Die I Will Not (23 page)

At the conclusion of the magistrates' examination, she had been given no chance to speak to him. The constables hustled him off from the unruly crowd to transport him to Newgate Prison, where he would be held until his trial. Thorogood and Buckler accompanied Lewis to make arrangements for his accommodation while Chase escorted Penelope home.

Treating her with a patience that surprised and touched her, he had stayed with her for several hours, conversing rationally with her about the case. Together they would fight for Lewis. He would uncover the truth of these murders, Buckler and Thorogood would mount the criminal defense, and none of them would rest until her brother was free. Believing him, Penelope had been comforted. When they were finished making their plans, they put the letter Chase had snatched from Lewis' pocket on the fire, standing side by side to watch it burn. Collatinus' farewell. Ironically, it contained no new revelations, as if Lewis had run out of inspiration, but it ended thus:
I break my charms and take my leave. Here my vengeance dies. I still the mutinous winds to peace and calm dread rattling thunder.
Collatinus, it seemed, was a literary man. He had appropriated Prospero's forgiveness of his enemies and abandonment of his magical powers. Collatinus had checked his thunderbolt of scandal.

Penelope heard a knock at the front door and lifted a hand, straightening her hair and smoothing the cuffs of her morning gown. Then she looked up in some surprise as Maggie rushed in to seize the fireplace poker.

“Where is Mr. Buckler?” said Penelope.

“It ain't him, mum. The bailiffs are here.” She quit the room abruptly.

Penelope hurried after her. When she caught up, Maggie was screaming through the door for the bailiffs to go away before she had the law on them.

“No, Maggie.” Putting her aside, Penelope unbolted the lock and motioned the two men into the hall.

“You are here to see my husband?” She tried to speak calmly.

“Yes, ma'am,” said one of the bailiffs, a fresh-faced, anxious young man. “We are here to execute a writ on the person of Jeremy Wolfe. Is he at home?” He proffered his writ, as if afraid it might scald her fingers.

Penelope took it. “He has gone out of town, and I can't say when he'll return. Is it the matter of a debt?”

The other bailiff showed a hard, watchful expression. “That's just about it, ma'am. You'll understand why we need to see for ourselves.” He glanced at his companion meaningfully. “Stay with them, Tom.”

Nervously, Tom eyed the poker in Maggie's white-knuckled grip. When Penelope saw how the Irishwoman's baleful stare unnerved him, she intervened. “Go upstairs, Maggie, and stay with the children.”

“You want me to leave you alone with
him
?” She pointed with the poker.

“Yes,” Penelope snapped. “Do as you're told for once.”

Maggie withdrew, hurt and worry evident in every line of her stiff form. Penelope, left with the younger bailiff, heard her stamping up the stairs and calling to the children, who were upstairs in the nursery. “Your partner won't find my husband, sir. He really is gone, and I don't think he'll be back for some months. What will you do then?”

Tom kept his eyes fixed on the wall over her shoulder. “We have a writ to execute for your goods and chattel, ma'am. We'll take an inventory. The goods are to be sold at auction.”

“All our possessions must be sold to satisfy the debts?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Not our personal belongings? My clothing? My daughter's toys?”

“Everything. You understand, ma'am? We must do our duty.”

“I have one or two pieces of jewelry I inherited from my mother. You won't take those?”

At this, the man called Tom lowered his eyes to hers. “Go upstairs and pack a valise. Don't be greedy now. Just a few of your dresses, toilet articles, and the child's things. And the jewelry you mentioned, one or two pieces, mind. You set aside the valise before we take our inventory, and tell your maid to gather her traps too.”

“Yes, thank you.” She offered him a small bow and fled up the stairs.

She came down again half an hour later to find Buckler in Jeremy's gallery with the bailiffs. Holding the writ in his hand, he was discussing the appropriate valuation of the paintings in this room as well as the ones stored next door in the painting room. As she entered, Penelope overheard him giving the bailiffs the name of an art dealer to give to the auctioneer's clerk, and the stern bailiff was noting this information in his memorandum book. When Buckler became aware of her presence, he broke off to address her.

“Good day, Mrs. Wolfe. I've explained to these men that I am your legal counsel. Unfortunately, their writs are quite in order, ma'am, so we must ensure a fair valuation of your household effects. That is the best way to assist your husband under these distressing circumstances.”

Penelope felt ready to sink with shame, but she answered him with composure. “Thank you, sir. Your advice is most appreciated.”

“Come, I think we can rely on these men to carry on with their duty. We will discuss your position and determine an appropriate course of action.” He nodded at the stern bailiff. “You've finished in the rear of the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

Buckler and Penelope went together to the sitting room. He closed the door behind them and stood near the mantel. “I'm afraid we won't stop this seizure, Mrs. Wolfe. You must secure your private papers and prepare yourself for an auction. This will be no place for Sarah with strangers tramping through to prod and pry and gape. You will find new lodgings?”

“Do I have a choice? We cannot pay anymore. In truth, this house oppresses me.”

“Your father will help you?”

“If I care to ask him, he will.”

“He's too far away to offer immediate assistance. Don't you have some cousins residing in Brook Street? Could you pay them a visit for a few weeks?” He stood watching her, his gaze never leaving her face. “Whatever you decide, you must know that I will not see you or Sarah in want.”

The effort to smile was painful. “My cousins did not approve of my father before the extent of his radical activities was generally known, so they can hardly wish to acknowledge me now. They are eminently respectable. At all events, I am too accustomed to my independence to relish hanging on anyone's sleeve.” Stepping briskly to her desk, she threw open one of the drawers. Not looking at him, she pulled out the stacks of papers, the pens, the ink jars, and the glove with the hole in it that she'd been meaning to mend. And the bills, those endless, ever mounting bills that had so tormented her. “They'll need an inventory of these,” she said, wafting them in her hand.

Buckler took one step toward her. “Where is your husband?”

Penelope put down the bills. Slowly, she approached him, and his arms came out to enfold her. They looked somberly into one another's eyes for a moment; then Buckler lowered his head to kiss her. When he broke the embrace a long time later, there were tears on Penelope's cheeks.

She answered his question. “He's gone. Jeremy is gone, and I'm glad. I don't ever want to see him again.” Buckler had retrieved his handkerchief and was drying her tears, pressing on her cheeks with a quick, light pressure that managed to feel both uncertain and urgent. His other arm still rested at her waist. Reluctantly, she drew away. “His absence cannot matter to us, Edward.”

“I know, my love.”

“What can we do?”

“Nothing for now. Will you go to the Thorogoods?”

“I suppose I will. I had a note from them this morning. They asked me to stay with them at least until this trial is concluded. Is there a chance for Lewis, do you think?”

“Can you doubt it? Between us, Thorogood and I will present a defense to go down in the history books and bring us fame and fortune. I shall be buried in briefs after defending the great Collatinus. Mark my words, we'll secure your brother's freedom.”

“I want to meet him, Edward.”

“Why do you think I'm here? As soon as the bailiffs have done their worst with their inkhorn and ledgers, you shall put on your bonnet. And I hope you understand how fortunate you are, ma'am? A barrister does not generally show himself among the riffraff of Newgate.”

Chapter XXII

The turnkey unlocked another gate and secured it again after Penelope and Buckler had passed through. As they followed him down the stone passage, the locks of the gates and gratings yielded, one after the other, with monotonous clanks like thunder. Voices, the restless murmur of prisoners in captivity, drifted from behind the iron bars of the wards that led off the passage, and through these bars Penelope glimpsed forms moving back and forth. Soon they came to the felons' quadrangle, where they found Lewis Durant pacing the yard under a gray sky. Other prisoners conversed and laughed with a potman selling beer through the grating, but Lewis, staring at the paving stones under his feet, did not at first notice the turnkey, who jerked a thumb in his direction. Thus, it happened that Penelope got a good look at her brother before he observed her presence.

She saw at once that the christening register at St. Marylebone church had not lied. The resemblance to her father was too marked: the same curly, black hair; pronounced brow; long nose; and lean cheeks. Lewis Durant was tall and slender, thin really, as if he hadn't eaten a good meal in weeks. When the turnkey called his name, he started, turned, and looked straight past Buckler at Penelope. Then his spirit leapt to hers in sudden recognition, a light springing up in the dark eyes that seemed to mirror her own.

“Permit us to speak privately to this prisoner.” Buckler put a generous tip in the turnkey's palm.

“You his lawyer? I reckon so.” The turnkey's curious gaze lingered over Penelope, but he withdrew to the other end of the cage-like barrier that gave visitors access to the prisoners, though the gap between the double rows of bars prevented actual contact.

Buckler addressed Lewis Durant. “You passed a comfortable night? They are treating you well?”

“Yes, sir.” Lewis' attention was still on Penelope.

She said, “Lewis—do you know who I am?”

“I imagine you are Mrs. Wolfe.”

“You already knew of me?”

“Yes, from Mary. Mrs. Leach.” He broke off, embarrassed. “I am sorry to see you in this filthy place, ma'am.”

Listening to the deep but youthful voice, Penelope felt her throat tighten. Buckler had told her that Lewis' foster mother, the brewer's widow from Marylebone, had apprenticed him to a schoolmaster at the institution, where he'd been educated and working as a junior teacher before his arrest.
What of his childhood? Was the widow kind to him? Had he wished for a real family? Was he docile or rebellious? Did he prefer books or rough and tumble games? Did he grow up to have a sense of duty and decency—or had his upbringing ruined him?
There were so many questions she wanted to ask. She could ask none of them.

“I'm not sorry to be here. I wanted to meet you. I want to do what I can to help you.”

Lewis grinned engagingly. “You have already, ma'am. Without you, I would be a dashed sight more uncomfortable.” When she looked surprised, he explained. “I have little money and no connections. With your kind assistance, I was able to pay for easement to have my irons removed and could forgo the pleasures of the commons side. Here I have only three men to bear me company in my cell and only one man with whom I must share my bed. Princely accommodations.”

Silently, Penelope vowed to ask Buckler and Thorogood for an accounting. She would make certain this money was repaid. “Will you tell us what you can about these murders? How did you meet Mary Leach and her husband?”

His long fingers tightened on the bars. “Her husband? I never set eyes on him in my life. He was never at home when I visited Mary.”

“You went to the Adelphi Terrace?”

“A few times, but she was worried about the servants gossiping, so we would meet on the Strand. We'd walk together and look in the shop windows.”

“Why, Lewis?”

“To make our plans, of course,” he said impatiently, as if the answer were obvious.

“You planned the Collatinus letters. Nothing else?”

The disturbingly familiar eyes flared with anger. “You think me capable of murder, ma'am?”

She corrected him. “No, I don't believe you dressed up as a masked man to stab Mr. Leach, but it won't be easy to prove your innocence. We think it was Mary who killed him. But even if a jury can be brought to accept her guilt, which I doubt, they will only say
you
murdered Mr. Leach at her behest. You must tell us everything—every detail—and give us a chance to save you.”

Oddly, it seemed her lecturing, elderly sister tone had reassured him, for a smile began to play about his lips. “Just how do you know I am innocent, Mrs. Wolfe?”

“First of all, you must call me Penelope. Formality is ridiculous under the circumstances, don't you think? Second, I know you are innocent because—” She drew a deep breath and said, “Because you are my brother.”

The smile vanished. “You are remarkably trusting.”

Strange. Mr. Chase had said these exact words to her after the inquest, warning her that he could not control where the investigation might take him. They knew nothing of Lewis Durant, and what there was to learn might not be pleasant to discover. Chase advised her to hold herself aloof—in case she had to retreat altogether if Lewis were incriminated further—and he cautioned against this visit to Newgate. Though Penelope had acknowledged the value of this commonsense, she knew it could make no difference to her.

She held Lewis' gaze. “Then you must not betray my trust. Answer Mr. Buckler's questions.”

Buckler glanced toward the turnkey, who was engaged in a bantering exchange with some prisoners clustered near the barrier. “Tell us about your dealings with Mary Leach, but keep your voice low. How did you meet her?”

“After Mrs. Cantrell died, I found a letter from Mary among her effects. She had sent money to finance my education. I called on her to ask why.”

“Why did she?”

“She was my mother's friend.”

“And Mrs. Cantrell was your foster-mother?”

“Yes, sir. She always refused to speak of my parents, but I knew there was something wrong about my mother's death. I was determined to learn the truth.”

“You did not seek out your mother's sister, Mrs. Ecclestone?”

“I've never met her, though Mary told me about her. Mary didn't trust her.”

“So it was Mrs. Leach who told you Nell Durant's story?” Buckler said evenly.

“And my father's.” Lewis' eyes assessed Penelope again, and she met his look of inquiry. She wanted to read his character if she could—in his words, his intonations, his willingness or unwillingness to answer the questions. Watching him fascinated her. She found herself catching phantom reminders of her father: the tilt of his head when he spoke or the arrogance in the dark eyes when he imagined himself under scrutiny. But added to these was a hesitation, a painful reserve, in his manner that wrung her heart.

After a pause, Buckler continued. “Whose idea was it to write the Collatinus letters?”

“It was Mary's, sir. Except for the last two, she wrote them, and I delivered them to the editor of the
Free Albion
. Only one of mine was published.”

Penelope laid a hand on Buckler's arm. “Edward, a jury might believe him. Mary had written poems and puffs for her husband's newspaper. She would know far more about the business than a boy of nineteen.” She said to Lewis, “What purpose did these letters serve?”

“Revenge.”

Her grip tightened on Buckler's sleeve, and his hand covered hers. “Whose revenge—Mary's or yours?”

“Why, revenge for the both of us, ma'am,” he responded, the chill in his tone making her shiver. “Mary said the letters would likely give some nasty people a few turns, but that was merely to add a bit of relish to the game. She was after only one person, my mother's killer. She wanted to make him suffer.”

“Mrs. Leach knew who murdered Nell? Who was it?”

“She wouldn't tell me, Mrs. Wolfe. She said he was a dangerous man, and she had no proof to bring the crime home to him. Hence the letters.”

“To provoke him?” asked Buckler.

Lewis nodded. “I think she wanted him to panic and expose himself. He wouldn't have suspected her right away because of Mr. Leach, you see. She thought she was safe as long as we were careful and the killer didn't realize she had my mother's memoirs.”

“Where is this manuscript?”

“I don't know, sir. It should have been among Mary's things, but the authorities have sent constables to Newgate to question me about it. They wouldn't believe me when I said I never had it in the first place.”

Buckler said sternly, “Say nothing to them, Lewis. Will they find anything to incriminate you in your lodgings? Tell me now.”

“Nothing, sir. The Runner took the last Collatinus letter off me when I was arrested. He is my friend?”

“A better one than you deserve. The letter has been destroyed. But if Mary Leach knew the identity of Nell's killer, why didn't she tell anyone?”

“No proof. And for another reason.” He paused, giving himself time to consider his next words. Abruptly, he dropped his head over his outstretched arms. “If I speak, I will only malign a dead woman. What good can it do? She suffered enough. I'll take my chances in court.”

Buckler bent forward to whisper in his ear. “And you will end on the gallows. Don't be a fool! Why did Mrs. Leach stab her husband? Were you an accessory to the crime?”

Lewis Durant drew himself up. “No! I didn't even know until afterward. She did it to protect me and to…atone.”

“Atone for what?” cried Penelope. “Lewis, you must tell us.”

She saw his fear for the first time, but he answered her composedly enough. “Mary had encouraged her husband to bandy words with Collatinus. It amused her to duel with Mr. Leach in the press without him knowing his enemy. She hated him, you see. But he found out—the servants told him about my visits. She suspected that her butler had been paid to spy on her; then Leach had me followed. When he confronted her with his knowledge, she told him who I was and begged for mercy. He wouldn't listen.”

Buckler said, “So he came after you?”

“He intended to sell my identity to his ministry contact and unmask me as Eustace Sandford's son in his next column. By having me brought up on charges of seditious libel, he'd shield his own reputation. He and his paper would score a great triumph over the radical menace, making a pile of money in the bargain. If Mary didn't cooperate, he'd send her away and she'd never see her children again.”

Penelope thought that Edward would be worried—and with reason—about his ability to convince a jury of so improbable a tale. Yet hadn't she discussed this very aspect of the case with Mr. Chase? The masked man, the mysterious watchers, Mary's dread vigil over her dying husband. And later the murder in the Dark Arches and the discovery of Nell's knife, used to commit another crime.
A Gothic tale indeed
.
But who would believe it?

All of this flashed through her mind in an instant. She rushed into speech. “You mean, don't you, Lewis: Mrs. Leach killed her husband to save you?”

“For that reason and for Nell. Mary felt she'd betrayed her friend.”

“Betrayed how?”

“I…I'm not sure. By not denouncing her killer? I asked Mary how she got my mother's memoirs as well as her pocketknife set.” His dark hair fell across his cheek as he turned his head away.

“She showed you the knife?”

“Yes, Mrs. Wolfe. My mother had given her the knife and the manuscript to keep safe. After Nell died, Mary kept silent for her father's sake. But she wanted to strike back at my mother's killer with her pen. To stab him with her words.”

“She used the real knife against Dryden Leach,” said Buckler. “A war of words turned deadly. Did she admit to stabbing him?”

“Not outright, but I knew.”

Penelope lifted a hand to cover her eyes. “Poor Mary. What she did was evil, but she was crazed with fear and hatred. Lewis, did she ever speak to you of our father?”

“She said that for years she'd wanted to believe him guilty of Nell's murder but had always known his innocence.” He added, his tone gruff, “You've been anxious about Mr. Sandford? Don't worry, Mrs. Wolfe. He made a convenient scapegoat.”

Buckler brought them back to the purpose of this visit. “Where were you when Leach was attacked?”

“I dined with a friend and went back to my lodgings to mark some papers.”

“Can anyone vouch for your movements?”

“My landlady saw me, sir, but I could have gone out again. She retired for the night, and she's a heavy sleeper.”

“Describe your last encounter with Mary Leach. When and where was it?”

“The day before she died at our usual place in front of the stationers. We had an arrangement to meet in the late afternoon around four o'clock if she could get away. I waited, walking up and down in front of the shop, and she arrived when I was about to give up and go home. I knew at once something was wrong. I could see she hadn't slept. Her eyes were…wild like a cornered creature. She drew me down one of the passages off the Strand and told me we'd been found out. She was calm, as if she were already dead and nothing could harm her further.”

Observing his anguish, Penelope felt helpless. “Why didn't you run away?”

“Where would I go? I thought Mary might need me. At first she argued with me, but then she said maybe it didn't matter. I would be safe if she could make me so.” His voice had got softer and softer until she had to strain to hear him.

“What did she mean?”

“I was too stupid to understand, Mrs. Wolfe, but she meant she would make the villain pay, at long last, for Nell's death. She knew I would try to stop her. But she failed—he murdered her instead.”