Blood For Blood: A Regency Mystery (Regency Mysteries)

by S K Rizzolo

  Surprised, he turned his frowning glance Penelope’s way. “No need for concern, ma’am. She’ll cool her heels in the watch-house with the other drunks and half-wits. In the morning, we’ll find out what’s what.”

  “You will send a message to Mr. John Chase at Bow Street?” insisted Penelope. “He will need to question this person.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Exchanging a speaking glance with his companions, the constable drew himself up. “I’ll warrant Mr. Chase of Bow Street well knows his duty, madam, as I most certainly know mine.”

  Part II

  Julia thrashed, flinging out one arm. Sighing, Rebecca bent to replace the bedcovers. Would the child never settle? The long-case clock in the corridor had long since chimed the hour, and she was very late.

  Holding her breath, she waited. Then when Julia did not stir, she tiptoed away over bare floorboards, stepping gingerly to avoid the creaks. She’d always found it strange that so rich a family should permit a daughter to live in such cheerless surroundings. The nursery did not have the thick, soft carpets that warmed the other bedchambers at Cayhill. The room was furnished in castoffs from other parts of the house so that Miss Julia’s table and chairs were absurdly large for her.

  Pausing at this table, Rebecca picked up her shawl and wrapped it over her head and shoulders with hands that trembled with fear and a deeper excitement that roiled just below her awareness. She told herself it was the cold. The November nights were chill, draughts whistling through the old house like tiny spirits seeking their rest. Sometimes, when Rebecca was abroad in the night, she fancied these spirits accompanied her, nipping at her ankles, whispering warnings in her ear. She did not heed the spirits.

  She glided to the door, opening it. Outside, the corridor stretched away from her, dimly lit by occasional wall sconces. The Mistress would have retired, for her routine never varied, especially when she was breeding, which according to below-stairs tattle she was again. After dinner, she sat in her sitting room while the Master’s secretary read aloud to her from improving tracts until the tea-tray arrived. By now, she would be asleep and everyone else, too, except for him, and he would be waiting.

  One hand clutching the shawl, she made her way to the back stairs and began to descend, gripping the banister hard, for here the darkness was complete. But Rebecca knew the way. A curious weightless sensation overcame her as she began to move faster. Her hand skimmed along. Her feet beat out the rhythm her heart echoed. He is waiting. He is waiting.

  Reaching the landing, she collided with something solid. Arms came out to bite into her flesh. She was shaken roughly so that the shawl slipped from her head, exposing her face and the hair that tumbled about her shoulders.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, girl.”

  “My lord?”

  Faint light from the corridor lined his tall figure, but she could not see his expression. She knew the voice, however.

  “Miss Julia has the toothache,” she babbled when he didn’t at once speak. “I’m going to the kitchen to fetch a clove. I thought it might give her ease.”

  He shook her again. “You lying little slut,” he said, and his mouth crushed against hers.

  Rebecca gagged as she felt his tongue force itself between her teeth. He had her pressed against the wall in the narrow space, hands wrapped around her hips, bruising her. He’ll leave marks, she thought with horror, and tried to twist her head away. He forced her back.

  “I know all about you, pretty maid,” he hissed, low and taunting. “I’ve heard you sneaking about in the night, and I know where you go. Don’t think you’re too clever for me with your modest down-turned eyes and demure face. You stupid bitch.”

  His hands, cruel and punishing and insultingly thorough, moved down her body; then, abruptly, he pushed her aside so that she slumped against the railing. “Don’t you ever turn me away again, or I swear I shall tell everyone what you are. Remember that, Rebecca.”

  At first she could not fathom his meaning, but suddenly she understood. He had come to the nursery the other day to see Miss Julia, had wanted to take the little girl out to try her pony. But Rebecca, knowing how the child felt about her father’s friend and fearing another of the tantrums that occurred with alarming frequency these days, had intervened. She had said Julia was sickening for something and should not go.

  “What do you want?” she whispered.

  He was gone, leaving her alone in the dark. Clinging to the banister, Rebecca swallowed convulsively, willing herself not to faint. Her head swam, and tears of humiliation and anger dripped down her cheeks unheeded. She knew she should return to her room, yet couldn’t bear the disappointment. She told herself she would inform the Master and he would protect her, but she knew it wasn’t true. She would never tell.

  When she had herself under control, she made her way down the stairs to the ground floor and crept ghostlike through the green baize door into the main part of the house. The Master’s study was at the rear just beyond the music room. She met no one, and reaching the door, was relieved to see light gleaming underneath.

  He had told her never to knock but to slip in, so she turned the knob and entered, her palms slick with sweat, her breath so shallow she felt as if the air were being squeezed from her lungs. Already, she had half forgotten the encounter in the stairwell. It was a nastiness, pushed to the back of her mind, to be brooded over in the day, but not now in this strange otherworldly time when there was nothing but the two of them, bodies and hearts straining together.

  The Master sat at his desk, leaning on his elbows, a book propped against the decanter. His candle had guttered low so that, without realizing it, he had to bend closer. His spectacles perched halfway down his narrow nose, the nostrils flaring slightly as they always did when something excited him. Her eyes took in his heavy, capable forearm, relaxed on the desk, and lingered over thick, workmanlike fingers cupped around a forgotten snifter of brandy. In the instant before he noticed her, his image was branded on her eyes forever.

  He looked up. “There you are at last,” he said softly. “Come here.”

  Rebecca ran into his arms.

  Chapter VI

  Buckler had last seen Julia Wallace-Crag when she was seventeen and about to embark upon her first London season. She’d been so alive, so full of joyous expectation, so certain the world would offer her everything. He wondered whether the world had delivered. Certainly, in one sense it had, he thought, gazing around the morning room with its silk hangings and fine French furniture. The rest of the house had struck him as gloomy and oppressive, but this was clearly a woman’s domain.

  “Mr. Buckler. It has been years.” Smiling, she came forth to give him her hand. “I know you’ve come to call on Mrs. Wolfe, but you will allow me to make my own greetings first.”

  “A pleasure, ma’am.” He allowed her to draw him over to a grouping of chairs covered in straw satin.

  “I’m glad you’ve caught me alone. A rare occurrence, I must tell you. Let me ask at once. I understand you have made a name for yourself in your chosen profession, and I’ve been expecting these five years to be presented to your wife. Surely a pretty little wife and a few babes would round things out most delightfully?”

  He laughed. “Making a name for oneself is slow going in the legal world, ma’am. A good thing I have independent means else I might well have starved to death.”

  “You might go into Parliament,” she said, eyes wide, as if his reply meant all to her.

  “Perhaps one day.” He felt himself flush as this secret ambition of his was put into words. “What of you, Lady Ashe? You have done very well indeed for yourself.”

  “Oh, really, must you call me that? When we were children, it was always Julia. Won’t you call me so now while we’re on our own? How can it be otherwise when I was the one to witness the thrashing you once got from the blacksmith’s boy?”

  Buckler laughed. “All right then—Julia. But you must answer my question.”

  Sh
e looked away for the first time. “You see for yourself. Only the truth is no one sees, not even the oh so admirable companion you sent to me. Oh, don’t poker up,” she added as she saw him stiffen. “I mean no criticism of Mrs. Wolfe. It’s just I am quite certain she thinks me a foolish sort of creature with more hair than wit. Certainly, she does not honor me with her confidence.”

  “She has been used to being on her own,” replied Buckler, profoundly uncomfortable.

  There was no time for more, for the butler entered to announce several other callers, two young gentlemen, both dressed in the height of fashion, and a bustling, hard-faced matron. On their heels, Penelope came into the room, and, not seeing Buckler, made as if to draw back.

  “No, no, Mrs. Wolfe,” said Julia gaily. She went to take Penelope’s arm. “You will not escape so easily.” Keeping Penelope half turned away from Buckler, she introduced her to the gentlemen, who bowed languidly, and to the matron, who put up her brows, just inclining her head. Penelope bore it well, Buckler thought.

  “Now, a surprise,” cried Julia and spun around. “Look, Penelope. I know you will be glad to see Mr. Buckler.” She went on to introduce Buckler to the others, then drew the other callers across the room to some sofas, leaving Buckler and Penelope alone by the window. It was masterfully done, but Buckler saw that Penelope looked embarrassed by these tactics and felt some warmth in his own cheeks.

  When he realized he had been standing stock still, holding her hand too long, Buckler dropped it and smiled at her. In spite of what Thorogood had said, he thought she looked well in these surroundings, for she possessed the breeding to carry them off. And yet, the old lawyer was right; she also looked…unsettled, he supposed, as if she had eaten something that didn’t quite agree with her. There was also a bruised look about her eyes.

  “I am pleased to see you, Mr. Buckler,” she said, mindful of possible listeners. From across the room, the younger of the two gentlemen smiled ironically at Buckler and gave a barely perceptible wink. Buckler turned his back.

  “Sarah? She is well?”

  “Indeed, sir, though she has reached an age when the forbidden is ever beckoning and thus requires careful watching. But I am glad of an opportunity to thank you for recommending me to this position.”

  “It was nothing. Anytime I can be of service.” He was aware with surprise that he meant it.

  Gathering his wits, he went on quickly, “Thorogood asked me to call today, Mrs. Wolfe. He wishes to be assured you find yourself comfortably situated. You see, something rather worrisome has occurred, and he fears—Why, what is it, ma’am?”

  “Comfortably situated? You haven’t heard then. A footman in this household, one Dick Ransom, has been stabbed through the heart, Mr. Buckler, and it was I who found the body yesterday morning.”

  Buckler felt a deep pang of foreboding. “Murder? How extraordinary. I wonder, what is the connection? I cannot understand this at all.”

  “Connection to what?” demanded Penelope, moderating her voice with difficulty. “Has something occurred to alarm Mr. Thorogood? I was just with him in Lincoln’s Inn Fields two days since.”

  “You might say so. The matter of a letter addressed to you and delivered by an old street woman just as you departed after your visit. When he was unable to catch your attention, Thorogood meant to have it sent on to St. James’s Square, only his office was ransacked. The letter seems to be the only item missing. It was in plain sight on the desk, so we can only assume the intruder disarranged the room to muddy matters.”

  She stepped closer, her eyes gleaming. “Street woman? The parish authorities apprehended such a person, a trespasser, in the garden here last night. Perhaps she is your delivery person, though I’ve no notion who might have sent her, nor why she should wish to communicate with me.”

  “There’s more,” he said grimly. “Thorogood believes she was lurking in the street, probably hoping to address you when you emerged. But Lady Ashe’s carriage arrived, and this footman—I presume it was the same one—had jumped down to summon you.”

  “Heavens yes, I had forgotten Dick was there! There was a beggar woman on the pavement when I stepped outside. Dick took one look and pushed her away. I wanted to protest, but he hustled me into the carriage. I never saw her face, for it was wrapped in a shawl.”

  “A curious thing. When Thorogood, intending to give her a coin or two, helped her to her feet, she thrust the letter at him and took to her heels. He saw it was directed to you, Mrs. Wolfe, so he held it up and waved. He says Sir Roger’s footman turned round on the box and looked right at him. He must have realized Thorogood was trying to attract your attention, yet the coachman drove on.”

  A burst of laughter from across the room startled them both so that they jumped like guilty conspirators. Glancing up, Buckler saw that the young gentleman was now observing them through his quizzing glass.

  He gave the fellow a haughty frown and turned back to Penelope. “Odd that Lady Ashe did not mention this Ransom’s death to me.” He paused. “I cannot like this situation, for it seems this footman had embroiled himself in some nefarious business. If indeed he glimpsed the letter in Thorogood’s hand, it’s possible he did intend you should receive it, Mrs. Wolfe.”

  “But why?” said Penelope, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “It cannot be coincidence that he should turn up dead the very next morning.” She put a hand on his sleeve. “What do you intend to do, sir?”

  He looked at her blankly. “Do?”

  “You might go round to the watch-house and discover what’s become of that poor, witless creature. I’m not convinced she meant any harm. If she were loitering in the area on the night of the murder, might not she have been a witness?”

  “Why not tell Chase? Surely he could do more than I.”

  She smiled. “I’ve not seen him today. Anyway, a visit from a bona fide barrister would no doubt terrify the authorities into good behavior. And a little kindness might go further to convince the woman to speak.”

  Buckler bowed over her hand. “I don’t suppose you’ve considered that she herself might be guilty of the crime. You have heard of murderers compelled to return to the scene of their infamy?”

  ***

  At dusk in St. James’s Square the great houses were illumined as the inhabitants dressed for sumptuous dinners followed by a night of pleasure, debauchery, or both, depending on tastes. Soon the streets of Westminster, quiet at this hour, would come alive, clogged with carriages and shrill with voices.

  The usual observation was that people of this stamp were largely unaware that a stone’s throw away a different London scrabbled and toiled and plundered its victims. John Chase thought that nonsense. The inhabitants of St. James’s and of all the leafy, elegant squares of the West End knew perfectly well that accidents of birth and geography brought everything that mattered in this world, and the only worthwhile endeavor in life was to cling tenaciously to those things and to act like they belonged to you and your descendants by God-ordained right. In their position Chase would probably do the same.

  After attending the inquest and talking to some of the servants in households around the square as well as to the local tradesmen, he was on his way to have a word with Penelope about an intriguing development in the Ransom case. Attempting to call upon Dick Ransom’s former employer, a Mrs. Janet Gore of Bruton Street, a supercilious maid had informed Chase that no lady of that name had ever resided at that address, nor had anyone in the household heard of Dick Ransom. It seemed, thus, that Ransom had falsified his character.

  Setting off down the pavement, he was brought up short by approaching footsteps. Even in the dimness, he recognized the man as Edward Buckler, the barrister. Chase waited, not speaking until Buckler was almost upon him. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Mr. Chase. This is most opportune. Now you may accompany me.”

  “Where to?”

  Buckler thrust out his hand. “On an errand of compassion, sir. I own I shall be glad of your company.
”

  Chase shook the hand, but kept his inquiring gaze on the other man’s face. Buckler said, “A poor woman, Mr. Chase. Last night she was apprehended trying to enter Sir Roger’s house. Apparently, she made a rumpus, interrupting the family at dinner. You hadn’t heard?”

  “Where is this female now?” Chase said curtly.

  “At the local watch-house. Mrs. Wolfe was not at all taken with the constable who appeared on the scene. She thinks we ought to ascertain if the woman has been treated justly and attempt to solicit her knowledge of Ransom’s murder.” He described the events in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  Chase swore. “What business could this creature have with Mrs. Wolfe? Had this not been the one time the blasted parish authorities took their duty seriously, Mrs. Wolfe may have learned more of the circumstances. And I suppose it never occurred to the dolts that I might want to see this woman myself.”

  “I don’t suppose it did.”

  “I’ll be off then. You needn’t come, sir.” Chase strode off up York Street.

  The barrister stayed with him, however, after a moment saying somewhat breathlessly, “Slow up. I promised Mrs. Wolfe I would go myself.”

  With a lift of his brows and a skeptical grunt, Chase did not pause to comment. Heavy shadows lay across the cobbles now, a pervasive chill seeming to rise from the stones to permeate even stout boots. Well used to London damp, Chase ignored it, his mind sifting through the fragments of this murder inquiry, assembling, tearing apart, assembling again in new forms. He had yet to piece together a mosaic that satisfied.

  As the clock chimed the hour, they passed St. James’s church then crossed Picadilly. Just ahead on Little Vine Street was the watch-house, a squat, mean-looking structure.

  ***

  Edward Buckler had never before entered a watch-house, or roundhouse as they were often called. This one was faintly ramshackle with peeling walls plastered with notices and schedules for the watchmen’s rounds. The wooden floorboards had splintered in places.