by S K Rizzolo
In one corner of the room sat the Night-Beadle at a scarred deal table. This individual had reclined his chair against the wall and sat staring upwards as if to ponder some message set in the air above his head. He appeared to be paying no attention whatever to the thumps and scattered moans emitting from the cellar below, nor did he immediately look up upon their arrival.
“A word with you, sir,” said Chase.
The beadle slowly lowered his gaze from the ceiling. “Of a certainty, you may have it,” he pronounced. Again very slowly, he got to his feet, picked up his staff of office, and settled his cocked hat on his head. This was an archaic specimen with three corners, a turned-up brim, and gold lace. The man himself, bony and sharp-featured, was about sixty years old.
“You are Constable of the Night here?”
“Who asks?”
“John Chase, Bow Street.”
From below, the cries rose in a chorus. The Beadle reached out with his staff and tapped gently on the grating. “Bit restive tonight,” he remarked.
“How many do you keep down there?” asked Buckler. These would be disorderly drunks, vagrants, prostitutes, or pickpockets who were confined for up to forty-eight hours until they could be brought up before a magistrate.
The Beadle turned a limpid gaze on him. “That all depends, sir. Things get pretty lively.”
“I need to speak to one of your inmates,” said Chase with obvious impatience. “A female brought in last night, she who was caught trespassing in Sir Roger Wallace-Crag’s garden.”
“The one as wanted a peep at the corpse? A bad business that. You fellows best nab the one as done the footman right quick. We can’t have the swells troubled by such goings on.”
“The woman?”
“I’m sure I don’t know why Bow Street has an interest in her.” The Beadle rubbed a hand over his unshaven, pimply cheeks and eyed Chase right back. “It makes no matter anyhow. She ain’t here.”
“Brought up at the police office?”
“No, sir.”
A silence fell in which each man proceeded to take the other’s measure. While Chase was curt to the point of rudeness, there was no real heat in his tone. Similarly, the Beadle was determined to offer not one word more than necessary, but he too seemed unruffled, even faintly apologetic, as if wishful to convey he bore no one a grudge in the execution of his duty.
“Released?” said Chase at last.
The Beadle looked away for the first time. “There was someone what vouched for her. She was judged fit to be set at liberty.”
Buckler said, “You let her go without so much as a by-your-leave from your superiors? I suppose any malefactor may look for such generous treatment?”
“I wouldn’t say so. No, not at all.”
Chase sighed. “It’s no use going that road, Buckler.” He fixed the watch-house keeper with a frown. “Who?”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“You said someone vouched for the woman.”
The Beadle took a few steps, swung his staff, and tapped again on the grating. “Ripe for Bedlam, that one, but the lady said as the poor thing were just curious, wouldn’t hurt a living soul despite being more than a little simple in the head. Said as the old half-wit used to be her nurse and promised to see her safe home.”
Buckler turned to Chase, exclaiming, “There’s a bit of luck for you. Now you may interview this good Samaritan who may well be able to give a better account of our corpse peeper, than, I dare say, she could give of herself.”
But Chase, still regarding the watch-house keeper, said, “I think our friend here is about to tell us he neglected to solicit the lady’s name—or direction. That right?”
“That’s about it,” the Beadle said primly. “For all she wore a veil to shield her countenance, I pegged her soon as she opened her mouth. She were the real article, gentlemen. ’Twouldn’t have been seemly to press a fine filly out to do her bit o’ good.”
“No doubt. We’ll bid you good evening then,” cut in Chase over Buckler’s protest. He tossed a coin on the desk. “For your trouble, constable.”
The Beadle made no move to pick it up. “Thank you, sir.”
Buckler waited until they were outside, then burst out, “That scoundrel took a bribe to let his prisoner go, no questions asked. You know it will be impossible to trace her or her benefactress with such paltry information, if that’s what you have in mind, Chase. Don’t they keep better records of transactions? And why the devil did you give that fellow a gratuity?”
Chase put up a hand to stem the flow. “Calm yourself, Mr. Buckler. I’d not last three days in my job if I allowed incompetent fools to stop me for long.”
***
When Chase arrived at the House of Lords, a bloodless, girlishly handsome youth had risen to address the chamber. Standing near the entrance, Chase paid no attention at first until gradually the words penetrated, and he began to listen.
“But while the exalted offender can find means to baffle the law, new capital punishments must be devised, new snares of death must be spread for the wretched mechanic, who is famished into guilt. These men were willing to dig, but the spade was in other hands. They were not ashamed to beg, but there was none to relieve them. Their own means of subsistence were cut off, all other employments preoccupied. And their excesses, however to be deplored and condemned, can hardly be subject of surprise.”
A quick glance around told Chase that most of the other peers lounging on the red cloth covered benches remained unimpressed, not that they talked among themselves or did anything overtly rude. Still their expressions were disdainful, though there were a few looks of pleased surprise and interest to be seen on the opposition side.
At Chase’s back the friendly yeoman usher who had admitted him to the gallery whispered, “As I told you, sir, we’ve no accommodation for visitors. As you can see, we’re full up. Should you like to await Lord Ashe in the lobby?”
“No, thank you. I’ve served guard duty in the Commons on occasion, so I am quite familiar with it. This is the first time I’ve had occasion to visit the Lords.”
“Usually rather less fire hereabouts, sir, present instance excepted. Of course, we need to make allowances being as this is the young gentleman’s maiden speech.”
“Who is he?” Chase murmured as the young lord gestured energetically and launched into still more impassioned rhetoric.
“Lord Byron, sir. Not a very distinguished or prosperous barony, though I understand he’s the sixth of the title. He’s talking of the Luddites. The bill under debate today seeks to make framebreaking a hanging matter.”
Byron drowned him out easily. “I have traversed the seat of war in the Peninsula. I have been in some of the most oppressed provinces of Turkey. But never under the most despotic of infidel governments did I behold such squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my return in the very heart of a Christian country.”
It seemed to Chase that these words dropped from the speaker’s mouth only to fall into a curious void. Certainly, they were incongruous here in this elegant room packed with the cream of the nation’s aristocracy, themselves surrounded by walls lined with rich, old tapestries depicting England’s glorious defeat of the Armada. At the chamber’s upper end sat a throne, gilded and spread with red velvet. It was surmounted by a canopy, also of crimson velvet, bearing the imperial crown at its apex. A seat for a monarch whenever he or she should choose to take it.
The ever helpful usher whispered to Chase again, pointing out the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Chief Justice, and the Master of the Rolls, who observed the proceedings from broad, backless, uncomfortable-looking seats below the throne. To one side were benches for the lords spiritual, the archbishops and bishops, who also sat stiffly, staring straight ahead.
At length Chase was able to pick out Ashe on the government side. And if the sneer on his thin, aristocratic mouth were anything by which to judge, he too did not approve of what he heard. The North seethed with unrest these days as w
orkers raided the mills to smash the new shearing frames they claimed were a threat to their livelihoods. Widespread wage cuts and astronomical food prices had made the Luddites, as they called themselves, so desperate as to have nothing to lose. Not that Chase supposed men like Ashe cared to concern themselves beyond passing an act that would be sure to infuriate the rebels even further.
Young Byron thundered on. “Is there not blood enough upon your penal code, that more must be poured forth to ascend to Heaven and testify against you? How will you carry the bill into effect? Can you commit a whole country to their own prisons? Will you erect a gibbet in every field and hang up men like scarecrows?”
Gazing around at the sea of implacable faces, Chase was certain he knew the answer to that question.
Chapter VII
“A satisfied stomach makes unpleasant business the more palatable, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Chase? Tell me, sir, how do you find your repast?”
Chase could find no fault with the steaming pigeon pie and excellent wine in this Old Palace Yard chophouse. The invitation from Ashe, however, had surprised him. “Delicious, my lord. You are most generous.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Since I was unable to give you the meeting in St. James’s Square, it seemed the least I could do. I understand from Mrs. Wolfe you are just the man to get to the bottom of this matter. I shouldn’t be surprised if you discover this manservant was in league with a nest of vipers who turned against him. Thievery, perhaps?”
Interesting that both Lady Ashe and her husband seemed to wish to nudge his thinking in that direction, though Lady Ashe’s was the more charitable of interpretations. “I have no such evidence at present,” Chase said carefully. “Your butler has given the servant a good character. No signs of forced entry, nor is there anything missing from the house so far as I have been able to ascertain.”
Ashe looked as if he didn’t much like to be contradicted, but his tone remained genial. “You would know best, though I am at a loss to understand what could have befallen the fellow. One hardly expects to find a man stabbed to death in one’s garden.”
“When he entered your father-in-law’s employ some two months ago, Ransom provided a testimonial from a woman called Mrs. Janet Gore. I attempted to verify this reference, but there seems to have been some error. No such person as Mrs. Gore resides at that address, nor had anyone there ever encountered Dick Ransom.”
“Ah, we see how such testimonials may easily prove forgeries. Clearly, Ransom played some deep game, sir, not so terribly surprising in these unsettled times. You will oblige me by not speaking of the matter to my wife. I do not want her disturbed.”
“Yet, like your butler, Lady Ashe has spoken well of the dead man.”
Ashe put down his fork with a clatter, his brow contracting. “My wife? What the devil do you suppose she knows about it? She rarely concerns herself with domestic arrangements.”
“No doubt social engagements occupy her time?”
“Naturally.”
A trifle touchy on the subject, it seemed, reflected Chase, thinking of the rumors that Lord Ashe had wed his lady for an heir—and her money. He went on smoothly, “The coroner’s inquest was held this afternoon, my lord. I arranged that only your butler and one or two of your other servants were asked to testify.”
“We thank you for that, Mr. Chase. The verdict, I suppose, was a foregone conclusion?”
“Murder against person or persons unknown. There is, as yet, little more to go on. The body is to be released for burial.” Chase paused. “If I may inquire, my lord, what brought you downstairs yesterday morning?”
“I don’t claim to have heard the uproar as Mrs. Wolfe did, but I had awakened nonetheless. Can’t say why really. I often rise early to work, and that was my intention.”
“Lady Ashe was not disturbed?”
His eyes fixed coldly on Chase’s. “I believe not. If you are quite through, sir, I must be getting back.” Shoving his plate away, he made as if to rise, but Chase held up one hand to restrain him.
“The female intruder has eluded us for the present, as she has been discharged by the parish authorities. But it is possible she is connected in some manner to Dick Ransom’s death. Did anyone in your household recognize her, my lord?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“A lady, an incognita, vouched for the woman and secured her release. She told the watch-house keeper the female had once been her nurse.”
“A pretty story,” replied Ashe, shaking his head. “You must hope then that this ‘lady’ will lead you to the others. One of a gang, I should imagine, perhaps from the King Street rookery just off the square.”
Chase wiped the crumbs from his mouth, tossed aside his napkin, and got to his feet. “By the by, my lord, what did you make of that speech about the Luddite business? Have you any fears the disturbances will spread? Till now they been confined to the Midlands and the North.”
“Byron? Parcel of nonsense. He ought to know that such lawlessness respects no boundaries. Indeed, it spreads like some dread disease. I am afraid sometimes the scoundrels will be satisfied with nothing less than the destruction of what makes England great. The stability and proper respect which governs relations among the classes. The mighty wealth and commercial prosperity that is our reward for each playing our part. They cut off their noses to spite their faces did they but know it.”
“You mean the destruction of machinery only hurts everyone, man and master alike?”
“Of course. Consider the nightly depredations in Nottingham over the past few months. The Government has been forced to deploy thousands of soldiers so that peaceable individuals should not be afraid to retire to their beds. How many shearing frames—valuable property, mind—do you suppose the rogues have dared to destroy?”
“A vast number, I should imagine.”
“Over three hundred in January alone. And the ne’er-do-wells will only grow the more brazen unless firmly checked. I tell you we must put them down.”
“So you believe the threats are to be taken seriously? I would not be surprised should they dare to threaten even the Regent.”
Ashe spread his hands. “What else can I believe? The sentiments are explicit enough.” He waited a moment, then dropped his next words very slowly into the silence. “Blood… for…blood.”
***
“I know you. You’ll walk a few paces and expect me to carry you the rest of the way.”
Sarah’s brows drew together. “I won’t. Besides, you promised me a sweeting, Mama.”
When the misspelled, crumpled note, addressed to the “kind lady muther of the littel girl” had arrived this morning, Penelope’s first impulse had been to turn the matter over to John Chase. But the letter required her presence, and the instructions seemed straightforward enough. She was to see the knife-seller in Covent Garden Market for a message, and Penelope was certain she knew who had sent it.
Though she doubted the wisdom of bringing the child, Sarah would never give up without a battle, one that might not be in a parent’s best interests to wage. And she herself might not have another opportunity to get away for days. Lenient mistress though Julia undoubtedly was, she was just as apt to demand her companion dance attendance on her for hours as she was to ignore Penelope’s very existence. One could never be sure.
As she laid aside the note, Penelope had asked, “The woman in the garden didn’t threaten you? I mean, did she frighten you?”
“I didn’t like it that she cried so and wouldn’t stop.”
An idea occurred to Penelope. “Had you seen her before that night, my love, perhaps when Mary took you out for your walk?”
Sarah put down her spoon, always glad of an excuse to avoid eating the detested porridge. “Yes, I did see her. I wanted to give her my penny, but Mary had bid me throw it in the basin. I couldn’t ask Mary ’cause she was busy talking to the groom from the house across the way.”
Seething, Penelope forced herself to ask cheerfully, “When was
this, love? Did she try to speak to you?”
The child paused, and her face fell, eyes filling with tears. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember exactly when it was.”
Penelope lifted her into her lap. There was no point, she knew, in pressing for more. “Never mind, darling. If you remember, you can tell me later.”
Now, trying to ignore the stiff breeze that whipped at their cloaks and stung their cheeks with color, Penelope came to a decision. “All right then. We’ll walk in that direction, but you mustn’t give me any trouble, mind.”
“Oh, I won’t, I won’t,” sang the little girl joyfully.
She took her mother’s hand, and they set off, Sarah giving occasional hops to avoid the muck on the pavement. The day was overcast with fat, sullen clouds suffocating the earth and a wind so sharp it made the ears ache. Hardly a good day for an excursion; still they needn’t stay long, whether or not Penelope’s business came to anything.
A brisk walk brought them to the Market, and none too soon, for Sarah, inevitably, had begun to whine and drag her feet. Stepping gingerly over discarded leaves and walnut shells, they threaded their way through stalls piled high with brightly colored carrots, cabbages, cauliflower, and oranges. Women carrying baskets on their heads wove gracefully among the crush of hampers, carts, and donkey barrows, even as the wind buffeted their skirts. Aproned greengrocers called out the virtues of their produce to passing customers. Ragged, grimy costers swarmed from shop to shop seeking the better price.
Crowded against St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, the Market brought choking traffic into the area, inciting endless complaints from residents. It was a frenzied, ill-organized tangle offering far more than the original roots, herbs, flowers, and fruits. One could purchase slippers, baskets, combs, crockery, and poultry. Even the dealers in knives and old iron had elbowed their way in as if to serve notice that a new era had arrived.
“Stay close, Sarah,” she warned, reaching down to grip her shoulder.
Sarah shook her off. “Look, Mama. What’s he doing to that chicken?” She pointed to where a homely, slit-eyed man stood gripping a chicken by its neck. Apparently, he had just purchased it from the poulterer’s stall, for at his back a confusion of white-feathered birds fluttered and squawked in their cages. The chicken in the man’s hands, however, hung mutely between his powerful thumbs, perhaps already dead.