Die I Will Not (22 page)

Chapter XXI

Late in the afternoon of a blustery day, Chase and Buckler had the porch of St. Clement Dane to themselves. As they conversed in low tones, both men huddled in their greatcoats, and when Buckler stepped out of the building to envisage the lay of the land, the shrill March wind bent back the brim of his beaver hat, threatening to rip it from his head. Hastily, he withdrew to give his attention to Chase's terse instructions.

Across the Strand lay the enormous Crown and Anchor tavern, stretching over an entire block behind the houses and shop-fronts on the southern side of the street. The guests had already begun to pour into the tavern's dining room to attend a reform dinner, where countless glasses would be raised to the Princess of Wales and the cause of English liberty. Lewis Durant, attempting to deliver the final Collatinus letter, would be somewhere in the crowd. Chase wished he had succeeded in preventing this meeting, but at least Packet had obtained a description of Durant from a printer's devil, an apprentice he had managed to question at the office of the
Free Albion
.

Chase studied the barrister, thinking that Buckler looked a trifle overexcited, too likely to respond without calculation. It was always like this with civilians who were useful but possibly risky allies—not that there was any choice this time. “Noah Packet will be somewhere nearby. He will try to warn Durant. You must stand on Arundel Street in case Durant comes that way.”

“How will I recognize him?”

“Longish, curly dark hair and brown eyes. Tall. Slender. He has an aquiline nose and a pleasant voice. Looks the gentleman but purse-pinched.”

“What should I do if I see him first? I don't want to scare him off.”

“Tell him he's walking into a trap. Tell him he has a sister who wants to help him escape the city. That should get his attention.”

“Right,” said Buckler. “What time does the dinner start?”

“Five. The constables and patrol officers will position themselves as soon as the crowd provides some cover. They'll wait until Durant approaches Gibbs with the letter; then they'll make the arrest.”

“Where will you be?”

“Initially in the vestibule outside the dining room. I'll station myself behind one of the columns. Thorogood will be inside the dining room, standing ready to give the signal if Durant slips past us somehow. Thorogood's presence won't raise any eyebrows?”

Buckler smiled. “Thieves' attorney, they call him. He's known to be reform minded. Chase—”

“Yes?”

“You'll take care Thorogood doesn't put himself in harm's way? I promised Hope I'd see to his safety.”

“Pluck to the backbone, eh? Never fear. I'll watch him.” Chase extended his hand. “Good luck, Buckler. Let's get this right for Mrs. Wolfe's sake.”

Chase crossed the Strand, traversing a narrow passageway cut between two shops to reach the front of the tavern, an immense structure of four stories. His eyes measured the arched windows on the ground before scanning the iron balconies on the first floor. After he had walked up and down the street a few times to impress the geography of the area on his memory, he entered the stone-paved lobby, which was illumined by a huge overhead lantern and ringed by a gallery. Men were going up and down the staircase to the upper floors. Other men, laughing and talking, paced the lobby. Chase strolled over to position himself in the shadow of one of the enormous Doric columns near the entrance to the dining room. He watched the room filling up, no one paying him the least attention. Every time a publicly recognized guest made his entrance, cheers erupted.

As a mass of humanity streamed into the building, Chase was surprised by the obvious respectability of many of the radicals; there were well-dressed swells along with other men who had the look of tailors, butchers, or carpenters. And mingling among the guests were men Chase recognized: nearly a dozen Bow Street patrolmen and a clutch of men from Great Marlborough Street, as well as Bow Street Runner Victor Kirby, who came in alone, his arms resting nonchalantly over the pockets that held his pistols. Reading Kirby's intent look and confident gait, Chase felt his isolation keenly. If any of the officers spotted him and realized he was trying to throw a rub in their way, they would call him a Judas. And yet Dugger Farley had taken a sizable risk to tell him about this trap. Chase would not forget his loyalty.

Damn. This would not go well if Packet and Buckler failed to catch Lewis Durant outside, and it would be easy to miss him in this crowd. Chase's worry grew. He made sure his queue was well tucked up out of sight under his hat and averted his face, trying to slouch like a bored porter or some other menial employed by the tavern.

After a while, Ezekiel Thorogood walked by, arm-in-arm with another man. Smiling broadly, Thorogood chatted with his friend in robust tones. The two men promenaded a short way across the lobby and disappeared into the main room, but Thorogood's slight nod at Chase told him the lawyer had noted his presence there next to the column. For a long time nothing else broke the monotony of the wait. The anxious minutes stretched to an hour, then two, and Chase started to think perhaps Lewis Durant would not come at all. In which case they would just have to find him and convince him to flee London as his father had before him.

The after-dinner toasts had commenced. After each speaker, voices roared with approval or bellowed, “Kick the rogues out.” Chase, growing more and more restless, mused that if he were Durant, this would be the moment he'd choose to make his move, when the guests' tongues had been loosened by wine and everyone's focus was on the toasts and the speeches to follow. Chase slipped inside the dining room.

A confused impression of blazing light, clinking glasses, and clamorous voices overwhelmed him, but he quickly absorbed the contours of the room, which was dominated by fireplaces at either end. A door, through which waiters moved to and fro bearing laden trays, gave access to the kitchen. His eyes picked out a few of the patrolmen and officers ranged around the expansive chamber, sitting among the hundreds of diners or lounging against the walls, and he knew there must be more agents he would not recognize. Victor Kirby stood quite near Ezekiel Thorogood, who was up to stretch his legs again, plying his walking stick energetically and engaging anyone who came in his way. Thorogood tossed a remark to a small, gray-haired man in a drab coat, sitting at a table near one of the fireplaces. This, Chase thought, must be Samuel Gibbs, editor of the
Free Albion
. Chase had seen the man jump like a rabbit and stare glassy-eyed into Thorogood's beaming countenance as the lawyer passed with his measured pace. The journalist looked ready to jump out of his skin.

The current speaker, winding to the climax of his toast, suddenly shouted, “To the people, the only source of legitimate power, not to be subdued by the forces of tyranny!”

Applause and cheers broke out, and five hundred glasses lifted into the air. Gibbs rose with the others, stepping behind a cluster of guests. When Chase shifted to get a better view of the journalist, he was startled by a voice in his ear. “You part of this business?”

He turned to confront a member of the Bow Street patrol, a man named Ellis. “Just an observer,” he said coolly. “None of my bread and butter this time.”

“I ain't seen you around lately. Where've you been?”

Chase held the man's gaze, addressing the patroller in his lordliest tone. “I've been busy. Don't make a stir, Ellis.”

Giving him a skeptical look, the patroller sidled away, but unfortunately this brief distraction had been enough for Chase to miss the approach of a dark-haired young man, now tapping Samuel Gibbs on the shoulder. Hemmed in by the table at his back, Gibbs had nowhere to retreat, and he cowered in fear. Lewis Durant, however, seemed unaware of his danger. He continued to speak earnestly to the journalist while his hand fumbled at the pocket of his coat. Ezekiel Thorogood finished his stroll in one direction and turned back. An anxious expression on his face, he glanced toward the door.

Suddenly, from behind Chase, someone called, “Watch yourself, Kirby. He's got a weapon.” He had no time to try to place this teasingly familiar voice from the crowd because he was already running.

One of the other constables shouted, “We are peace officers. Lay down your arms.”

Chase sprinted toward Durant, knowing he wouldn't get there in time. Chairs scraped across floorboards, and panicked voices cried out. Lewis Durant froze, his hand still inside his coat. Metal glinted in the candlelight as Victor Kirby, standing not five feet away, raised his pistol. Durant took one step away from Gibbs—a single step that gave the Runner a clear shot. But Thorogood was there. He leaned forward, sweeping up his cane in a fluid motion to strike the barrel of the pistol. It exploded, and the bullet lodged in the carved flowers on the ceiling.

Kirby was reaching for his second pistol when Chase pushed him aside. Wrapping his arms around Durant to form a shield, he forced him face down over the table, holding his own body against the boy's to keep him still; next he yanked his wrists behind him and rapidly searched his narrow frame, thrusting his hands in Durant's coat pockets. When his fingers encountered a sheet of paper, Chase grabbed it and shoved it down the waistband of his own trousers, praying no one had seen. Finally, he put on the handcuffs.

“No weapons found,” he announced in a loud voice. Turning the boy over, he stared into Durant's frightened, defiant eyes. “You are my prisoner.”

Only then did Chase turn to face the men gathered around them. Victor Kirby was glaring at him murderously, and Ezekiel Thorogood had stationed himself, arms akimbo, at Lewis Durant's side. The cane that had spoiled Kirby's shot was now tucked under the lawyer's arm.

Before anyone could speak, Thorogood laid a hand on the boy's shoulder and pressed down hard to silence him. Then he said, “I am watching you, Mr. Chase. Be more gentle with my client.”

***

Eyelids lowered, Psyche reclined on her gold brocade couch, framed by scarlet drapery. Incongruously, this couch had been placed in a garden so that Psyche's delicate sandaled feet were cushioned on a bed of verdant green. Her golden butterfly dangled from a chain wrapped around her waist, and the artist had added a second charm: a tiny dagger hinting at Jacobins and French assassins. Words streamed from her lips:
“My Cupid has abandoned me. Oh, how shall I achieve my quest and save Collatinus?”
Above her head, Princess Caroline in the guise of Aphrodite floated on a cloud, her pendulous breasts spilling from a low-cut gown. She exclaimed,
“Drat that girl. I'm far, far more beautiful than she.
'
Twill be all her doing if Collatinus is hanged. I can't allow my fat guts husband to triumph over me!”

At Psyche's feet, an army of black-gowned ants toiled across the grass, carting off a horde of golden coins. The red-haired ant leading this procession remarked:
“I'll sort your grains for you, Psyche. Let me serve you, lovely one.”
And to the right of Psyche's dark head, an eagle (or was it a vulture?) bore in its beak a flask of water from the River Styx.
“I will go to hell and back for you, my dear!”
it croaked as its queue of graying hair, tied up in crimson ribbon, wafted in the breeze. And, last, a masked man in a swirling black cloak could be seen in one corner, tiptoeing away. Clutching a letter in one hand and a dagger in the other, he hissed,
“I am innocent, but I'll be hanged yet.”

This was “Psyche's Quest,” a satirical print making its appearance on the day after Lewis Durant had been examined at Bow Street and committed to stand trial for the murders of the Leaches. Edward Buckler was walking down St. James's Street when he came upon a huddle of mechanics and artisans clustered around a print-shop window. Excusing himself politely, Buckler edged into the middle of the group and gazed at “Psyche,” displayed in a position of honor among an array of other prints. Around him the men exchanged wild speculation about Collatinus and his shadowy allies, said to have hatched a radical conspiracy to discredit the government and murder supporters like Dryden Leach. As for Leach's wife, one of the mechanics repeated a rumor that the villain Collatinus had played on her sympathies and lured her into a clandestine relationship, the better to strike at her husband. Opinions varied as to the strength of the evidence against Durant in the matter of Mary Leach's murder. Not that it mattered. After all, they mused, a man could only be hanged once. Everyone agreed that, one way or the other, Lewis Durant was doomed. The masked man in the print was deemed a particularly clever touch.

It was not hard for Buckler to detect Fred Gander's malicious hand somewhere behind “Psyche's Quest,” its release timed to coincide with the shocking news that Durant was Eustace Sandford's son—and Penelope Wolfe's brother. Buckler was amazed at how well informed Gander and his colleagues seemed to be. Who was Gander's source? And Buckler wondered too how John Chase would feel about his role in this satire. For his own part, he supposed he'd rather be portrayed as a greedy lawyer-ant than as something even more ridiculous.

But how the devil had the caricaturists gained access to the
Psyche
portrait? Perhaps the so-obliging friend who had made Jeremy Wolfe a loan had allowed a print artist to copy the portrait in order to recoup his capital. No doubt the artist had recognized the profit potential in a story with all the elements of melodrama, especially now that Lewis Durant could be counted on to entertain Londoners for days to come. After a while, the men drifted away, and Buckler went inside the shop. He laid a half-crown on the counter, slipped his copy of “Pysche's Quest” in his leather case, and went on his way.

***

As she waited for Buckler in Greek Street, Penelope was wishing for her father's presence so that someone else could make the necessary decisions. But her letter would not have reached Sicily yet. Her father could not help her. She was alone. Jeremy was gone—again—and she had found a brother, perhaps only to lose him to ignominious death. She could not allow Lewis Durant to die without doing her best to save him, let the newspapers make of her actions what they would. After all, she reflected, what had prudence ever done for her? She had made one impulsive mistake in choosing a husband, and it seemed that her whole life ever since had been about atoning for this error. She would not shrink from Lewis for fear of making another mistake.