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

by S K Rizzolo

  And Fiona had replied, “Oh, she’s talking about the vaccination for the smallpox what Mr. Strap give us. Hush, you silly old thing…”

  Penelope froze, staring at the testimonial until the letters jumped before her eyes. Then she looked down, her gaze focusing on the dragon at her feet. She was standing on the frayed remains of its curled crimson tail. Terror flooded her body.

  Hurrying across the room, she picked up her reticule and pelisse from the chair. She could be gone before he returned. Opening the door, she stepped into the deserted corridor, but hesitated. It might be some time before Strap finished in the operating theatre. Even though the cutting was, by necessity, soon over, surely he would need to remain at the patient’s side to stitch her up and supervise the dresser. Besides, the surgeon had no reason to fear her.

  She would take a quick look around, she decided. With a glance in either direction, she retreated into the office and shut the door. Quelling her nerves sternly, she approached the desk. This time she began riffling through the contents of a drawer. It contained nothing but patient histories and pieces of the surgeon’s vast correspondence with medical men all over the world. Try as she might, she could see nothing out of the way.

  Aware time was running out, she hesitated in front of the connecting door. What could she say if he caught her in there? Perhaps, if she carried off the situation with aplomb, he would merely think her an inquisitive female.

  She turned the knob and went in. Against the rectangular room’s long wall she saw the outline of a large window, covered by thick drapes. Along the far wall were shelves which contained rows of glass jars. Several human skeletons posed next to various animal specimens, including a stuffed tiger’s head and what looked like some sort of exotic bird. Running along the center of the room was a wooden platform, next to which was a stand for surgical instruments. Strap’s laboratory.

  Penelope picked her way across the room to stand in front of the shelves. A strong chemical odor assailed her nostrils, making her sneeze. When her eyes stopped watering, she moved along the line of jars, eyeing their contents with fascinated revulsion. Labeled meticulously, the jars housed any number of repellent objects, many preserved in clear fluid. She saw muskrat hearts, the hind leg of a rabbit, frogs’ brains, a finch’s wing, and various organs of monkeys, bats, eels, porpoises, hedgehogs, and deer.

  At the end of the row came the human specimens: an amputated foot, a femur bone with gunshot damage, an ear, and several skulls pitted with “syphilitic caries.” Worst of all was the cluster of jars holding foetuses at various stages of development. Penelope clutched at her stomach and gagged.

  When she had herself under control, she looked into the last jar. Sitting a trifle forward on the shelf, it bore a label that looked newer than the others. Inside was a hand, obviously a man’s, for she could see thick, black hairs waving gently in the liquid. While the thumb appeared normal, there were only two other fingers. They were contorted in the semblance of a claw.

  A claw. Buckler had told her George Kite’s friend Crow had a deformed hand.

  Penelope did not know there was someone in the room with her until Reginald Strap’s voice said, “I see you are admiring my collection, Mrs. Wolfe.”

  ***

  Buckler lay motionless in a darkened room and stared at the ceiling. He felt only a bone-deep languor, as if a great thirst were finally slaked and he was to be left alone for the present. This time the depression of spirits had raged for days. There had even been a few terrifying moments when he had considered Donovan’s remedy to a cruel impasse, but mostly he had sat back and let the mood pass over him like a tempest. Eventually, he knew he would emerge, blinking furiously, trying to accustom himself again to the light.

  The last time he had roused from a bout like this, Penelope Wolfe had caught him in his dressing gown and embroiled him in the Tyrone affair. For a few weeks the sense of having a task to accomplish had brought him out of himself, and he was easier. But he didn’t like to recall the way Penelope had looked at him the day it ended on Blackfriars Bridge. She possessed great strength of mind tempered with an appealingly responsive softness. She would not condemn another for his weakness, yet Buckler doubted she could really understand it.

  What did it matter anyway, he told himself, for likely he would not see Mrs. Wolfe unless Thorogood chanced to invite them both to dine. Buckler turned on his side to rest his cheek against the pillow. Perhaps tomorrow he would dine at a local chophouse on a good beefsteak and his favorite ale, afterward resuming his evening walk. But not today.

  Suddenly, he heard the door from the hallway slam. Now muffled voices broke out, getting louder. One was Bob’s; the other, unmistakably, belonged to a woman. A series of thumps ensued followed by staccato footsteps. The door to Buckler’s chambers was flung open, and someone marched up to his bed.

  “Mr. Buckler, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, but you got to wake up. Mrs. Wolfe is in horrible trouble. It’s taken me so long to find you that I think it might be too late and the poor thing may already be murdered.”

  “Begone, woman!” yelled Bob, gamely following her. He plucked at the woman’s arm. “I shall summon the Watch.”

  She turned on him fiercely. “Let go of me, or so help me I’ll box your ears.” She bent over Buckler. “Oh please do get up, sir.”

  Bemused, he gazed up at her, thinking she looked familiar but unable to place her. In the dim light, he saw a youngish, red-haired woman dressed in a plain gray gown, her chin set at a militant angle. She held an infant in her arms, and a little boy and girl clung to either side of her skirt. As if matters were not chaotic enough, the baby chose that instant to let out a piercing wail.

  Buckler sat bolt upright. “What in God’s name is going on here?”

  “I tried to stop her, Mr. Buckler, but she shoved right by me. She—”

  “I recognize you,” Buckler interrupted his clerk, looking more closely at the woman. “You are from the St. Catherine Society. Mrs. Foss, isn’t it? Leave off, Bob.”

  Buckler’s eyes turned to the little girl. It was Sarah, hair disheveled and face coated with something sticky. She was regarding him with huge, terrified eyes that wrung his heart. He held out his hand and was surprised when the child approached tentatively.

  “Where’s my Mama?”

  “I do not know, but shall we find out?”

  Sarah nodded vigorously, and Maggie broke in, fear making her voice shrill, “I told you, sir. Mrs. Penelope has gone to the hospital, and you have to hurry.”

  “Hospital? Has she been hurt?”

  “Oh no, sir. Least not yet, I hope.” Tears began to spill down Maggie’s cheeks. “And I need m…money for the jarvey. He’s waiting at your door, threatening to haul me up before a m…magistrate.”

  “We mustn’t alarm the children, Maggie.” Buckler fixed his clerk with a stern look. “Bob, take our guests into the office whilst I dress. Go and give the hackney driver his money and bid him wait outside as he may have another fare soon. Oh, and find something for the children to eat if you can muster it.”

  He dressed rapidly, glad to note he was steady on his feet, although he could not recall when he’d last eaten. A hasty glance in the looking glass over his washbasin revealed gaunt, stubble-covered cheeks and hollow eyes. His hair looked as if a barber hadn’t been near it in years. Sighing, he ripped a comb through it and splashed the stale water from the basin on his face.

  As soon as he entered the next room, Maggie came forward to take his arm. “We got to hurry, sir. Mrs. Penelope is with him and—”

  “Where’s my Mama?” Sarah planted herself in front of Buckler. “I want my Mama!” She crushed the piece of dry bread Bob had given her in her fist and dropped it to the carpet. Fastening her eyes hopefully on his face, she repeated herself. Many times. The boy watched her, open-mouthed, and the baby started to whimper from its place on the settle.

  “Stow it, everyone, so I can get to the bottom of this,” commanded Buckler, cert
ain he would soon be ripe for Bedlam. Then as the little girl’s face crumpled, he said, “Sarah, I didn’t mean to shout. Don’t cry.” He looked helplessly at Maggie, who lifted the child into her arms for comfort. Sarah buried her face and subsided.

  When all was quiet and the baby had dropped off again, Buckler addressed her. “Now Mrs. Foss. Tell your story if you please, slowly and softly.”

  “’Tis all my fault, sir, for going to sweep the terrace and not seeing Mrs. Penelope arrive. I’d no notion she’d already been and gone till I found the child in the nursery with Bet. But ’twas too late. I didn’t give her Mr. Chase’s message.”

  Buckler forced himself to concentrate. “What was the message?”

  “Why, I was to tell her not to go near St. Thomas’s Hospital but to stay safe with us at the Society till Mr. Chase could square up to that villain and get him locked up.”

  “Villain?”

  She looked at him as if he were little better than an imbecile. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, sir. Mr. Chase settled it that the surgeon Mr. Strap was the one as did It. You know. I told Mrs. Pen just yesterday to be careful since the Lord knew it could’ve been anyone.”

  Shifting Sarah’s weight so the child could nestle more comfortably, she added, “I had to do something, sir. I took the children and headed to Bow Street, but Mr. Chase hadn’t been there. They sent me off. Then I remembered you, sir. When I saw you at the trial, Mrs. Penelope told me as you lived at the Temple. I asked about a bit, and someone told me where to go, thank God.”

  “One moment. Let me think.” Glancing over at his notoriously unreliable clock, Buckler saw that it reported the hour as a few minutes lacking three o’clock. He tried to approximate the true time. “What’s the hour, Bob?”

  Bob had retreated to his writing table, ostensibly to continue his work, but Buckler wasn’t fooled. Pulling his own watch out of his pocket, the clerk replied, “Nigh on four, sir. By the time you arrive, the hospital gates may well be shut for the night, but no doubt you can find your way in.”

  “I had better go straight to Bow Street. Surely Chase will have returned, and I believe I may make the authorities sit up and listen in any case.”

  “No! We’ll all go together. I got a plan.”

  “We cannot go anywhere with three children in tow, Mrs. Foss. Besides, ’twouldn’t be safe.”

  Her voice rose again. “There’s no time to go to Bow Street, sir. Mrs. Penelope told Bet she had some other errands, so I don’t know what time she arrived at the hospital. She might’ve been there for hours.”

  “I shall go straight there to fetch her then. You remain here with Bob.” Buckler got to his feet and looked around for his overcoat. The room didn’t look any tidier than usual, even though the clerk had had plenty of time on his hands. The stack of old briefs on Bob’s desk was just the same, and some of Buckler’s clothing was still strewn across the furniture. He spotted his coat and went toward it.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Maggie. “You best consider. That Strap’s a slick devil. He’ll think up a lie sure as sure, and there’d be nothing you could do. Better to go in quiet like and spy out the ground. That’s why you need me and the children.”

  Buckler stopped buttoning his coat and stared at her, nonplused. “A man, a woman, and three children are hardly inconspicuous.”

  “That’s just it, sir.” She knelt down and began throwing outdoor clothing on Sarah and the boy. “It’s St. Thomas’s Day. We’ll make out we’re a poor family Thomassing for Christmas goodenings.”

  “That might answer,” said Bob. “The hospital, being named for the saint and all, would hardly like to turn away hungry folk.”

  Maggie smiled briefly. “I mean no discourtesy, sir, when I say no one would question you.”

  Buckler rubbed at his unshaven face, conceding she had a point. After all, he could not go charging into a well-gated enclosure as would Bow Street. He would use her idea to gain access, then find a safe spot to leave Maggie and the children. He hadn’t time to devise a better alternative.

  “Very well. Bob, I want you to locate Mr. Thorogood. If anyone may goad Bow Street into action, he will.”

  Buckler strode toward his bedchamber. “I shall get my purse, Mrs. Foss, and we’ll be off. No doubt your jarvey will require payment in advance.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chase fixed his eyes on the ormolu and bronze clock ticking industriously on the mantel. Squirming in his uncomfortable low-backed chair, he drummed his fingers on a side table in conscious opposition to the clock’s rhythm. On the way in he had stopped to speak to a few of the servants, including the Tyrone family coachman, and now was ready for the older son of the house. More than ready.

  No fire burned in the small sitting room, but it would have felt cold anyway with its austere, yet somehow ostentatious furnishings in the Egyptian mode, augmented with a selection of French accessories. The war ground on, but the latest in fashion could always be had. The rich did not suffer. It made him uncomfortable.

  He shifted his gaze to the window through which he glimpsed the garden, barren and shadowed in the ebbing light. He had hoped to get to Bow Street by now, and glancing at the clock again, he felt the pull of urgency. Damn his late start. He’d spent all night in his chair by the fire, drastically oversleeping in his exhaustion.

  Chase was not sure what to make of last night’s ghostly visitations. He’d been half asleep, dazed with brandy. Still, he could not recall ever before having such vivid, disturbing dreams. While with one part of his mind he was ready to dismiss his “revelation,” another part knew he had found Constance Tyrone’s killer. Besides, he had reviewed every aspect of the crime in the light of his new understanding, a process that only strengthened his conviction of having discovered the truth.

  He had hurried to St. Catherine’s to speak with Elizabeth Minton and the other women, relieved to leave a warning with Maggie when informed of Penelope Wolfe’s plan to visit St. Thomas’s hospital. Penelope was entirely too easy to read. If Strap suspected her of edging too close to his secret, God only knew what he might do to protect himself. Then Chase had spent several frustrating hours seeking George Kite, managing at last to obtain tacit confirmation of Strap’s employment of the resurrection men in the Greenwich theft of Ursula’s body.

  However, Chase could not disregard his other responsibilities for long; today, in fact, he was supposed to have attended the Coroner’s inquest for the latest Ratcliffe victims. Instead he was here to discover whether Bertram Tyrone had been more than just Strap’s dupe.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Bertram Tyrone himself, who strolled in looking annoyingly confident and well rested. Chase rose to greet him.

  “I wasn’t sure what to make of your message, Mr. Chase,” Bertram said. “Nor of this. Where did you get it?” He dangled Constance’s gold cross by its chain.

  “I regret not having returned it sooner, sir.”

  Some indecipherable emotion flickered in Tyrone’s eyes; then he smiled, an empty twist of the lips. “We are grateful to have my sister’s property restored. Was it found among the Irishman’s effects?”

  “No, sir.” Chase watched him closely. “A woman gave it to Kevin Donovan’s lawyers.”

  Brushing past, Bertram went to an ebony table embellished with winged sphinxes whereon he let the necklace drop. He picked up a decanter of burgundy, splashed some wine in a glass, and immediately quaffed it.

  “Where did this woman obtain the necklace?” The glass trembled slightly in his hands. “Was the creature in league with Donovan?”

  “No, Mr. Tyrone. She has never met the man.”

  “Look, it was my understanding that the inquiry had been closed after the Irishman’s suicide. My family has suffered enough, Mr. Chase. We certainly do not need Bow Street stirring up a hornet’s nest to no purpose. If you have learned something further, let’s have it.”

  “Donovan did not murder your sister
, sir.”

  Tyrone refilled his glass, swirling the wine for a moment. “What possible grounds do you have for that belief?”

  “If you would be seated, sir, I will, of course, inform you. You might thereby take your refreshment in more comfort.”

  Chase gave a bland smile as a flush tinged Bertram’s cheeks. The younger man tossed some wine in a goblet and handed it over. Perching on the sofa, he waved Chase to a seat opposite.

  Chase took a grateful sip. “By the by, sir, I quite envy you. The bachelor life of a man of substance must be so delightfully unencumbered. You and your crony Mr. Strap contrive, no doubt, to pass the time with pleasure and profit.”

  Bertram stared at him. “How dare you. I demand to know what you mean to imply, sir.”

  “Strap is a particular friend of yours, is he not? You even had hopes he would become your brother. ’Tis common knowledge among your servants that you’d been trying to persuade your father to countenance the marriage for years.”

  “Of what account is this now?” Tyrone demanded.

  Chase went on inexorably. “A murder is made up of any number of gossamer strands woven together rather like a spider’s web. Insignificant though the single threads may seem, they all lead inward to the heart in which all things are revealed—just as the spokes of the wheel point to its hub.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “One of the threads in this inquiry is your friendship with Reginald Strap, which, I believe, contributed in some part to your sister’s death. What I don’t know is whether or not you too are a vicious killer.”

  “Do you accuse me?” Bertram’s face contorted in a rage that was more like agony.

  “You were at the Society on that last afternoon, sir. If you recall the trial, Donovan’s counsel went to great pains to suggest that your sister was accosted rather earlier than thought and hidden on the church grounds. Had Mr. Buckler been able to present his case, a witness would have come forth to testify to that effect.”