Die I Will Not (18 page)

Chapter XVII

After twice trying to see the Earl of Wendlebury, one of Nell's former protectors, and twice being told his lordship was “not at home,” Chase admitted defeat. Rex alleged that his lordship had once been suspected of having secret ties to a faction in France, but even when Chase sent up a note with not-so-veiled allusions to this charge, no reply was forthcoming. Short of lying in wait for the man and catching him as he left his house, there was little Chase could do.

He also tried his luck in Berkeley Square, attempting to beard Sir Oliver Cox, another one of Nell's blackmail victims, in his stately den. Thinking to catch Cox at his breakfast, he presented himself at an early hour, only to be routed by a supercilious butler. He was retreating down the steps when he saw a gentleman approaching. Swaying on his feet, his clothing stained and disheveled, Cox was just returning from a night of dissipation. A known rakehell at least fifty years old, he had recently wed the seventeen-year-old heiress to a vast fortune, but apparently even her charms were not enough to keep him at home.

Chase bowed. “Sir Oliver Cox?”

“What do you want?” Cox slurred his words, peering at him owlishly out of bloodshot eyes.

“A word, sir, about Nell Durant.”

For an instant, the baronet looked blank; then his face cleared, and he gave a high-pitched giggle. “A name I've not heard in years. What of her?”

“Nell was your mistress at one time?”

“We shared some laughs for a few months. It didn't last long.”

“You parted friends?”

“Why wouldn't we? I paid her well enough. I gave her a sparkler for her pretty neck.”

“Was this before or after she'd had a relationship with His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales?”

“After. Look, Nell's been dead these twenty years.”

“She was in league with the blackmailer Collatinus who wrote letters to the papers. Did they blackmail you?

“Probably.”

“Did you pay Collatinus' demand, sir?”

Cox put a hand against a streetlamp to steady himself, his face a greenish color in the merciless morning light. “I've never yielded to a blackmail demand in my life. I sent a message telling the rogue to do his worst.”

Chase believed him. This was not a man who cared what the world thought of him. According to Rex, Cox was fond of rough sexual games with the Covent Garden ladies and had suffered repeated bouts of the pox during his decidedly disreputable career. He probably hadn't changed much, thought Chase, as he studied the baronet's slack face and loose, wet mouth.

“Have you heard about the murder of Mary Leach, sir? She's the journalist's wife found in the Dark Arches.”

“Who?” said Cox.

***

A frugal man with modest tastes, John Chase had put by a sum that would maintain him in reasonable comfort for a year or two. When this investigation was over, he planned to visit his mother's grave, or if this ill-advised war with Britain's former colonies ever ended, he might take a trip to America to meet his son. It seemed there would be plenty of time for whatever he chose to do.

The loss of his Bow Street emblem had left a surprisingly large hole in his pocket and his life. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to depend upon his position as a Runner for countenance.
Can a man with no particular role to play in the world be called a man at all?
This thought he shook off impatiently and just got on with his inquiries. After another fruitless attempt to locate Samuel Gibbs, printer of the
Free Albion
, Chase spent an hour at the Adelphi Terrace, avoiding the curious spectators and knocking on the neighbors' doors but discovering nothing to the purpose. He lingered in the vicinity, hoping Miss Elliot would emerge to take the children for an airing, but the windows draped in black crepe stared back at him with blank hostility. If the governess had any secrets to divulge, they would have to keep for another day.

Chase damned the expense and saved his knee some discomfort by taking a hack to Albermarle Street, where he was surprised to be immediately conducted into Ralph Hewitt's pleasant bookroom. A heavy-featured man in his late forties, Hewitt rose from behind his writing table, coming forward to offer a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs. He was, he confided, the son of a gentleman-farmer from an old Lincolnshire family. His ancestors had fought and fallen at Bosworth and Marston Moor, but his family had since, he added with a loud laugh, exchanged their swords for the ploughshare.

“We have a manor full of ancient portraits and rotting wood. As well as damp air and agues, I'm afraid. One day my brother hopes to drain our land to make it more productive, but I won't live to see it. I haven't been back in years. Now, Chase, what may I do for you?”

“Thank you for seeing a stranger.”

“You see, I know who you are. You're the Bow Street Runner Rex tossed out of his house.”

“The same, sir.” He saw no point in admitting he was no longer attached to Bow Street.

“Rex lacked finesse, wouldn't you agree? I am curious, I suppose, as to why you pushed in where you were not welcome and why you wanted to see me today.”

Chase explained that he was assisting a friend, an acquaintance of the Rex family.

“You mean Mrs. Wolfe? I saw the paragraph in this morning's
Daily Intelligencer.
Nasty business. I assumed you were the principal officer referred to, but who the deuce is E.B., barrister of the Inner Temple?”

Inwardly, Chase groaned. “I haven't seen this paragraph. Do you have a copy?”

With a gleam of curiosity in his gray eyes, Hewitt handed him a folded newspaper and watched him scan the column. Seething, Chase quickly read the paragraph, which was just as bad as he'd feared it would be. Fred Gander had better play least in sight for the foreseeable future, he thought. Keeping his expression impassive, he handed the paper back.

A smile tugged at Hewitt's lips. “It won't do to concern yourself with such malice. But I understand why you wish to defend the lady as well as preserve your own reputation.”

“You've been acquainted with Mr. Rex and the Countess for some years?”

“The Countess of Cloondara is a distant cousin of mine, yes.”

“I'm told you aided Horatio Rex at the time of the treason trials. You extricated him from his difficulties with the authorities?”

He looked gratified. “A neat piece of work, I must confess. I did not do it for Rex, however, but for the Countess. You might say I saved him from arrest and disgrace, and the Countess was grateful. To be honest, I've never understood—”

“Why she stays with him?”

Hewitt shook his head wryly, acknowledging the point. “They met years ago when she broke with the Earl of Cloondara and came to London. She got herself in debt to Rex. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he took advantage.”

“By extorting certain favors in return for loans?”

“So I believe. Very attractive woman in her day. She has been an enormous asset to him socially, but now there's this scandal with Leach and Rex's daughter. Well, I can only imagine the Countess may have regrets. Far too late, of course.”

“You blame Mr. Rex?”

“I don't imply that he is
personally
responsible. But at the time when Rex got himself entangled with the radicals, Mrs. Leach was a foolish and headstrong girl. The Countess was worried about her, especially after that courtesan was murdered. Later Mrs. Leach seemed to have put her past behind her with marriage to a dependable man. Still, one wonders.”

“You don't think her an innocent victim?”

“Oh, tragic; that goes without a saying. But it's a strange business nonetheless. What brought her out in the night?”

Chase showed Hewitt the button he had fished up from the water trough. “I found this near her body. Do you recognize it?”

He took it between his fingers. “This? Should I? I'm afraid not.”

“It's a button, possibly from the killer's cloak. I've determined it didn't come from Mrs. Leach's clothing.” Chase retrieved it and slipped it back in his waistcoat pocket. “You imply she was involved with the Jacobins in her youth and again before her death, sir?”

“Nothing of the kind. You quite mistake me. But the Countess once told me that Rex had allowed his daughter to become too friendly with Mrs. Durant. And the Countess feared for Mrs. Leach's reason when she was murdered and Eustace Sandford fled the country.”

“You too were acquainted with Mrs. Durant, sir?”

As though in the grip of a pleasant memory, Hewitt leaned back, allowing his eyelids to droop. “The most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She had a number of titled and wealthy protectors in her time. A pretty little barque of frailty.”

“If you don't mind my asking, were you one of her protectors?”

“Too much of a high-flyer for me, I'm afraid. It was Kester who introduced the girl to the
ton
. He found her in a shop, I believe. She became all the rage.”

“She had given birth to a son soon before her death?”

He opened his eyes to grin at Chase. “I recall some talk about that, yes.”

“Nell Durant claimed the Prince of Wales himself was the father. You knew of their liaison, sir?”

“Of course, common knowledge. She would say the babe was his, wouldn't she? She must have hoped for a fat settlement. I suppose the father could have been anyone.”

Chase kept his tone casual and impersonal. “Did any of her former protectors have a reason to kill her?”

“Perhaps, if she'd been playing off her tricks.”

“Tricks?”

“If she'd made one of them jealous or got greedy. I can only speculate. There was the business with Rex too. I wondered whether her death had anything to do with that.”

“She had written her memoirs.” He watched the other man carefully.

Hewitt gave a contemptuous snort. “Memoirs? Just another whore out to titillate the public and line her pockets.”

“Was Eustace Sandford guilty of her murder, do you think?”

“He could have been. Or it was one of the other radicals or even, as you say, one of her protectors, though that seems unlikely as most of them were gentlemen.”

“And Mrs. Leach?”

He folded his plump hands on the table, regarding Chase seriously. “Ah, that was a dreadful thing. But I heard an encouraging report recently. It seems the authorities are on the verge of arresting this Collatinus. They believe the villain is Mrs. Durant's son, out to milk a profit and avenge his mother's death. You've not come across such a person in your investigation?”

Chase leaned forward. “No, sir, I haven't. Mr. Rex told me Nell Durant's son died in infancy. Where did you hear this report?”

“From my wife, actually. The story was making the rounds at a party we attended last night.”

The pieces in Chase's mind assembled in a new pattern. If Mary Leach had found an ally in her feud against her husband, that could explain how she managed the delivery of the letters and also why she had chosen to help her friend's son in the first place. What if Nell's son was present when Leach was stabbed? For that matter, he could have done the deed himself with his mother's knife. And perhaps this alliance went sour after the attack on the journalist if one of the conspirators had threatened to turn on the other. According to her father, Mary had been afraid of someone, and this someone could have been Nell Durant's son.

Hewitt rose to tug the bell pull, signaling the interview was over. He spoke over his shoulder. “It seems we are about to find out the truth, Chase. These letters have stirred up a hornets' nest, and Mrs. Leach was badly stung. Let us hope we may soon be quit of the whole affair.”

***

When the porter of the Cocoa Tree Club whispered that a visitor awaited him, George Kester had been dozing over his newspaper in the coffee room. He put aside his paper and got to his feet, smoothing his perfectly tailored coat with a well-tended hand from which several rings glinted. Strolling toward the doorway where Chase waited, Kester motioned him into a luxuriously furnished visitors' room across the corridor.

The Treasury Secretary wore assurance like a second skin, displaying a well-bred politeness coupled with haughty indifference. George Kester's face was marked by years of rich living, but Chase had done his research, and he knew that Kester was also an astute, successful politician who had worked in various ministry posts.

“How may I help you?” He reached in his coat pocket to extract his gold and enamel snuffbox. Surreptitiously studying Chase from under his brows, he placed a pinch to his nostril and inhaled. Kester's stare seemed to take in his plain garb and dismiss him.

In response, Chase withdrew a leather case from his own pocket. He opened the case, removed Nell Durant's pocketknife from its silk compartment, and passed it to Kester, haft first. Then he took out the button and held it up.

Startled, Kester looked as if he wanted to drop the knife. He gazed down at it in his hands and drew back in his chair. “What is the meaning of this?”

“The knife once belonged to a murdered woman. It was lately found in the possession of the journalist's wife killed in the Dark Arches. You knew Mrs. Leach, sir?”

Kester had recovered his composure. With obvious distaste, he laid the knife on a small table between them, pointing the blade at Chase. “What have you to do with so unsavory an affair?”

“Have you lost a button from one of your coats recently, Mr. Kester?”

“What the devil are you talking about? Who are you?”

“I am here on behalf of a friend, purely in a confidential capacity. I need to ask you some questions about Nell Durant and Mary Leach.”

“Give me one good reason why I should speak to you. In the pay of the newspapers, hmm? You'll get nothing from me.” Kester rose to his feet.