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

by S K Rizzolo

  In spite of his air of studied indifference, Penelope had noticed his sudden tension. “You fear that Donovan did confess to Gander and you will look a fool, isn’t that so, Mr. Buckler? You thought you might have swayed the jury.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Let me tell you something else, Mr. Buckler. Even if Donovan did admit to killing Constance Tyrone, he might have acted under coercion, or else that newspaper offered him money. He—”

  “Of what avail is money to a dead man?”

  Tears pricked Penelope’s eyes. Why should she mind about any of this anyway? She would do better to go home and attend to her own business. “Perhaps it wasn’t for him but rather for his family.”

  “Did he strike you as that altruistic? I must say he did not me.”

  “This might have been the one time in his life when he could do something,” she cried. “Maybe he wanted to make amends, though it’s clear it matters not one whit to you.” She pulled her pelisse around her. “I cannot believe that Mr. Thorogood will feel as you do. I shall speak to him, and perhaps also to the newspaper man.”

  “Can’t you leave it alone, Mrs. Wolfe?” he said dully.

  The rain began to fall faster now. A sudden gust of wind blew a scrap of paper into the air. Buckler watched it spiral slowly down, then picked up a pebble lying at his fingertips and sent it after.

  “I’m going now, Mr. Buckler. You had best get out of the storm yourself.” Over her shoulder, she added, “If Gander means to publish a farrago of lies just to sell papers, somebody ought to care.”

  Left alone, he stared again into the rushing river. Penelope took it all too personally. She didn’t understand the constant flow of misery that passed his way like so much filthy water under this bridge. But he knew he had to ready himself for whatever brief next required his skills. John Chase, a professional, would also proceed to his next inquiry.

  The sun stole out of the mist to sparkle briefly on the river. And yet, as he watched, the darkness was rolling in, a heavy mass of cloud that rumbled on the horizon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Amelia Fitzhugh stood at the door, her lined, sour face even more sour than usual. “I trust I’ve made myself clear, Mrs. Wolfe. No animals are permitted in this house. Certainly not a disgusting, sickly cur like that.”

  She pointed at the little stray dog that didn’t seem to realize its fate teetered on the brink—or maybe just could not bestir itself until calamity actually struck. In any event the dog had done little but lie in its basket over the past fortnight.

  Sarah tugged at her mother’s dress and whispered, “Tell her, Mama.”

  Giving the child’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, Penelope smiled determinedly at Mrs. Fitzhugh. “Perfectly clear, ma’am. As soon as we can find the pup a home, it will be gone.” She met the other woman’s gaze. “You wouldn’t have me put it in the street?”

  Mrs. Fitzhugh glanced again toward the animal and pursed her lips in distaste. “As long as we understand each other, Mrs. Wolfe. It looks half dead anyway.”

  As Sarah’s eyes flew anxiously to her face, Penelope replied, “Nothing good food and rest cannot fix, and truly the dog does no harm, ma’am.”

  “I’ll watch him careful for you, Mrs. Fitz,” said Sarah. “He won’t chew the carpets.”

  The landlady permitted herself a small rusty smile. “You do that, Miss Sarah.” She addressed Penelope. “A few days, Mrs. Wolfe. I shall give you until after Christmas at any rate.”

  After the door closed behind the woman, Penelope said, “Remember, Sarah. Ruff may not long remain with us.” Nor would Penelope be surprised if she and Sarah were ejected along with poor Ruff, for this contretemps over the dog could easily serve as a perfect opportunity for Mrs. Fitzhugh to rid herself of a female lodger possessed of a small child but no husband to lend her countenance. Penelope doubted that the landlady fully believed her stories about a Mr. Jeremy Wolfe and his pressing engagement out of town.

  She turned back to her work, struggling to regain her concentration. It was hard to fathom that Mrs. Fitzhugh could feel such concern about one mite of a dog who wasn’t causing anyone any trouble.

  Today Penelope had heard a report far more worthy of disquiet: a second round of unthinkably vicious slayings in New Gravel Lane near the Ratcliffe Highway, presumably perpetrated by the same villains. This time the victims were the proprietor of a public house, his wife, and a serving woman, all with heads bludgeoned and throats cut. A particularly gruesome detail was the publican’s partially severed thumb, which hung from his mangled hand as if he had grabbed at the attacker’s knife in self-defense.

  What the motive could be no one knew, but as the news spread all of London gave way to panic. It was said that many citizens had armed themselves with blunderbusses and watchman’s rattles as people sought a means to protect themselves. The days were short at this time of year, darkness coming so early and so totally, that those who could stay locked indoors did, some even keeping a weapon at the ready.

  It seemed to Penelope the authorities floundered in their attempt to make sense of the killings. Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t seen John Chase since Donovan’s trial and presumed him immersed in the investigation of the Ratcliffe matter. Nor had she heard from Edward Buckler since the day on Blackfriars Bridge, though she had finally received word from her father. My dear daughter, he had written. I pray this finds you and the child in health, and I think often of the time when events may prove so fortunate as to see you both with me… Jeremy, of course, was not mentioned; still, this letter had more in it of warmth than she had expected. That night she had lain awake for hours.

  And yet, in spite of ample time for reflection, Penelope had come no closer to determining who might have murdered Constance Tyrone. No one else seemed to care any longer; in fact, of Fred Gander’s proposed series of articles about Donovan, only the first two had appeared. The public had lost interest in the wake of newer, more sensational crimes. But Penelope finally had an avenue of her own to explore, for she had heard from Elizabeth Minton that Mr. Stonegrate was back at St. Catherine’s.

  It occurred to her that visiting a man she half suspected of murder was hardly a sensible course of action, though truly it could not seem real that anyone would be capable of such an act. She pictured Stonegrate’s wide, fleshy features. Could a man kill, then stand to deliver a sermon before a large congregation? Would not his act be reflected in his face, God striking him down for his blasphemy?

  She looked over at Sarah, who knelt at the dog’s side, patiently feeding it scraps from their luncheon. Her expression was so pure, intent with every fiber on her purpose, that Penelope wanted to freeze the moment, keep her safe always. She did not want Sarah to have to look into people’s faces and wonder what lay beneath.

  And Penelope thought of the person—or persons?—who had committed the murders on the Ratcliffe Highway. How must his face appear as he walked about the city going about his affairs? One might dismiss the usual goblins that inhabited childish nightmares. They seemed quite benign in comparison to a human creature who could murder so savagely. Did it make him happy to realize he had terrified an entire city? Penelope doubted any ghoul had ever accomplished so much.

  ***

  Slumped against the seat of the hackney, John Chase put a hand to his unshaven chin and rubbed. Since the beginning of the Ratcliffe affair, he had been on day and night duty, tracking down rumors until he was so exhausted he could no longer discern a tale from truth.

  He had just come from an emergency meeting of the Shadwell and Whitechapel magistrates called by Harriott of the Thames police office. The panicked and bloodthirsty mob assembled outside had made it impossible to keep heads cool and deliberate; no coherent course of action had been proposed. Now Chase was on his way to his lodgings for some rest.

  As the coach neared the Covent Garden area, the Friday traffic thickened. Knowing it might take another twenty minutes to go the short distance that remained, Chase decid
ed to walk. He banged on the roof and jumped down into the street when the driver halted. After paying the man, he strode away, his hat pulled low for protection against the drizzle.

  He was traversing the piazza when his attention was drawn to a large assembly in front of the portico of St. Paul’s. There were working men, aproned shopkeepers, merchants clad in their sober coats, and others of more dubious appearance. Some sort of political gathering, Chase judged, possibly one of the recent meetings in support of liberty of the press.

  Moving through the throng, he glanced up idly to descry Daniel Partridge—tailcoat, top hat, shiny boots and all. Voice pitched to carry, he was giving a speech, and judging by the reactions of the wildly cheering spectators, he made a good job of it. His remarks complete, Partridge acknowledged the applause with a smile and wave of his hand, then retreated through the crowd which parted willingly, hands extending for him to shake as he passed.

  Chase caught up with him. “Mr. Partridge.”

  He turned, his public smile fading. “Chase. Did you wish to speak to me?”

  “I should be honored.” Chase bowed.

  Partridge’s lips tightened, but he said, “Come. My carriage is close by. We may converse there.”

  They didn’t speak again until seated in the M.P.’s gleaming town carriage. Mindful of the coachman on the box, Partridge kept his voice low. “Well?”

  Sitting opposite, Chase leaned back and stretched his legs, his eyes sharp on the other man’s face. “For someone who prides himself on being a man of the people, you are deuced inaccessible, sir. I tried to see you several times until the magistrate warned me, gently, that I mustn’t badger the Great Man.”

  “You gave up rather easily. I must say I didn’t expect that.”

  Chase suppressed a pang of guilt, for he had been forced to abandon the Tyrone matter. “I never give up. I merely defer. In case you hadn’t heard, we have been occupied.”

  “Ah, the Ratcliffe murders,” Partridge replied, his expression changing. “A truly terrible business. Any progress?”

  “Not much,” Chase admitted. “Mr. Partridge, I want to know why you lied about seeing Constance Tyrone on the day she died.”

  The M.P. closed his eyes briefly. “I was afraid you would suspect me, but yes, I was with her. After our meeting I drove off, left her standing outside the York.”

  “Chivalrous of you.”

  “She didn’t want a lift, damn you. ’Twasn’t far to walk. In any event, she was not…slain…until later that night. I cannot know what she did after we parted, nor why she was out in the street so late. I only wish I did.”

  Chase looked at him. “What would you say to your lady friend not having suffered the attack after midnight as originally thought? It seems the time was much earlier. Shall we suppose soon after you were with her, between four and six that afternoon? You were, in fact, the last known person to see Miss Tyrone alive, excepting the murderer of course.”

  Partridge lost so much color that the faint grooves on his cheeks stood out starkly. “What can it matter now? You caught the man who killed her. I heard he was to be condemned, only he cheated the gallows.” He stared blindly out the window. “He ought to have suffered more, much more.”

  “Yes, had he really murdered Miss Tyrone, but I don’t think he did.”

  “You do not believe I was the one?” He put one shaking hand to his immaculate cravat and tugged. “I loved her. I could never have harmed her.”

  “I have yet to learn that loving someone will prevent an eruption of violence,” answered Chase, smiling grimly. “Quite the reverse, in fact.”

  “This makes no sense. The Source has been running a series to relate the Irishman Donovan’s final interview and full confession. Are you telling me it’s all a hum?”

  “I think Donovan probably tied it on good to get money for his family, yes.”

  Partridge put his head in his hands, then raised blazing eyes. “If you are right, I’d damned well like to know what you mean to do about it. I want her murderer caught and punished.”

  Chase laughed. “You have a strange way of showing your desire to cooperate, sir. But you can start now by telling me exactly what took place between you and Miss Tyrone that final day.”

  Slowly the fire died out of Partridge’s face, and he took out his pocket watch as if recalled to the time passing. The last rays of sunlight illuminated the rich color of the squabs behind him.

  He spoke, voice weary. “Constance was distressed by some news I brought her. It was a matter of some delicacy, Chase. I judged it unrelated to her death so decided not to inform the authorities at least until I saw what you were able to turn up. When the Irishman was arrested, there seemed no point—”

  “No point in revealing intelligence that may shed light on a murder, one you claim you are eager to see solved?”

  “I’m telling you now so have done, man. My time is short.” He closed the watch and leaned forward. “There was a young woman called Ursula who had been employed by the Society. She fell ill and went to Greenwich to seek treatment from her brother, an apothecary, but was never heard from more. I put some inquiries in train for Miss Tyrone and discovered word of the girl.”

  “And?”

  “She had returned home, unfortunately to become the center of local tattle. The sort of talk that could have been ruinous to the Society’s reputation had it come to anyone’s ears here in London. I’m sure that’s why Constance was so disquieted, setting aside, of course, her concern for her friend.”

  “Gossip of what nature?”

  “That is another reason I chose not to tell you, in the event that report lied.”

  Chase understood: a gentleman did not tarnish a lady’s reputation even if he knew ill of her. Except in this case the woman was not a lady, and men like Partridge were not often so protective of those not of their own class.

  The M.P. hesitated a further moment, looking a trifle embarrassed. Finally, he said, “Her brother put it about that she suffered an attack of influenza and died. Perhaps the influenza did kill her were her constitution already weakened, but rumor held that she had contracted the French disease.”

  “She died, eh?” murmured Chase. He remembered Penelope telling him of Fiona having syphilis. Now another female, too?

  “Miss Tyrone insisted that Ursula was a rather special protégée, a true sister, cut of like cloth. In any event Constance outright refused to countenance the tale. And that’s not all. I hated to be the bearer of this part of the story. Very… distressing, though the Lord knows such iniquity is common enough these days.”

  A chill brushed across Chase’s skin. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Why just this, Mr. Chase: the resurrection men got the girl. The body was dug up and extracted two days after it was buried.”

  ***

  The Reverend Mr. Stonegrate was not pleased to see her. As Wood ushered Penelope to a chair, the rector turned from the bookcase where he had been selecting a volume and gave her a long, level look. She felt her color fluctuate, but stiffened and met his eyes boldly.

  After the curate bowed himself out, she spoke. “Good day, Mr. Stonegrate. I thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time.”

  He inclined his head. “Wood tells me you are connected with the St. Catherine Society, madam. How may I be of assistance?”

  “I should like to speak to you of Fiona, sir.” Penelope sat very still, awaiting his response.

  Outside wind whistled through the trees, sweeping onward to rattle the windowpanes. Stout walls repelled the drafts, however, and a large fire warmed the room. Stonegrate strolled to the hearth.

  “Fiona?” He lifted the poker to spread the coals more evenly. “Ah, yes. I’m at a loss to know what you would say of her.” Dusting off his hands, he faced her.

  Now it was Penelope’s turn to regard him steadily. “I think you do know, sir.”

  Stonegrate flinched back, a mixture of fury and shame evident in his expression, but the
n he was coming forward to loom over her. Penelope looked up, appalled to see the glisten of tears behind his spectacles.

  When he was sure she had noticed, Stonegrate shifted his gaze to somewhere over her head. “I have failed,” he uttered. “You see I do not pretend to misunderstand you, Mrs. Wolfe.”

  Overcome by the heavy, sweet aroma of his perfume, Penelope wished he would move away. She had to lean back in her chair to see his entire face, and from this angle his nose jutted in a hard mountain of flesh.

  “You admit your wrongdoing?”

  He lowered his bulk in a nearby armchair. “If I have allowed myself to be lured into an indiscretion, I can honestly say my intentions were laudable.”

  Penelope’s brows rose. “Laudable? I fail to understand you, sir.”

  Stonegrate stared down at the carpet. “I only wanted to offer the young woman some fatherly guidance. I never meant for anything of a nearer nature to develop.

  “I have prayed and prayed, ma’am, and the answer has presented itself. I should never have permitted the Society to operate here, sanctioned by the Church. A group tainted with radicalism, even a hint of popery. Women who lack the guidance of husbands and fathers can only get into dangerous mischief. I see it now.”

  “You cannot be serious, sir,” Penelope said when she could command her voice. “How utterly despicable—and you refuse to spare poor Fiona so much as one kind word.” She sat up straighter and clasped her hands so tightly the knuckles whitened. “You forget that acting against the Society could bring undesirable consequences if what you have done to Fiona were to become common knowledge. I assure you most people would place the blame squarely where it belongs.”

  “Do you threaten me, Mrs. Wolfe?”

  Penelope felt a tiny frisson of fear. There was something so implacable in this man’s expression that suddenly it did not seem so unlikely he might be capable of violence.

  For a long moment there was silence; then the bells rang out heralding the hour. When all was quiet, Stonegrate added more mildly, “Surely it is I who may claim to be the injured party. I do not know what lies the girl may have told you, but there is nothing between us, nothing. ’Tis only that I felt something of pity for her. It can hardly be placed at my door if she sought to take advantage of my kindness. What would you have of me?”