one wanting to linger in the dark December evening. Streaming into the street and calling to acquaintances, people generally conducted themselves with the cheerful good humor of children let out of school.

  By Monday it would all be over. Mr. Buckler had scored several hits today, but Penelope knew he needed to give the jury something more substantial than speculation about the timing of the crime. He needed to suggest why someone else might have killed Constance Tyrone. If not Donovan, who? Without another explanation upon which to seize, the jurors would surely condemn the Irishman. She had seen it in their faces.

  As a man shoved by to grab a hack that had stopped a few feet away, Penelope swore inwardly and shook out her shoe, which had landed in a puddle of some indeterminate substance. Thinking perhaps she might have better luck farther down, she was turning away when a familiar voice hailed her.

  “Mrs. Wolfe. Might I be of assistance?”

  It was the surgeon Reginald Strap. Drawing up his gig, he gazed down at her, his handsome face a little stern, as if he disapproved of her standing alone in the street.

  “I was just looking for a hack, Mr. Strap. No doubt one will soon present itself.”

  He reached out a hand. “Allow me to offer you a lift, ma’am, for it is far too cold for you to stand here.”

  Penelope said doubtfully, “I should not dream of troubling you, sir.”

  “No trouble, I assure you. I shall be glad of the company. This has been a rather wearing day.”

  She took the outstretched hand. It was hardly the time of year for an open carriage, but when Strap tucked the thick rug about her she began to feel warmer.

  “How obliging you are.” She gave him her direction. “I am anxious to return home to my daughter. I do not think Sarah finds our landlady a congenial companion.”

  He laughed, looking far more approachable. “Your daughter strikes me as someone rather exacting in her likes and dislikes.”

  “An understatement, sir. She has definite ideas on most subjects.”

  Strap tooled the gig around a dray that was blocking the way. “And not too shy to express them, I warrant.” He stole a glance at her. “Has she, I wonder, inherited this trait from her mother?”

  Why, he’s flirting with me, Penelope thought. The sensation was rather pleasant, though she couldn’t think how to answer him.

  Crowded with Strap on the narrow seat, she could feel her companion’s body heat. Her shivers subsided, and she began to enjoy herself. Slowly, they moved away from the congestion around the Sessions House to turn down Ludgate Hill. Fleshy clouds teemed above their heads, the sky hanging low.

  After a moment Strap observed, “Donovan’s counsel seems to be holding his own rather well. I must say I thought the matter would be wrapped up more swiftly. The evidence against the Irishman is compelling, do you not agree, Mrs. Wolfe?”

  “I do not believe Donovan to be the culprit.”

  “May I ask why?” he asked, surprised.

  “It seemed to me Mr. Buckler was able to suggest otherwise, sir.”

  “Oh, you mean the notion Miss Tyrone may have been attacked earlier than supposed? I see the barrister’s intent, I think. Presumably Donovan has got a firm alibi for earlier in the day.”

  “Your own evidence did not refute such a possibility, Mr. Strap.”

  “No, but my perspective is based solely on the medical evidence as I observed it. Unfortunately, that evidence is liable to misinterpretation, just as the human mind is ever prey to suggestibility. The jurors seemed to be swayed by Mr. Buckler’s tactics, and I fear that’s all they were, the feints of a clever lawyer trying against all hope to save his client from the gallows.” He broke off, his hands tightening on the reins as he edged into the flow of traffic.

  She said, “Your feelings do you credit, sir. In spite of your admirable composure on the stand, I am sure you do not forget that Miss Tyrone was a close friend of many years. You must be anxious to see her murderer brought to justice.”

  “I am indeed,” he replied gravely. “But not so eager that I should be prepared to see an innocent man hang.”

  Penelope nodded. “Will you tell me something?”

  “Of course, ma’am,” he said, his expression lightening. Again she had the sense he found her attractive and wanted her to know it.

  “One of the young women at the Society recently spoke to me of an…illness she’s contracted. She says you have examined her, sir, and I thought you could tell me what she might expect in future.”

  “You refer to Fiona. I am glad she has confided in someone. She is in great need of our care at present. The disease is in the early stages, and the effects vary widely with the individual. ’Tis too soon to tell how the poison will affect her.”

  “Poison?”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Wolfe. Such matters are hardly fitting for a lady’s ears. But like a serpent’s venom the venereal ‘virus’, as it is often called, contaminates the entire system. Fiona’s illness began with a chancre, uncomfortable perhaps but not serious. Now I believe she has progressed to constitutional symptoms: headache, fatigue, and skin eruptions.”

  “What happe
ns next?”

  He smiled at her. “We treat her. We have had good results with calomel. Her situation is by no means desperate.”

  “Will she be able to marry and have children?”

  “Perhaps. Though there is a risk of infection for the foetus, of course.” He laid his hand over hers for a moment. “Why do not you come and see the venereal ward at the hospital where I am employed? We enjoy occasional visits from ladies engaged in charitable endeavors, you know. And you might thus be able to reassure Fiona, help her realize there is hope for a favorable outcome.”

  “You are very good, sir.”

  “That’s settled then.” He turned onto St. Martin’s Lane and guided the gig toward her doorstep. Aware time was short, Penelope decided to ask the question that had been troubling her. “Mr. Strap, I’ve wondered. I had heard that a person with this disease sometimes becomes unbalanced. Might this person become a danger to himself—or others?”

  He looked at her curiously, then enlightenment dawned. “Fiona? No. That’s not what you mean, is it? You are thinking of her lover. Ah, but you see, ma’am, syphilitic madness only occurs after a person has been infected for some time. If the man of whom you are thinking has committed an irrational act, it wasn’t because of this disease.”

  He had no time for more as, suddenly, he was pulling up short. Reaching out one arm, he steadied her as her body was thrown forward.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  His gaze swept the gutter. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Wolfe. Just a mongrel cur I did not wish to hit.”

  And there cowering in front of the wheels was the sorriest specimen Penelope had ever seen, a filthy, terrified dog seemingly enthralled by the fate that had almost overtaken it.

  “Oh, well done, sir,” she cried, clambering down from the carriage. “You have sharp eyes, indeed.”

  “Mind what you’re doing, ma’am. You’ll muddy your skirts.”

  But Penelope had bent to examine the dog more closely. Utterly quiescent, it looked back with no gleam of hope in its eyes.

  ***

  The mongrel pup settled into the basket Penelope found for it and didn’t move. Afraid it might die, she worried about what to tell Sarah, who had developed an instantaneous and passionate attachment to the creature. Sometimes its watery, nearly blind gaze seemed to follow the little girl as she bustled about her “chores,” occasionally stopping to pat it. Mostly it just lay there, unable to take more than a few feeble licks of the beef tea they offered.

  Penelope didn’t need the added aggravation the dog brought, particularly today. This was Monday, the day Donovan’s trial was to have concluded. Only no trial could ever be necessary now as, to her consternation, she had discovered when perusing the morning newspaper.

  Her attention had first been caught by a story about slayings on the Ratcliffe Highway in Wapping. A linen draper, his wife, their infant son, and the shopboy had been found brutally slaughtered, a bloody carpenter’s maul the ostensible murder weapon. That such horrors existed in the world gave Penelope an indescribable feeling, as if she had lost all connection and could no longer understand herself or anyone. This feeling terrified her almost as much as the thought of that murderous hand hovering over the infant’s cradle.

  Her unease persisted through the morning as she toiled at her little romance, such trivial work it seemed. Now she had an errand to perform, though she hardly felt like venturing out alone. Sarah would have to spend the day in Mrs. Fitzhugh’s parlor, and Penelope could only hope the child would remember to be discreet about the dog.

  Several hours later Penelope stood in a dusty hallway, waiting for a response to her knock. Just as she was about to give up, the door opened to reveal Edward Buckler’s clerk.

  “Yes?” His tone was polite, but somewhat uncompromising. He kept the door open only a crack so that his face was framed in the aperture.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Buckler, if you please,” said Penelope.

  “He’s not here at present, madam. Shall I give him a message?”

  She felt a keen disappointment. “No, I thank you. I need to speak with him in person. Do you expect his return soon?”

  “Couldn’t say, ma’am,” the clerk said stiffly. Taking a step back, he prepared to shut the door.

  “Wait. Have you any idea of his destination, sir? My business is urgent.”

  “I couldn’t say,” he repeated, then met her gaze, looking a trifle sheepish. “He’s taking the air, miss. Might be anywhere in the gardens or walking the streets. He didn’t say when he’d be back.”

  Thanking him, she turned away, feeling dejected and more than a little cross. But as she started down the stairs, the clerk edged the door wider. “You might try the bridge, Blackfriars that is. Mr. Edward has a fondness for that particular spot.”

  Flashing him a grateful smile, Penelope went out into the afternoon.

  ***

  She found Buckler leaning against the parapet. He was motionless, staring down into the water. The footways were crowded with pedestrians, and a line of carriages rattled over the bridge. As she approached, Penelope felt the first splatters of rain and glanced up to see the sun struggling through sullen clouds. It would only be a matter of time before any brightness was gone.

  She didn’t call out, not wishing to startle him, but instead touched his shoulder. “Mr. Buckler.”

  He looked at her without surprise. “Hello, Mrs. Wolfe.”

  Suddenly, she felt uncomfortable. “I wanted to speak to you about Kevin Donovan. What are you doing here?”

  “Admiring the view. Have you ever noticed how the river looks just as rain is coming on? Gray with shadows chopping the surface. I imagine the River Styx would appear much the same.”

  She joined him at the parapet to gaze down at the wherries, skiffs, and barges transporting people and goods over the great waterway. “Less crowded perhaps.”

  “Perhaps. But could the Underworld be much different?”

  He gestured to the smoke curling above the city’s rooftops, a black, man-generated haze that mingled with the growing storm. Occasionally, a spire or chimney would appear, only to be engulfed again as the fog shifted.

  “Consider what goes on below that curtain,” Buckler observed in the same apathetic tone. “The dreariness, the squalor, the torment. It’s madness, presided over by a king who is himself certifiably mad and whose son, our Regent, turns traitor to his political friends, then makes merry, indulging his own private brand of insanity. You are raising a child here, Mrs. Wolfe. Surely you’ve at least thought of this.”

  She understood all too well, but said, defiantly cheerful, “I think you over indulge fancy to serve a metaphor. After all, those boats down there hold flesh and blood men all going about their business, some happily. They are not Charon bearing souls to the land of the dead.”

  He smiled. “You will soon be wet through if you stay here.”

  “So will you, and the prospect doesn’t seem to disturb you unduly. Besides, I told you. I wish to talk to you of Donovan.”

  Turning away, Buckler said quietly, “Read the papers, did you? Well, I saw for myself at Newgate. At least they had cut him down by the time I arrived.”

  A little shocked, Penelope realized what was wrong with Buckler: he didn’t care for Donovan; she rather thought he didn’t care for anything. “What will you do?” she asked.

  “Do? What is there to do, Mrs. Wolfe? I once defended a man whose corpse had been imprisoned for debt, but in general a lawyer’s responsibilities cease with his client’s life. The only issue remaining is whether Donovan’s body will be given to the surgeons for dissection or buried at a crossroads with a stake through his heart.”

  “I cannot agree. There’s Annie Donovan, who is very much alive and must live with the shame of her husband being branded a murderer. Not to mention the fact that if Donovan didn’t kill Constance Tyrone, whoever did is still a free man.”

  His eyes met hers, then slid aside. “Donovan is dead. I d
o not know why when he had at least a chance at an acquittal. But apparently he didn’t think so, or he was guilty after all and committed self-murder out of remorse. That’s what the papers claim, is it not?”

  “Yes,” she said, angry at him.

  “What matter in the end? The man was likely guilty of any number of hanging offenses. As to whether or not Constance Tyrone’s killer remains free, that too is food for conjecture. He might well have died in a fire the very night of the murder.” Buckler related George Kite’s story and the subsequent investigation of the mysterious accomplice Crow.

  After taking several furious steps away from the balustrade, Penelope swung back. “My goodness, that is one way to dispose of a body, especially one that shows inconvenient signs of life. Simply toss it under an oncoming carriage.”

  “Kite is certainly villainous enough.”

  “How it hurts to think of her suffering,” she said bitterly. She stared into the river for a moment. “I don’t know, Mr. Buckler. If Kite is to be believed, the real villain is someone else—the man who killed Crow and started the fire to cover his deed.”

  He looked away again. “You may discuss the matter with Mr. Chase.”

  “Does it not pique your curiosity in the slightest?” she asked, unable to mask her growing irritation. “Especially now with Donovan so fortuitous a scapegoat. How do you suppose he managed to get a rope into the ward? One assumes someone would have seen him and informed the authorities.”

  “A journalist called Fred Gander paid for a separate confinement. And Donovan didn’t use a rope. He fastened his own neckerchief to the rail used for hanging up bedding, this in spite of his leg irons. The authorities care only that he has cheated the gallows and robbed them of their spectacle.”

  “The newspapers reported that this journalist was one of the last people to speak with him. Gander claims he solicited an interview which the paper intends to publish in installments. You ought to see him, sir.”

  Buckler shrugged. “He won’t tell me anything he can reserve for a hungry public. You know, last confessions of a murderer sort of stuff.”