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

by S K Rizzolo

  Chase pushed his way through the ever-present crowd at Bow Street police office. Even at the dinner hour, the proceedings had drawn an audience as clamorous as that of Covent Garden theatre only steps away. In a way, what happened here was as scripted as any drama. Malefactors secured and brought before the weighty force of justice, every detail of their misdeeds exhibited before eager spectators.

  It would be hours, Chase thought, before he could get a word with the weary magistrate, now questioning a gentleman and his wife whose carriage had been robbed. Though white and shaken, the pair confronted the bench accusingly, as if the safety of His Majesty’s highways was Bow Street’s sole responsibility. An officer of the Horse Patrol stood by attempting to tell his version of events.

  Watching this scene unfold, Chase felt a weariness that had little to do with his gnawing hunger or the frenetic pace he’d set all day. The sparring match with Bertram Tyrone had been invigorating, yet had provided no lasting triumph. Despite Tyrone’s obvious anguish, he could resume his easy pleasures—even without Reginald Strap—and no doubt a sizable inheritance would serve as a powerful palliative for remorse. Now Chase must somehow convince the magistrate to release him from the Ratcliffe murders, which had all London in an uproar, and reassign him to a “solved” crime everyone wanted to forget.

  Just then unmistakable bass tones thundered over the din. “Heed my warning, sir! Else you will answer for the well being of my friends.”

  Peering into a far corner of the court, Chase spotted Ezekiel Thorogood, who loomed over the magistrate’s clerk like a wrathful deity about to loose his ball of fire. The clerk, his eyes glazed over, stared stolidly ahead, all but frozen in the stance common to beleaguered public servants.

  “What the devil,” muttered Chase, moving quickly toward them.

  Heads swiveled as Thorogood boomed again, “I tell you, there is no time to lose. Cease your foolish prattle and do something before I inform your superiors precisely what I think of your so-called procedures. Blasted arrogance!”

  The clerk, whose name was James Winkle, spun in relief as Chase approached. “What do you know of this?”

  Thorogood said, “Chase, thank God. Penelope went to call upon Reginald Strap at St. Thomas’s hospital today. She has not returned.”

  A foreboding seized Chase. He cursed fluently. “I left word that she was not to leave the Society.”

  “The message was never given. Maggie Foss failed to locate you, so she took little Sarah and her own children off to the Temple seeking Buckler’s help.” Thorogood nodded at a slight, ordinary-looking man at his side. “This is Mr. Buckler’s clerk, Bob Arney.”

  “They meant to pose as poor folk out Thomassing,” Arney said.

  “I’m afraid Buckler has acted impetuously,” added Thorogood. “They’ve all gone after Mrs. Wolfe.”

  “The fool!” Chase snapped. “Of all the…to endanger a woman and children. What did he hope to accomplish?”

  “What’s this about?” demanded Winkle again.

  Thorogood put out a hand. “Mr. Chase, we must hurry.”

  Chase looked from one to the other. He would have to go in search of Penelope Wolfe, of course. With a burst of excitement, he realized he was glad of an excuse to challenge Strap.

  “Listen to their story and believe it,” he said to Winkle. “Send for Farley and whoever else to follow me.”

  Not waiting for a response, he strode to the door. As he passed the bench, the magistrate gave him a squinty-eyed stare but didn’t try to stop him. Chase emerged onto Bow Street, where the theatre crowd thronged the pavement and carriages clogged the street in both directions. He looked about for a hackney.

  The journalist Fred Gander suddenly materialized at his elbow. “I was beginning to think you were on permanent loan to Shadwell, Chase. Anything new on the Ratcliffe murders? The city’s in a frenzy, you know.”

  “I can’t talk to you now, Gander.” Chase’s glance flew up and down the street, his eyes coming to a rest upon the patrol officer’s horse tethered nearby. Coming to a decision, he untied the reins and leaped into the saddle. “Tell Thickery I had need of his horse.”

  Chase kept a tight curb on the animal as he guided it through the press of people. It was maddeningly slow going, and several times he was forced to ride up on the walkways to avoid traffic. One street seller swore at his back, pelting him with a piece of fruit. A cart with a broken wheel halted his progress for several agonizing minutes until a group of men shifted it out of the way. At last Chase made his way out of the press and headed toward London Bridge.

  Increasing his speed, Chase tried to marshal his thoughts. This was not the time to wonder how Penelope might react if Strap frightened her. She was a brave person, apt to speak her mind, as he himself had discovered on more than one occasion. She was also incurably earnest, a trait that was as irritating as it was admirable. At times there was something almost cloying about her professed regard for other people and their feelings. Chase had a hard time accepting it as genuine, for she often struck him as little-girl spoiled, selfish in her own way—not subtle or sophisticated as a woman should be. Still the idea of something happening to her or, worse, to little Sarah…

  Chase’s mount tossed its head and pranced, sensing his mounting anxiety. Grasping the reins tighter, he headed over the bridge, forced to slacken his pace. When he reached the other side, he galloped up Borough High Street and around the corner to the hospital’s side gate, where torches blazed, illuminating a swarm of shadowy figures. Chase was met with shouts.

  “Who goes there?” a voice challenged.

  “John Chase, Bow Street,” he answered, sharp with urgency.

  “Bow Street?” said a man, emerging into the light.

  He was of stocky build, or appeared so in his ill-fitting gray coat and wide-brimmed hat. “Unlooked for help is the best kind, I’m thinking. I am Henry Badcock, Borough watchman. Right happy to see you, sir.”

  Chase dismounted. Handing the reins to a hovering boy, he addressed the man. “What has transpired here, Mr. Badcock?”

  “Well, sir. I was making my rounds when I heard all the rumpus. I thought it might be accident victims as happens now and again. But I find the porters turning out a woman and she shrieking fit to curdle milk. Then I’m not here but two minutes when they say they got another female up to tricks, a lunatic what escaped the foul ward.”

  A woman yelled from the darkness. “You keep your hands off my children!”

  “That be the woman they was turning out,” said Badcock, shaking his head in disapproval. “I was just about to interrogate her when you rode up. Seems her husband is yet somewhere inside.”

  Chase sprinted toward Maggie, who sat on the ground by the gate, her arms embracing the baby, Sarah and a little boy huddling beside her. An old man hunched menacingly over them. She tried to rise, but another porter jostled her back. Chase shoved him aside, exhaling a deep breath of gratitude that the children appeared unharmed.

  Maggie looked up, close to tears. “Mr. Chase, I didn’t give Mrs. Penelope your message. Mr. Buckler is looking for her—”

  Before Chase could answer, they were interrupted by the arrival of a young man, probably some sort of apprentice. The porters gathered round as he panted, “The madwoman is trapped in the operating theatre, and Mr. Strap has gone in to subdue her. He’s not to be disturbed, mind.” The youth started back.

  “Better Strap than me,” said Badcock to Chase.

  Chase didn’t answer. Going after the apprentice, he caught him by the shoulder and whirled him around. “Where’s this theatre? Take me. Now!”

  “What is it, Mr. Chase?” asked Badcock nervously.

  “Now!” Chase gave the young man a little push. As they ran, he called back to the Watch. “Keep the woman and children here till I return.”

  From behind he heard Badcock spring his rattle, but it was too late to wait for help. Accompanied by the apprentice, Chase raced down an arcade into the next court, up so
me stairs, and through a set of doors.

  The young man pointed. “That’s the operating theatre!” he gasped, eyeing Chase fearfully. He stumbled off.

  The group about the door looked up as Chase approached. He saw immediately that Edward Buckler was there, struggling in the grasp of two surgeon’s assistants.

  “Let me go, you devils,” Buckler shouted.

  One of them laughed. For men used to restraining patients, the physically ineffectual Buckler posed no threat. They had him bent to his knees with his arms twisted back.

  “Let him go.” Chase drew his pistol.

  They swung astonished faces to him.

  “John Chase, Bow Street. Step aside.”

  “She’s in there, Chase. We must gain access.” Buckler yanked his arms away and stepped to the door, but the larger of the men blocked his way.

  “I’ve orders from the surgeon to let no one enter. That includes Bow Street.” He folded his arms belligerently.

  “I said step aside,” bit out Chase. “There’s no time to argue.”

  He smirked. “You won’t shoot me for following orders.”

  “Orders be damned.” Buckler lunged forward, catching the man’s jaw with a crack that sent both reeling to the floor. Only the barrister rose, flexing his hand. The other fellow looked at him and backed away.

  Chase gave Buckler a nod of surprised respect. “We shall have to kick open the door. Stand back.”

  When it burst ajar, they were met by a blaze of light. The surgeon stood in the observation standings, gazing up at Penelope, braced above, a knife clutched in her hand. As her startled, terrified eyes flew to the door, Strap launched himself. And before Chase could bring the pistol into play, the surgeon was upon her, wrenching the knife from her grip. She cried out.

  Strap backed along the riser with the blade at Penelope’s throat. “What is the meaning of this? You’ve no business here, gentlemen.”

  “Release Mrs. Wolfe, Strap.” Chase took a step forward.

  “Do you think to arrest me, sir?” Strap kept tight hold of Penelope. “You had better have sufficient grounds. Perhaps I should enlist Mr. Buckler in my defense?”

  Buckler remained silent, fists clenched. As Chase advanced into the room, the surgeon began to descend from the standings, dragging Penelope. She went limp, but he seemed not to feel her weight.

  “Put the weapon down if you value Mrs. Wolfe’s life,” said Strap. He skirted the room’s perimeter, passed an overturned table, and edged toward the door.

  Chase could see the shimmer of the knife as the surgeon moved in and out of lamp glow. He knew he must not allow them to leave. “Try it, and I shall take off your head.”

  For an instant Strap’s face burned with pure, immutable resolution, then the shutters came down. “You cannot desire that Mrs. Wolfe should be hurt,” he said.

  Cutting left to ward him off, Chase scanned the surgeon’s now impassive features, praying for a revealing flicker. What would Strap do were his exit blocked? He needed Penelope as hostage; it made no sense to harm her. But suddenly Chase remembered the livid finger bruises on Constance Tyrone’s neck. Those were not the marks of cool, deliberate murder, but rather of ungovernable impulse.

  Strap took one step and another, still with Penelope thrust in front of him. Always the cool steel embraced her throat. Chase avoided her eyes, afraid of the distraction, but he was acutely aware of her terror.

  “Be reasonable, gentlemen,” said Buckler, his voice cracking with strain. “We are all civilized men. Mr. Strap, release Mrs. Wolfe.”

  “No use, Buckler. I shall kill her if you try to stop me—and I assure you I am quick with a knife.”

  As Strap retreated another pace, his back to the open door, Buckler stood in danger of coming between Chase and his quarry.

  “Buckler,” Chase said warningly.

  The barrister began to edge away, but then a cluster of onlookers appeared at the theatre’s entrance.

  “Here now, what’s all this?” barked the watchman, Badcock.

  “Get away from the door,” said Strap calmly, not looking around.

  “Mr. Strap,” someone called.

  Feeling himself go very cold, Chase cocked the pistol. No one had grasped the situation. Strap did not mean to escape at all. In another moment Penelope would be dead.

  “Please withdraw, all of you,” pleaded Buckler and waved an arm to stave them off.

  Chase shut everything out, his vision narrowed, consumed utterly with Strap. His mind became still.

  Glancing over his shoulder, the surgeon inadvertently loosened his grip. Penelope wrenched herself free. Buckler pushed her to one side, then lost his own balance and tumbled over her crouching figure to land on the floor. As Strap swung in their direction, the barrister managed to thrust Penelope behind him.

  Chase saw his opening and squeezed the trigger.

  ***

  He awoke to bells, clear and jubilant, ringing out their summons to Christmas services. Chase had slept deeply through the night. Morning brought the promise of pleasure to come and the sense that today at least one might lay aside all ugliness and darkness.

  Chase dressed in his best suit and spent some time in front of the looking glass arranging his neckcloth. After shaving in icy water that stung his skin, he took himself downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Mr. Chase!”

  Leo and William jumped up from their chairs to cluster around him in the doorway, where he hesitated with his small stack of gifts. He didn’t usually enter the kitchen, and never this early. He wondered if he intruded.

  Mrs. Beeks was at the dry sink rolling crust for a pie. Raising her flustered gaze, she said, “Oh, Mr. Chase. I do beg your pardon. You find us at sixes and sevens this morning what with so many guests coming to dinner.”

  Chase smiled at her. “A happy Christmas to you, Mrs. Beeks. Please don’t stop your work on my account.”

  “I wish you were to dine with us today, sir,” said William. “Are you certain you won’t?”

  His mother fixed the boy with a steely look. “Mr. Chase has a prior engagement, William. You know that.” She turned to Chase. “I’ll see to your breakfast immediately, sir.”

  “Not to worry. I intend to share Leo and William’s bread and milk this morning, if they will offer me table room.”

  The two boys nodded enthusiastically, Leo pulling Chase by the arm to the table and William fetching another bowl and spoon.

  Mrs. Beeks smiled, yet her tone retained a bit of sharpness when she addressed her younger son. “William, fetch Mr. Chase a pot of fresh tea.”

  Chase sat, pushing one gift across the table to Leo and laying William’s next to his place; then he set aside the small embroidered pillow stuffed with fragrant lavender he had purchased for Mrs. Beeks.

  Wiping her hands, she came to lean over her son’s shoulder. “Presents, Mr. Chase? You shouldn’t have, but it’s kind in you.”

  “And it’s not even my birthday. This is capital, sir.” Leo lifted up his tiny wooden model of a schooner, complete with two masts and sails, ratlines, and a bowsprit.

  Over the boy’s head, Chase met Mrs. Beeks’ eyes and nodded reassuringly. Her smile had faded, but she laid her hand upon Leo’s arm. “Very fine.”

  She went to take the teapot from William. “Go and examine your gift now, dear.”

  Needing no further encouragement, William opened the book on antiquities and was promptly lost to all of them.

  “What about yours, Mama?” said Leo through a mouthful of bread and milk. He had set his schooner in front of his bowl after indignantly pushing aside his brother’s propped book.

  “Later, love, when I have a moment to myself. Now I want to give Mr. Chase a trifle I worked for him. I had meant to have it finished some time past.” She crossed the room to retrieve a pile of wool which she presented to him a little shyly.

  Touched and a little uncomfortable, Chase set down his tea cup to unfold a handsome woolen green scarf. “I shall
have no trouble keeping warm with this.”

  She grinned, looking years younger. “Well, someone needed to do something about that disgraceful moth-eaten bit of nothing you wear. A man can’t be doing his job when his neck is prey to every draft.”

  “I am grateful, Mrs. Beeks.” Chase stood and bussed her cheek, bringing an even brighter glow to her skin.

  Leo took the scarf and stretched it between his arms. “It’s awfully long. I expect you can use it to truss a thief if you need to, sir. Or do you bear some sort of rope for that purpose?”

  “Leo Beeks,” warned his mother, “you’ll spoil my scarf.” She took it from him and folded it. “And don’t be bothering Mr. Chase with questions at the breakfast table.”

  Sitting back down, Leo muttered, “How’s a fellow to know what profession to take up if he ain’t allowed to ask any questions?” He looked at Chase hopefully. “I’ve been thinking perhaps I’d rather be a thief-taker than a sailor. What is your opinion, sir?”

  Chase put down his cup and bent his head to his bowl before Mrs. Beeks could catch his eye again.

  ***

  At midday Chase presented himself for dinner at the Thorogoods’. Following a fresh-faced, beaming maidservant to the drawing room, he was struck immediately by the house’s air of cheerful comfort. The carpeting on the stairway was shiny with age; the pictures on the landing all sat slightly awry. Fingerprints smudged the walls as if small hands habitually reached out to steady fast-moving feet. From below, aromas of roasting meat spiced with sage and onions mingled with a hint of stewed cinnamon apples to drift up in Chase’s wake.

  As the maid threw open the door, a babble of voices greeted them. In order to be heard above the din, she sang out loudly, “Mr. John Chase, sir!”

  Her voice was so penetrating that Chase started and shrank back, but Thorogood was already coming forward to draw him in. The first thing Chase noticed was the roaring fire on the hearth, for the flames shot so high and crackled so loudly that anyone standing too close would surely be scorched. Second, he took in the fact that the room was crammed with bodies, including eight or ten children in all different attitudes: some lolling on the rug next to an old dog, others rolling and tumbling, still others contentedly perching on various laps.