The Rose in the Wheel: A Regency Mystery (Regency Mysteries Book 1)
Page 30
Chase’s gaze continued to sweep the room until it alighted on Penelope Wolfe, sitting next to Buckler on a small sofa against the far wall. Engrossed in conversation, they apparently had not observed his entrance.
Pulling him toward the circle of faces, Thorogood boomed: “Another birthday gift for you, ma’am. A genuine Bow Street Runner, and a fine gentleman to boot, here to dine at your board on Christmas Day!”
Hope Thorogood looked up from refilling a guest’s cup with steaming punch and gave Chase a luminous smile. He drew in his breath, arrested by something in her expression that spoke of truth and a frank joy.
“Welcome to our home, Mr. Chase.” She put down the cup and approached. “We are indeed glad to see you today of all days.”
Chase bowed over her hand. “This is your birthday? May I offer you my felicitations?” He glanced down at the packet of chestnuts he carried. “I wish I had known, ma’am.”
“Nonsense.” She took the bundle from him. “Look. See what Mr. Chase has brought.”
A laughing group of children darted forth to relieve her of the chestnuts, bearing them off to be roasted.
“Mind your fingers,” Mrs. Thorogood called after them. She thrust a glass of punch in Chase’s hand and embarked upon a bewildering round of introductions, presenting in turn several of Thorogood’s grown children, some cousins, and an elderly uncle, all of whose names he promptly forgot.
Then she peered over her shoulder. “Mr. Buckler, Penelope. Do come and greet Mr. Chase. I believe he might stand in need of a familiar face.”
They rose from the sofa. “I am pleased to see you, Mr. Chase,” said Penelope, holding out a bandaged hand. Chase had gone to her lodgings to see how she did on the day after the dramatic events at St. Thomas’s hospital. She looked much better today.
“A happy Christmas, Chase.” Buckler was grinning broadly despite the bruise on his cheek earned in the struggle with Strap.
Chase fumbled at his pocket. “Where’s Miss Sarah? I have a trifle for her somewhere. Oh well, I suppose I shall bestow it upon someone else if she’s not here.”
Shrieking, the child danced up and held out her palm. “It’s for me; it’s for me,” she chanted, carrying off her treat. She ran over to join the children who played with the dog, or rather played next to it, as the creature merely sat there, giving an occasional twitch of its tail.
Watching Sarah stroke the animal, Chase commented, “A bit under the weather, is it? I’ve never seen a less prepossessing dog.” He looked at Ezekiel Thorogood. “No offense intended, sir. I am sure it is quite amiable.”
Thorogood’s rich chuckle sounded. “You ought to address your apology to Buckler, sir, for it is his dog.”
Buckler groaned. “You see, it happens already. And I am hardly able to withstand so severe a blow to my consequence. Can you imagine what my colleagues will make of the creature?”
“They will deem you the soul of charity,” put in Mrs. Thorogood, twinkling at his look of utter chagrin.
Penelope explained. “You see, Mr. Chase, I found Ruff abandoned in the street when Strap escorted me home from the Old Bailey. Actually, it was due to his sharp eyesight that the dog was not trampled. A small mercy we must be thankful for.”
A shadow darkened her expression, but she went on brightly, “Unfortunately, my landlady is not disposed to be hospitable and outright refuses to house the poor thing. So Mr. Buckler has agreed to adopt Ruff, and no doubt he will find the pup very good company. ’Tis the least we may offer as repayment for his efforts in the Donovan matter.” She shot Buckler a mischievous glance from under her lashes.
He grinned back. “Yes, I see now I have been fortunate. I take away from this experience a near dead mongrel and an already dead goose, albeit a plump one.”
“I for one am grateful for the goose,” put in Thorogood, “as it will provide a fine dinner for us all in about an hour’s time.”
Buckler responded to Chase’s questioning look. “Donovan’s wife sent the bird. It seems the money Fred Gander paid for her husband’s ‘confession’ has enabled her and the child to begin a better life.”
“I am glad of it,” said Penelope. “Only, what a tragedy that she must lose her husband to gain this chance. Strap had a good deal to answer for, that’s certain, for Donovan was as much a victim as Miss Tyrone and the others.”
Thorogood commented, “Yet if the surgeon’s experiment had succeeded, he would have been hailed as a savior. The irony must strike one forcibly.”
Mrs. Thorogood addressed Chase. “What is to be the fate of the women of the St. Catherine Society?”
“Fiona and Winnie are under the care of a reputable surgeon, ma’am. And according to Miss Minton, Bertram Tyrone has called to express his support of the Society’s endeavors. We shall see.” He sipped his punch.
“Will you receive a reward for ridding the world of that scoundrel Mr. Strap, sir? I hope the authorities have the sense to see how you deserve it.”
He smiled at her. “Recompense is only offered upon a perpetrator’s conviction, Mrs. Thorogood. At first the magistrates were even inclined to doubt that so respected a man could be guilty of such infamy. Now I think everyone should like to forget it. The papers have made surprisingly little of the circumstances.”
“In truth, they are too full of the Ratcliffe affair,” said Buckler soberly. “It looks like a breakthrough has occurred at last. Did you see the account in today’s Morning Post of the seaman John Williams’ examination at Shadwell? The maul used to strike down the victims was found to have originated from the public house where Williams lived. I must say it looks bad for him, though it does not do to judge too hastily. God willing, the nightmare is over.”
Strolling away, Buckler went to speak to one of the cousins. And with Thorogood and his wife circulating to ensure their guests’ comfort, Chase was left alone with Penelope, who launched into speech.
“I am grateful to have this opportunity for a word with you, Mr. Chase, as I didn’t like to speak in front of Sarah when you were kind enough to pay a call the other day. I wanted to tell you that I have seen my husband in but a brief visit. I…I just thought you should know I have his solemn pledge he never meant any harm to Constance Tyrone.”
Chase kept his expression impassive. “At any rate,” he told her, “I am relieved for your sake that all is well with him.” He wanted to say more, to ask her, for instance, if she thought she and Wolfe would make another go of their marriage—but it wasn’t his place. His eyes sought out Sarah.
“She will sorely miss her father, I fear,” Penelope said, following his gaze. “Jeremy has gone to Ireland. Something about a commission in Dublin.” Before he could reply, she went on quickly, “Have you family, Mr. Chase?”
He studied her face. Thick brows over large mahogany eyes and a complexion of a warmer tone than was common in an Englishwoman. The looser hairstyle she wore today suited her admirably. But he must answer her. “Yes, a father and several brothers and sisters. I haven’t seen them in years. My mother passed on a few years ago.”
“You have never married, I suppose?” She reddened a little, and her eyes grew anxious.
“No.”
Glancing at the punch bowl on the table, she made as if to step back. She would give an excuse to move away, Chase thought.
“I have a son in America,” he found himself saying. “I should like to have him here with me, but he’s only twelve and doing well with his mother and grandfather. Perhaps one day…”
Observing the pity that flared in her eyes, he felt the old crushing sense of defeat flicker, then subside. Deliberately, he smiled. “He’s a fine lad.”
There was no time for more, for Buckler and Thorogood had rejoined them. “You know,” Buckler remarked to Chase. “There’s one thing that still bothers me about the Strap business. Who was driving the carriage that struck Miss Tyrone? Was it after all a jarvey too scared to come forward and confess what he had done?”
“Hackneys
are often used to transport stolen goods. It’s possible the driver was engaged on some nefarious scheme of his own. We shall never know.”
Thorogood said thoughtfully, “Buckler, I recall your mentioning the other day that you could almost fancy Death himself drove your hack on the way to St. Thomas’s to rescue Mrs. Wolfe.”
“Quite a ride, eh?” Chase said, amused.
“Indeed it was. And one must profoundly pity Miss Tyrone lying in the street with such force bearing down upon her.”
At this, Hope Thorogood looked up from her ministrations to the elderly uncle. “I prefer not to think of her death in that way.”
“Why what can you mean, my love,” erupted Thorogood. “As Tibullus says, ‘Imminet et tacito clam venit ille pede’: It—that is death—is always close enough; it sneaks up on silent feet. No, no, I see the quotation is not wholly apt, but were we to substitute thundering hooves…”
“Yes, Mr. Thorogood,” said Hope, “but do not let us acknowledge it today. Besides, while I am quite unable to cap your Latin, I can think of a much more uplifting sentiment for the occasion.”
And with a swift glance all around, Hope quoted softly, “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”
Afterword
Writing historical fiction requires a sort of teetering between the pure, elusive ideal of accuracy and the messier demands of a particular story. Accordingly, while taking this opportunity to tie up some loose bits, I would also like to “fess up” to several instances of poetic license. No doubt you have found more I should have mentioned.
Of St. Catherine:
Although there were several churches dedicated to St. Catherine in Regency London, Curate Wood’s church, located in Soho roughly on the site of old St. Anne’s, is completely fictional.
I found few specific references to St. Catherine’s Day celebrations during this era. However, up until the introduction of the new poor law in 1834, workhouse girls at Peterborough and lace makers in other parts of Northamptonshire and Bedfordshire reputedly observed the holiday.
Because angels bore the saint’s corpse to Mount Sinai (where would be established a famous monastery in her honor), Catherine is often associated with hills; tiny, hilltop chapels dedicated to her exist all over England. Actually, the bit of lore about dropping pins in a niche and reciting a prayer for a husband comes from a tale of the St. Catherine chapel high on a hill in Abbotsbury on the Dorset coast. In spite of no path and lots of sheep, I managed to clamber up to this fifteenth-century chapel above the swannery.
The Catholic church removed Catherine of Alexandria from the calendar of saints in 1969.
Of Coffee Houses, Taverns, and Public Houses:
I invented many of the pubs and coffee houses with the notable exceptions of the Grecian, today called the Devereux; the Russian Coffee House or Brown Bear in Bow Street; and the Cider Cellars tavern.
Of St. Thomas’s Hospital:
The female operating theatre in the garret of St. Thomas’s church did not open until 1821. At the time of this novel in 1811, women underwent surgery in the adjacent Dorcas ward, a practice which must have been disturbing for the other patients. I found it more effective to locate Penelope’s confrontation with the villain in the garret theatre, especially since I was able to see it firsthand. Marvelously restored, the theatre is now a museum.
Of the Great Comet:
The Great Comet of 1811 was a prominent feature of the night sky. Napoleon reputedly took its appearance as a heavenly sign in favor of his Russian campaign (wrong move). The giant “fireball” was also thought to contribute to prevailing maladies referred to as Comet Fevers and was credited with producing an unusually fine vintage of port wine.
Of Syphilis (and AIDS) Vaccines:
Oddly enough, just as this piece was completed in the spring of 1997, news reports about the search for an AIDS vaccine began to appear. Since the use of harmless viral proteins had proven disappointing, the focus was turning to more controversial trials that would employ a weakened yet still hazardous live virus.
Reginald Strap takes a somewhat similar approach in seeking an inoculant for the syphilitic “virus” (by which he means poison, as he is unaware, of course, that syphilis is a bacterial infection). Ironically, Strap is ahead of his time, for his notion of weakening the organism by passing it through an animal is well established in vaccine development. And after Jenner’s success with smallpox, it seemed reasonable that a Regency era physician might be tempted to seek a preventative for syphilis, still a scourge then, though no longer the dire pestilence it once had been. I thank Stephen Greenburg of the National Library of Medicine, History of Medicine Division, for providing valuable insight into Reginald Strap’s experiments.
The quest continues for a syphilis vaccine.
Of British Criminal Law:
It was not until 1836 that a person accused of felony was allowed to make his full defense by counsel. Nonetheless, prior to that date a practice had developed whereby a barrister could cross-examine witnesses and argue points of law, yet could not address the jury. It seems this privilege was granted—or refused—somewhat capriciously. In one 1760 trial, for instance, the prisoner was forced to question the witnesses called to prove his own defense of insanity!
Of the Ratcliffe Highway Murders:
In several key ways, the fate of the Irishman Donovan parallels that of the young man called John Williams, chief suspect in the Ratcliffe murders. Both men commit suicide in prison, thereby “cheating the gallows” before the Law can exact its penalty (Williams never even goes to trial). Moreover, in both cases the evidence against the accused is circumstantial, and the rush to judgment seems appallingly unjust.
Still, Donovan escaped the final indignity visited upon Williams, for on New Year’s Eve day, 1811, London was treated to a gruesome procession that wound its way through the streets of Wapping, pausing in turn at the homes of the Ratcliffe victims and at the lodging house where Williams had lived. The focal point of this procession was a cart in which was displayed Williams’ corpse, clothed in trousers and frilled shirt. Also featured were the bloody maul and other weapons used in the crimes. The cavalcade ended at a crossroads where Williams was thrust into a cramped, unblessed grave.
Thousands of people watched the interment in eerie silence until the moment when an attendant picked up the maul to pound a stake through Williams’ heart and the crowd exploded with curses and howls.
It is easy to imagine John Chase of Bow Street mingling with the throng, keeping a vigilant eye out for pickpockets and other malefactors eager to take advantage of this cathartic moment in the life of a city. It is less easy to envision the presence of Edward Buckler, who probably would have chosen to remain sequestered in the Temple with more congenial ghosts.
As for Penelope Wolfe, even an unconventional gentlewoman of her mettle would hardly dare to brave so public and unsavory a spectacle, though no doubt her curiosity must have presented a severe temptation. This instance is one in which following the rules might be said to redound to her benefit.
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