Die I Will Not (20 page)

Chapter XIX

“What do you think?” asked Edward Buckler.

Chase set aside the newspaper and leaned forward to replenish the wine in his friend's glass. He had cracked his best bottle in honor of the barrister's visit. “Collatinus grows desperate. He knows London is out for his blood and denies responsibility for the deaths of the Leaches.”

“Since we have a fourth letter, we've established one fact. Mary Leach could not have been Collatinus unless someone has taken over her alias.”

“A partnership? Yes, I thought of that.”

Buckler studied the newspaper again. “I am intrigued by this reference to the Regent:
Let us enquire who were the confidential associates of the P_____e of W_____ s at the time of N.D.'s death. They were the very dregs of society: creatures whom a person of morality could not endure; creatures capable even of murder to serve their own base interests.
”

“Men like Sir Oliver Cox, Ralph Hewitt, and George Kester?” asked Chase. “I must discover their movements on the night of Mary Leach's death.”

“I had my clerk nose around in the taverns. Kester's a placeman; he's been in government service for years, the type who always manages to land on his feet. As for Hewitt, he earns a handsome salary as Paymaster of Widows' Pensions, profiting at the expense of poor widows and orphans. And I'm told he's got hold of another sinecure recently.”

Chase snorted in derision. “Faithful servants of the Crown. Cox, on the other hand, is simply a rake. And Horatio Rex is unquestionably a scoundrel, though at least he makes his own way in this world. His Highness saddled him with an enormous debt years ago, so there's another royal connection for you.”

“But whether Collatinus levels a specific accusation or merely a general indictment is anyone's guess,” said Buckler. “What do you make of his declaration of innocence?”

“Why should I believe it? If Mary Leach was his confederate, Collatinus could have killed her to safeguard his identity. At any rate, when they catch him, the authorities will make sure he rots in prison—or execute him for murder.”

“I could throttle him myself when I think of Mrs. Wolfe's situation.” Buckler rose to take his leave, settling his hat on his head, donning his greatcoat, and collecting his walking stick.

Chase sent him a sharp glance. “You've seen her?”

“I've just come from Greek Street. She went to view the Leaches' funeral cortege.”

“She's fortunate she didn't get her pocket picked or worse. Ruffians have been known to attack the coaches in these processions.”

“Go to her, Chase. She won't sit still for long.”

That was true enough, he reflected, recalling certain dealings he'd had with Penelope Wolfe in the past. He must persuade her to listen to reason this time and see how much safer it was to allow him to act for her. Thinking aloud, he said, “I need to find Nell Durant's son before the government does. If we are lucky, her sister Amelia Ecclestone will have word of him.”

“Can you imagine the scandal if the Regent is, in fact, the boy's father? I lay you odds the Home Office is eager to silence him.”

“Perhaps Nell gave the memoirs to her friend Mary, and Mary gave them to Nell's son.”

Buckler nodded. “These memoirs may not be kind to Eustace Sandford either. There may be more scandal in store for Mrs. Wolfe.”

“For God's sake, don't even hint such a thing to her.”

“Do you think I would?”

“No, you'd probably try to protect her, not that she would thank you for it.” Chase paused, debating whether a warning would serve in this instance. Then he decided he didn't care. Had matters been otherwise, he supposed the barrister would have made a good match for Penelope, though the knowledge gave him no particular pleasure. Casually, he said, “It cannot be, Buckler, as I'm sure you realize.”

He halted in the doorway and swung round, his eyes kindling. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

“Mrs. Wolfe is a married lady and a virtuous one. Don't add to her troubles.”

Watching the hand that clenched and unclenched around the walking stick, Chase thought a jab in the nose might be coming his way too, but Buckler merely responded, “I thank you for that entirely unsolicited and unnecessary advice.”

Chase said no more but made a motion for Buckler to precede him into the corridor, then accompanied him down the stairs. He ignored Leo Beeks, who had contrived to be on hand.

At the door Buckler shook hands with something less than his usual cordiality. “You'll let me know what else I can do?”

“As soon as I know myself,” said Chase.

***

Chase had scarcely settled down to parse each one of the Collatinus letters for the third time when Leo knocked at the door and put in his head. “Mr. Farley has called, sir,” he said, his voice vibrating with excitement. After closely questioning Chase about his Bow Street colleagues, Leo had learned all their names. And if Farley's purple-veined cheeks and unkempt side-whiskers now proved a disappointment, the boy gave no sign of it as he ceremoniously ushered him into the room.

“Shall I ask my mother to make coffee?”

Chase knew his friend too well for that. “We'll have brandy.” He went to the sideboard to pour two glasses. Observing that Leo still hesitated in the doorway, Chase straightened his spectacles and directed a quelling look in his direction. Reluctantly, he withdrew.

Farley relaxed in his chair with a sigh of relief. “Got news you'll want to hear, though I can hardly square it with my conscience to tell you. We ain't supposed to be on speaking terms, you and me. I know you, Chase. You'll be after him before I can say Jack Robinson.” He gave his brandy an appreciative sniff. “How do you like being a gentleman of leisure?”

“Cut line, Farley. What news?”

“You remember Kirby? The green Runner getting above himself because the Home Office tapped him for some secret business? He was in his cups at the Brown Bear and boasting to Vickery, as was kind enough to drop a word in my ear. Bow Street's been called in to help nab Collatinus. Now what are you going to do?”

“Get there first.”

Farley smiled. “I heard you was interested.”

Chase sat up straighter, setting aside his glass. “Go on.”

“The printer of the
Free Albion
, man called Gibbs, has turned crown witness to escape an information laid against him for seditious libel. He'll put Collatinus under hatches, you mark my words. The authorities have got Gibbs in their eye and won't thank you for spoiling their game.”

“How do I find the printer?”

“Can't say. They're hiding him until it's time for the show. They're using him to bait the trap, and he'll cooperate to save his skin. When Collatinus comes to deliver his next letter, they'll clap the Jacobin in irons before he knows what's what.” Farley held out his own heavy wrists in demonstration, the buttons on his waistcoat bulging.

Chase stared into the fire. “This Collatinus, what can you tell me about him?”

Farley appeared to debate his next words. “Here's an interesting thing,” he said finally. “He's an educated fellow. Gibbs says Collatinus looks and talks quite the gentleman, though his clothes are well darned. And young, not more than twenty.”

“What else?”

“He's the bastard son of a courtesan.”

So the rumor Ralph Hewitt's wife had heard was true, thought Chase. “When and where will they take him?”

“Damn it. I'm not sure I should tell you. Bound to do something stupid.” The Runner gulped the rest of his brandy, tapped his thick fingers on the table, and sighed. “Well, you've been decent to me in your way, Chase, and I ain't a man to forget that. All right then. Just don't say it come from me. Tomorrow night. The Crown and Anchor tavern. The radicals are holding a banquet. We'll get Collatinus there.”

Chase was already at his writing desk, dipping his pen in the ink to write a hurried message for Packet. When he had sealed this document, he strode to the door and bellowed for Leo. “Deliver this into the hands of the barkeeper at the Brown Bear,” he said when the boy had dashed up the stairs to meet him on the landing.

“Yes, sir!”

***

The message had instructed Noah Packet to keep watch on the office of the
Free Albion
in the Dials. Chase didn't think the Home Office would suspect a common pickpocket of any interference in its plans, and Packet could be extricated should he find himself in difficulties. In the meantime, Chase had other urgent business. Nell Durant had lived in Marylebone, so he would first go there in search of her and then seek an interview with her sister Amelia Ecclestone.

When Chase entered St. Marylebone parish church, a brick edifice that struck him as unusually cramped and primitive, he found a chaotic scene presided over by a beleaguered young curate, flitting from one ceremony to the next. Two mildly odiferous corpses requiring burial were laid out in the pews near several new mothers, who waited in another pew to be churched or blessed for having survived childbirth. There was no font. Huddled around a basin on the communion table were a half-dozen baptismal sponsors, rocking wailing infants in their arms. No one, not even the curate, paid the slightest attention to the sponsors' responses to the traditional questions of the service.

Moving methodically, Chase examined the tablets and monumental inscriptions, though he didn't really expect to find evidence of Nell or her child. Churches always reminded him of his own family. In his childhood he had spent many uncomfortable hours listening to his father preach in the drafty village church. He was reminded, too, of the churchyard, where he used to stand over the graves of his tiny brothers and sisters and rail against his father for putting his mother through another ordeal of bearing and losing a child. His father hadn't approved of him either, then or later when Chase had lowered himself to join the police.

But he did locate Nell's tablet on the south wall, and as he read the inscription, the din in the church seemed to fade from his ears:
In Memory of Eleanor Durant. Her afflicted Sister Judith Ecclestone has placed this marble as a pledge of her affection. Born March 27, 1765. Died June 6, 1794. Open me the Gates of Righteousness that I may go into them and Give Thanks unto the Lord.

A gentle voice spoke. “Good day, sir. I have come to Mr. Stapleforth's assistance. We are quite busy today, as you see. I am Augustus Lively, parish clerk. May I assist you?”

A prim, old gentleman stood smiling at him. After greeting him, Chase pointed at the memorial. “Did you know this woman, Mr. Lively?”

The clerk lifted a frail hand to finger the lettering. “Sad, she died young. I'm afraid I do not recall her, sir. Is she a member of your family?”

“No, but I am very anxious to discover word of her or her son. Will you check the parish books for me?”

A gleam of interest stole into the clerk's faded eyes. “An inheritance in dispute, perhaps?”

“On the contrary. A murder—or rather murders.”

“Indeed?” Lively elevated his white brows. “You surprise me. What is your name and your interest in the matter, if I may inquire?”

Chase started to reach for his gilt-crowned tipstaff; then he remembered that, of course, it wasn't there. “My name is John Chase. I am investigating three deaths, Nell Durant's among them. She was one of the murder victims I mentioned. My interest is purely personal, Mr. Lively. I wish to uncover the malefactor.”

The clerk studied him as if attempting to read his character and motives in his face. After a pause, he said, “Come with me, sir, and we will see whether our christening record can offer any illumination.”

Lively led Chase toward the back of the church and through an oak door into the small vestry. This was a damp, low-ceilinged room ringed with aged wooden presses. The clerk went to one of these cupboards and opened it with a rusted key he took from a ring at his waist. “What month and year would you like me to check?”

“The spring of 1794.” Penelope had told Chase that Eustace Sandford had departed England in June of that year to elude arrest for the courtesan's murder. Nell's son would have been a few months old, he assumed.

Lively retrieved one of the registers, a heavy volume bound in dark leather, and placed it on the long deal table that ran across the room. “You wish me to look for a child born of Nell Durant?”

“If you would, yes.”

Silence fell as the clerk painstakingly perused every entry in the ledger until Chase was ready to tear it out of his hands. The only sounds in the room were the old man's breathing and the rustling as he turned each page. “Nothing in March, April, or May.”

Chase felt a tired disappointment. This inquiry seemed like the hydra to him: a monster with heads of wriggling snakes that grew new heads to baffle and taunt him every time he thought he might have chopped one off for good. “Check June,” he suggested, not really expecting any result since Nell had died early in that month.

“Ah, here we are.” Lively flipped the ledger around, pushing it across the table. “You didn't tell me the child was illegitimate,” he added with a note of condemnation.

Chase reached for the book and hunched over to read the spidery hand. About halfway down the page, he found the following entry dated the 9th of June:
Lewis, son of Eleanor Durant and putative father Eustace Sandford, by the report of the child's mother base begotten. Born 27th April.

“According to the memorial, Mrs. Durant was dead by then,” said Chase hoarsely. If he had thought this situation was bad for Penelope before, it had just got much, much worse. Nell Durant and Eustace Sandford. Why should he be surprised? It seemed the woman had pursued affairs with most of the gentlemen in London. Penelope had been worried about her father's role in the courtesan's death, and unfortunately they had found no evidence to prove him innocent of this crime. But now she must face that Sandford had abandoned his own child, escaping to live a comfortable life abroad. And he had left behind his only son, Penelope's younger brother.