by S K Rizzolo
“You wish to claim the dagger as your property?” said John Chase.
The knife-vendor’s bony chin thrust out, sending the strings of her yellowed bonnet dancing. Under the bonnet, a full set of suspiciously fat curls did not budge. “That addle-brain who give it me weren’t coming back. I’ll lay you odds she don’t even recall what she done with it.”
“It’s a valuable piece. Your friend was generous.”
“I told you,” she cried as drops of saliva spewed. “She weren’t my friend. I only had words with her two, maybe three times. She said it weren’t hers, and she were afraid someone would have it off her. Wanted me to keep it safe.”
“Meaning she’d be back to collect it one day?”
“Gawd only knows.” She stepped away to attend to a patron.
Custom was lighter at the Market this afternoon than Chase, who lived close by, was used to seeing. Usually one did well to mind his pockets while mingling among the press in the square. Thieves, whores, and vagabonds were all too plentiful in Covent Garden, the innumerable taverns attracting a constant supply of undesirables.
Over their teacups, Chase’s landlady Mrs. Beeks and her friends enjoyed abusing the Market; to them, it represented much of what was wrong with the world with its grasping after profit and its dirt and mess. The doorsteps of all the houses along the approach to the square were left covered with refuse, the pavement stained green with trodden leavings. And at the top of anyone’s list of nuisances were the ragged waifs who slept beneath the stalls of the Market at night and woke to prey upon the merchants by day. According to the knife-seller, Chase’s mystery woman had occasionally dossed down with these children.
She was back. “Where can I find the little beggars?” Chase asked.
“Come back tonight,” she said sourly. “The devils is always here.”
“Where now?”
“They is around. You can ask the orange-lady as they seem to like to fuss her.” Her eyes were sharp on his face. “What about my knife? You mean to give it back?”
Chase turned to walk away. “It is material evidence in a murder inquiry. Besides, it was never truly yours.”
“It surely don’t belong to that fine lady bitch what took it off me neither,” she shrieked after him. “You tell her I said so!”
***
Chase located one of the children easily. Dressed in a pair of men’s trousers, rucked at the waist and inexpertly turned at the ankles, a gaudy waistcoat embroidered with wide purple and gold stripes, and a shiny black tailcoat much too large for his slender frame, he was dogging the heels of the orange-seller.
Chase flipped her a coin. “Give him one.”
Both of them gawked at him, but the woman took the coin and plucked a piece of fruit from the top of her stack. She offered it to the boy.
“I’ll pick it meself,” he announced with dignity.
Instead of lingering over his choice, as Chase might have done, the boy shot out his hand and snatched the first one he touched. This he thrust into his pocket.
“Thank you, sir,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet and waiting, for in his world, and to some degree in Chase’s as well, there was no such thing as kindness for its own sake.
Chase motioned him to one side. “Your name, boy?”
“Fergus.”
“Where do you live?”
“Roundabout. Where I can.”
“How do you get your bread?” he asked sternly.
Fergus sidled away. A dull, resigned expression had come over his face. There was a long pause before he replied. “I were a coster’s boy, helping to push a barrow and cry out the wares. One day he don’t want me no more, so I stay here and pick up what I can.”
“At night?”
He stiffened with alarm. “Who’s asking, mister? I ain’t done nothing.” Taking another step back, he glanced around surreptitiously as if seeking reinforcements.
“John Chase, Bow Street.”
The dullness vanished. “Bow Street,” he breathed.
Chase sighed. This boy was about the same age as Leo Beeks and a year or two younger than Chase’s own Jonathan. The thought made him wonder briefly whether Jonathan too would look upon him with admiring eyes, or whether he would only see the man who had not been a father to him. “I asked if you slept here at night.”
“Yes sir. Me and some others catch a few winks under the stalls. We don’t hurt nothing.”
“Did a woman seek shelter with you recently?
“You mean Dora?”
For a moment, Chase was confused; then he understood. Dora. It was the name of the woman safely confined in Bedlam, she who had once been an inmate at the Islington asylum. Could it be that Rebecca Barnwell had borrowed the name from her friend? He felt his breathing quicken. “Yes, probably,” he said casually. “Tell me of her.”
“Not much in her cockloft,” said the boy, tapping his head. “But she’s a right one. Once, when she had some blunt to spare, she treated me and me mate Joseph to a pint of porter and a pie.”
“What is this female’s appearance? Young? Old? Pretty? How dressed? Was she with child, by any chance?”
“I’d say she’s too old for that, sir. Brown and gray hair pulled well back. Her face has lines, and it looks, well, sad, I think. She always wore a cloak, so I dunno what she had on underneath.”
“When was the first time you saw this Dora?”
His face crumpled in concentration, but time would have little meaning to a child like this. “Some while back,” he said after due consideration. “It was cold, and she were lurking round the Market. It got to be night, and she didn’t have no place to go. We let her bide with us, and she loped off again in the morning. We figured she had a begging post somewhere.”
“She never told you anything of her history? Where she came from, for instance?”
He looked surprised. “Naw. I didn’t ask.”
It would be a common enough phenomenon for young Fergus. People must move in and out of his life like ships with no berth. The rule of the streets demanded that a person mind his own business; it was the first requirement of survival. And possibly in this case an innate and delicate courtesy would have kept the boy from speaking out.
Reaching into his pocket, Chase retrieved a coin. “Much obliged.”
But as he began to stroll away, the boy burst out, “Look here. Why you asking? She wouldn’t do nothing wrong.”
Chase turned around. “Oh?” he said softly.
“No, sir. She be a godly woman. Why, she told me the Savior would come again to take all the poor folk up to Paradise, and I should go too if I was good.”
“You believed her, boy?” Chase heard the hard note in his voice and knew Fergus would think the anger was directed at him.
“Yes, sir. Salvation belongs to all, but as for them what don’t turn away from sin…” Giving an eloquent shrug, he drew one dirty finger across his neck.
***
Laughter and rollicking song greeted John Chase at the Fleece on Little Windmill Street, the noise coming from behind a door that probably led to the inn parlor. The taproom itself was deserted but for the proprietor, a watchful man who stood behind the bar polishing a glass.
Tucking his cloth under one beefy arm, the barman said unsmilingly, “Evening, sir. What can I do for you?”
Chase gestured at the closed door. “I’ve come for the meeting. From the sound of it, you’ve a full house, landlord.”
“It’s the debating club, sir, and I’m afraid it’s members only. May I inquire how you came to hear of it? I’ve not seen you round here before.”
“A friend told me of the club. He said I should find both congenial company and an opportunity to make myself useful in a good cause.”
“That so? Well, maybe I can pass on the word to the officers. I can’t say as whether the club be open to new members, but if you’ll leave your name and direction—”
Chase clapped a hand to his coat pocket. “How foolish of me. I had almost forgotten
. He said I was to present this.” Reaching in, he drew out the seal and laid it gently on the scarred wooden counter.
The mask dropped, and a look of greedy curiosity made the landlord seem for a moment like a goblin brooding over a nugget of gold. But when he turned the seal in his hands, his expression shifted again. “’Tis made out to a Noah Packet. That you?”
“My friend, as it chances,” said Chase. From within came the sound of raised voices, then another song accompanied by what sounded like the stamping of feet and the pounding of tables. “It seems I am missing all the fun. I’ll just go in now.”
He turned away, but before he had gone more than a few paces the man was around the bar, blocking his path. Suddenly, the publican seemed much larger, and though Chase was tall, this man loomed over him. “I can’t let you do that, sir. This is a private gathering. I’m only following instructions, see, and you wouldn’t have me fail in my duty? There is procedures to be followed like.”
Inspiration struck. What was that verse from the Bible Ransom had gasped out in the moment of his death? Chase took a step back. “You mean like a password to gain admittance?” He paused, then spoke clearly. “The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and the terrible day of the Lord come.”
When the landlord’s jaw slackened, Chase knew his luck had not failed him. Quickly, he stepped around him and was at the door, relieved to find that the knob turned easily. Though he felt the publican’s gimlet eyes on his back, the man made no further move to stop him.
Once inside, Chase sucked in a smoky breath and looked around. The parlor proved to be a long, narrow room dominated by an enormous fireplace opposite where he stood. The combination of the large fire and the close heat of about forty bodies piled willy-nilly on sofas, stools, and chairs almost overpowered him. He shook his head to clear his smarting eyes and retreated behind a nearby table strewn with penny and two-penny pamphlets, as if desirous of studying them.
It seemed no one had paid much attention to his entrance, for all were focused on a man who stood, wobbling glass in one hand, pipe in the other, declaiming a speech. Surreptitiously, Chase’s eyes traveled from face to face as he committed to memory as many of the details of each man’s appearance as possible. They were a crude, raffish bunch, but their faces glistened with enthusiasm, and here and there he saw the marks of tears, quickly dashed away. He wondered which of these men was the crime king who had hounded Noah Packet into hiding.
At length, when the speaker sat down to the usual claps and cheers, another took his place, delivering his piece in much the same style, a sort of meandering harangue on the topic which, as Chase slowly gathered, had something to do with whether the profligate expenditures of government may be said to cause the miseries of its people. Someone proposed a merry-making song, and Chase, dropping the Thomas Paine pamphlet he’d been pretending to read, listened in grim amusement as the gathering bellowed forth a lusty tribute to the Regent:
’Tis in Pall Mall there lives a Pig,
That doth this Mall adorn,
So fat, so plump, so monstrous Big,
A finer ne’er was born.
This Pig so sweet, so full of Meat,
He’s the one I wish to kill.
I’ll fowls resign on thee to dine,
Sweet Pig of fine Pall Mall.
Gusts of laughter erupted, and a man in a shoemaker’s apron cried out, “A toast, gentlemen. May the last of the kings be strangled with the guts of the last of the priests.” The crowd roared its approval and lifted glasses of porter, Chase with the rest, for he had managed to commandeer a mug from a serving girl circulating through the room.
Looking around triumphantly, the shoemaker called, “Someone else. Give us one, Captain O’Callaghan.”
All eyes turned toward a floridly handsome Irishman with snapping black eyes, so there was no one to notice Chase’s involuntary start. He had already marked this man as being a cut above the rest, garbed as O’Callaghan was in a neat-fitting coat, dark breeches of good cloth, and polished boots, but now Chase studied the Irishman with renewed interest. When O’Callaghan heard his name pronounced, he smiled rather sardonically and bowed.
“May the skin of the Tyrants be burnt into Parchment, and the Rights of Man written upon it,” he said quietly in a voice that nonetheless carried to the far corners.
Chase started, recalling the soft, cultured tones heard through a haze of pain while riding in a carriage. He was certain this was the man who had warned him to steer clear of the brothel—government informant, criminal, and Noah Packet’s nemesis, rolled into one. Seeming to sense the intensity of regard, O’Callaghan gazed back at first questioningly, then with a kind of wry recognition.
Chase moved toward him, but, at his back, the door opened, and he spun round. A woman, heavily veiled, had come into the room. Looking neither right nor left, she walked forward with firm and purposeful steps as the men fell back in her wake. In the lamplight, her black gown had the sheen of a raven’s wing, and her silk cloak swirled about her upright form as if she were a queen come among them. In her outstretched arms, she bore a large writing box.
The men shifted uneasily, muttering to themselves, but no one spoke out or moved to stop her. Reaching the center of the room, she set her burden on a table and faced them. Slowly she began to lift her veil, then, as if losing patience, shoved it back with rough hands to reveal a lovely face, ravaged by a desperation that trembled on her lips and glared from her eyes. Before she had even uttered a word, Chase felt the men’s withdrawal as if they knew they looked upon something fearful.
“I have come to ask you but one question,” said Janet Gore. “Are you men?”
Chase felt their confusion, their uneasiness, the dawning of a baffled anger, but Gore rushed on. “I have sacrificed my first born, my flesh and my blood, to the Cause. What of you? You sit here singing your songs and do nothing. Miss Barnwell has left us. Who among you will go in search of her before it is too late, and the child is born in captivity, or worse.”
The murmurs increased in volume; here and there someone swore or pounded his fist in the air.
“What’s she on about?” one man demanded.
“Lord, if I know,” said another scornfully. He raised his voice. “Get you gone. This ain’t no place for a female.”
All at once the men were shouting and stamping their booted feet, while Mrs. Gore stood there, head unbowed. O’Callaghan called out, his words lost in the din. He strode forward, taking Gore by the shoulder. She shook him off, her face aglow with an expression of such malevolence that the Irishman shrank back.
She bent over the writing box on the table. “Get away from me. Do you or do you not want to know the Will of God? I will tell you. I must tell you,” she shrieked. In a moment she had the little key in the lock, the lid lifted, and she was brandishing a paper in her hand. With one finger she broke the seal, and little bits of red wax fluttered to the floor. Rapidly, she scanned the lines penned there, holding the paper tightly against her body to guard against having it snatched from her grip.
“Death,” she cried triumphantly. The men stared back at her, their protests silenced. “I thought it would be so. Soon there will be a death. The prophecy says ’twill be a man of stature, a man of power, and when he dies we will know the end is nigh.”
She thrust her hand back in the box to pull out a sheaf of papers, some of which fell from her hand to flutter to the ground. “What will you do to pave the way for Glory? Will you shed your own blood if such is required of you?”
Breaking another seal at random, she unfolded a piece of parchment, almost tearing it in her haste. Before she could read it out, Chase was at O’Callaghan’s side. Together they pulled the papers from her hands and took her by each arm.
The door slammed open. “Bow Street!” someone shouted, and Chase glanced over his shoulder to see about two dozen officers streaming into the room, some with truncheons raised, others waving a pistol in each
hand. The Jacobins jumped to their feet to bellow their rage, but in those close quarters there was little they could do, their only exit blocked.
Chase caught one glimpse of the terrified publican in an officer’s grip. All was confusion as the police swept through the crowd, slapping on handcuffs and hustling men out of the room. Though some struggled, many seemed too stunned by drink or sheer amazement to resist.
Tightening his grip on the woman, Chase looked at O’Callaghan, who gazed back as if they shared an amusing secret—as if, Chase thought, he had known this would happen and was as pleased as a cat with its dish of cream. When a constable motioned to the Irishman, he went without a murmur.
Left alone with Janet Gore, Chase turned her to face him, reflecting that much that had eluded him was now clear. “Ransom was your son. Why did Barnwell send him to St. James’s Square?”
She looked back, contempt in her eyes, and he thought she would refuse to speak. But to dissemble would be beneath this woman, he realized, especially now when the game was up. She practically threw her words in his face.
“She didn’t send him. Rebecca had run off as she often does, but this time she didn’t come back for weeks. We were terrified. Dick was to intercept her and also to determine if there was any threat from that quarter.”
“You mean a threat to your conspiracy.”
“Yes, it seemed she would ruin everything.”
“What is Barnwell’s connection to Sir Roger Wallace-Crag and his household? And where is she now? I should have heard had she been arrested.”
“You can’t stop this,” she said hoarsely, slumping in his grip. “Do not think you can.”
Another constable had approached, and Chase was forced to display his Bow Street staff before he himself was dragged off. On this man’s heels was a familiar rotund figure, the veteran Runner John Townsend.
“Remove this woman,” he said to the constable, pointing with his walking stick.
“Yes, sir.”
Chase bristled. “I’ve not finished, Townsend.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised to find you here,” the Runner returned pleasantly, “though you might have heeded my advice and stayed well out of this bumblebroth. Leave the female. She’s not for you.”