Die I Will Not (9 page)

“Yes?”

“I had a word with your Mr. Leach's scullery maid—taking little thing, she is. She says as how her mistress seems mighty interested in keeping this affair dark. Mrs. Leach won't even admit her own father to her husband's room. This Mr. Rex went to the Adelphi on the night his son-by-marriage got used up but was sent off with a flea in his ear.”

“It's common knowledge there's bad blood between Leach and Rex.”

“Things ain't none too rosy with Mr. and Mrs. Leach neither. The girl told me there's been talk. Leach let it be known below-stairs that he wants his servants to keep an eye on her comings and goings and visitors.”

“An affair?”

“Could be. Maybe she found a young spark to keep her company.”

“See if you can find out more, Packet. Jeremy Wolfe says Rex received a message from the surgeon treating Leach, and that's how Rex found out about the attack. The surgeon apparently didn't think a woman could handle the crisis.”

“Wolfe? The artist cove as is wed to your friend Mrs. Wolfe? I got a weakness for a young gentry-mort like her. Very pleasant was Mrs. Wolfe when I had the privilege of making her acquaintance.”

“She doesn't return the sentiment. At all events, she's in some difficulties.” Chase told him about Penelope's encounter with the stranger in the street and about the men tracking them earlier that day. Whatever this was, it clearly constituted an organized effort by someone with the means to pay for spies and coach drivers; Horatio Rex certainly had these means, Chase reflected. Did Mary Leach refuse to admit her father to the sickroom because she suspected him of being behind the attack? If Rex were Collatinus, that might make sense.

Packet listened with interest. “Never fear. I'll nose around some more.”

“See what you can discover about Leach's attacker. I've just come from the Adelphi Terrace, where he is about to meet Old Mr. Grim. His loving wife cares for him.”

“Oh?”

“She doesn't leave his side.”

“You think maybe she's covering for someone? Maybe she don't relish the scandal?”

“This is her husband, Packet. Wouldn't you think she'd want his killer caught?”

“Who do you reckon this masked man was? Collatinus?”

“I've no notion, but Mrs. Leach informs me I've got hold of the wrong handle somehow.”

“Aiming to throw dust in your eyes,” suggested Packet.

“You may be right.” Chase removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket to check the time. “Let's hope that porter will be along soon.”

When Malone arrived ten minutes later, he hesitated as his eyes adjusted to the light, then began to scan the tables. He caught sight of Chase, froze, turned his back, and slipped back out the door, banging it behind him.

“What the devil?” Chase was already on his feet. “Wait here,” he said to Packet, but the thief remained close on his heels.

As they ran through the court and onto Drury Lane, the prostitute still loitered in the archway. “Your man is getting away. Be quick! There he goes,” she gasped, excitement making her look younger. She pointed down the street at a fleeing figure.

“I can see that,” Chase barked at her.

He set off after the porter, but his bad knee, which had stiffened as he sat over his ale, gave out, and he nearly lost his footing, his spectacles bouncing to the bottom of his nose. Ahead of him, Malone rounded a corner, disappearing from view. He cursed.

But Packet, who had sprinted after Malone, called over his shoulder, “My chance to return a favor.” His hoarse chuckle floated back. “I'll see you later at the Brown Bear.”

Chase turned away. Retrieving a coin from his purse, he walked slowly back toward Feathers Court to approach the woman with the baby in her arms. Awake now, the infant rooted at her neck, and the whore looked at him with a glint of mockery in her too-old eyes. Chase sighed.

“Your sixpence, miss.” He put the coin in her hand.

Chapter VIII

Penelope and Maggie spent the evening in front of the fire. Though a basket of plain mending lay at Maggie's feet, she liked to take an hour in the evening to do some fancy work, a skill she'd been taught by the patroness of the rather unusual charitable organization where she and Penelope had first met. Tonight Maggie was busy adding a floral and leaf design to the hem and neckline of one of Penelope's muslin gowns.

Maggie listened as Penelope described the Collatinus letters, N.D.'s mysterious death, and the recent attack on Dryden Leach, but she refused to credit that Eustace Sandford, a man she'd never met, could have done anything seriously amiss. “He's your dad, isn't he? You'd know if he had something wrong in his nature.” Unerringly, she had hit upon the reassurance that would be most welcome, and Penelope was grateful.

On the whole, Maggie seemed to welcome these developments as a way to enliven the dull domestic round. Her face bright with interest, she said she wasn't one to wish ill on anyone, but she thought Dryden Leach sounded like a coxcomb who had likely asked for his scurvy treatment, what with writing nasty articles and getting himself involved in low shams. And she thought Penelope worried too much about what she called a bit of fiddle-faddle in the papers that may or may not be based in sober truth. Still, Maggie promised to redouble her vigilance over Sarah and the other children.

The lamplight played over her freckled countenance, striking fire on her red head, as she added her bit to the conversation. “Today I went to the baker's shop to buy some of them buns the children like for their tea, you know, mum. When I went in, the lady as owns the shop was not so friendly as usual—” Color stained her cheeks.

“You thought it was because we had not paid the bill.”

“That's just it, mum. Mrs. Vane said to ask when it might be convenient for you to make all tidy. I said I would, frowning her down like, but then she said as how a man come around asking about you and the master. Wanting to know how long you've lived in the neighborhood, do you settle your accounts, do the neighbors think well of you, that sort of thing. She said it like I should know what it meant, and maybe like I was trying to hide our wickedness. She wrinkled up her mouth like she was aiming to spew her guts.”

Her mimicry of Mrs. Vane was so uncannily like the original that Penelope had to laugh, and yet there was little enough to laugh about in this additional sign of a formless menace lurking in the background of her life.

Grinning in response, Maggie picked up her needle and resumed her story. “I told Mrs. Vane that Mr. Jeremy is to paint the portrait of a Duke. I said His Grace's people are inquiring into our way of life to make sure we're respectable.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Oh indeed, mum. I'm sure she did, for I pretended I couldn't tell her the Duke's name, as he was too high in the instep to have his private affairs spoken of. I told her all about how he is to be married to a great heiress and wants a portrait in honor of the occasion. I said if he likes Mr. Jeremy's work, he'd likely commission another of the bride. She swallowed it!”

Penelope went to the mantelpiece and shook out some coins from a box she kept there. “Will you take this money to Mrs. Vane in the morning?”

“Don't be giving that sourpuss all our rhino, mum,” Maggie warned, though she took the coins and stored them in a little bag hanging at her waist.

“Did Mrs. Vane say anything more about this man? Young or old? Well dressed and polite or rough and low?”

“Well-spoken, about thirty or thereabouts, plainly but decently dressed.”

“Be on your guard for anything out of the ordinary, Maggie.”

The two women lapsed into silence. Penelope was thinking about how much she had come to value Maggie's companionship. An Irishwoman whose husband only showed his face when he wanted to appropriate her hard-earned funds, Maggie fended for herself with her two young children. She often fervently expressed her gratitude for her position as Sarah's nursemaid, but, in truth, the obligation was mostly on Penelope's side. Being in Maggie's company was often a relief, for it was never necessary to pretend with her. She understood what it meant to live with uncertainty, and treated the children and her mistress with humor and kindness. Penelope admired her ability to take the world as she found it.

Trying to gather her scattered thoughts, Penelope took up her pen. She had been rereading some of her father's works and taking notes with the idea of perhaps writing his biography, though she was finding it enormously difficult to concentrate. When she realized she had read the same passage for the third time, she allowed her mind to return to Mary Leach. Penelope was curious about this woman who had cut herself off from her family and her career as an author to live a more conventional married life. At least her husband had encouraged her to use her literary talents in some form, albeit in the Tory cause. What would happen to Mary? Would she experience her husband's death as a release, a liberation? Mr. Rex had suggested that Mary sought a refuge in wedding her unlikable husband, but this attempt was unlikely to have been successful. To marry for the wrong reasons rarely was, Penelope thought wryly, but then again to marry for love was apt to be just as risky.

She wondered what her own life would have been like had she herself chosen otherwise, and, unbidden, the image of Edward Buckler rose before her. It had been a relief to see him so full of energy and purpose, for she had sometimes pictured him spending his days in his chambers among his books and papers with little to do but indulge in gloomy thoughts. He was a man who needed to put himself in the current of life. What he really needed was a wife, she decided with a sternly repressed pang.

Maggie, beginning to nod over her embroidery, gave a wide yawn and folded up the dress. “I'm off to bed, mum. Waxing moon tonight—grand it is. I saw it from the nursery window when I put the children to bed.” She crossed herself unselfconsciously. “
God and the holy Virgin be about me
.
I see the moon, and the moon sees me
. Reminds me of my mam. Best not take chances, she used to say.” Despite her robust commonsense, Maggie had a superstitious streak that revealed itself at odd moments, a trait Penelope shared, her own childhood having been filled with Sicilian lore whispered to her by an old nurse.

Later, having retired to her bedroom, Penelope listened to faint creaks as the house settled around her, quiet and peaceful. A candle burned on the table, and the room was mostly in shadow. The maid and the manservant had retired to their rest in the attics above, the cook was asleep in her basement apartment, and Jeremy had not yet returned from an engagement. She felt restless, the novel on her bedside table failing to hold her attention. Finally, she tossed aside the bedcovers to approach the window. Taking care not to be visible from the street, she gazed out through a crack in the blind for some minutes, unmoving, her heart troubled. At this hour the street was deserted but for the occasional coach passing by, and she watched the neighbors' lights blinking out, one by one. For once, the air was clear enough that she could admire the gibbous moon floating among a few visible stars. In this hour of mystery, the chimney pots reminded her of the turrets of a castle in some remote country, and she began, idly, to spin a foolish tale of forbidden love and ancient curses. Then the cry of the night watchman broke the stillness. Penelope let the blind drop and went to bed alone.

***

Noah Packet crept into the Brown Bear as Chase sat over a glass of hot gin and a half-eaten lamb chop. “Hungry?” Chase asked.

“Won't say no to a morsel.”

“You've earned it.” Chase nodded at the barmaid and sat back to regard Packet. His hat was missing. He was liberally bedaubed in mud from his tousled hair to his cracked, old boots, a smear decorating each cheek. One side of his face was bruised and bleeding, one of his eyes swollen shut. Moreover, the glory of his new blue coat was quite dimmed: it too was covered in filth, and he had lost one of his shiny buttons. Exhausted, he slumped in his chair, avoiding Chase's gaze and wrinkling up his nose at the musty smell that rose from his clothing as it began to dry in the tavern's warmth. He looked like a gnome that had crawled out of the earth.

“What happened, Noah?”

“I followed the fellow, but he smoked me.”

When the tavern maid slapped a plate and glass in front of Packet, he paused a moment to wrap his hands around his gin and take a long swallow, his throat working convulsively. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a whisper. Chase had to strain to hear over the cacophony of boisterous conversations and tankards thumping the wooden tables.

Packet had chased Malone down Drury Lane, passing the Cock and Pie public house and turning left onto Wych Street to head toward Lyons Inn, a disreputable Inn of Chancery inhabited only by the lowest of lawyers. People lounged listlessly against the ramshackle houses, the women on the doorsteps quarrelling and laughing among their confederates, barefoot children tumbling everywhere. Foul gutters ran down the center of the street, and over the whole hung a miasmic vapor that choked the lungs and made Packet, Londoner born and bred, long for some fresher air. Malone circled round the back of the Inn and, crossing Holywell Street, ducked down an alleyway called Half-Moon passage linking to the Strand. Gamely, Packet followed.

“He were waiting for me as I come round the corner.” Packet sawed away at his chop, popping a piece into his mouth, his slender fingers trembling. His eyes lifted from his plate to skim over Chase's face and flitted away.

Taking a few uncertain steps forward, Packet had been peering into the murk to see if he could spot his quarry when a bony arm reached out to seize him. This arm raised him up, and he found himself confronting a pair of blazing eyes.

“What do you want, little man?” Malone shook him, like a terrier with a rat in its mouth.

Packet hung his head, trying to look pathetic, and, after a moment, Malone stopped shaking him but kept a firm grip on the lapel of his coat with one hand. The other hand drew back. “What've you got to say for yourself?”

“Begging your pardon. Thought you was someone I knew.”

“You lie. Tell me, or you'll be sorry. That John Chase you were with—he's a Runner?”

“He just wants your information, Malone. Profit for you in it.”

“I ain't a fool. I know when doings are too big for me. Let them nobs run their rigs, for all I care. You tell the Runner to stay away from me. Maybe you need a little encouragement to deliver my message?”

Packet could only shake his head as a fist took him in the face. Rustles in the darkness told him they had an audience, but the watchers stayed well back. He did not cry out. He wanted to save his strength to run if an opportunity came. But before he could make an effort to extricate himself, Malone dropped him in the muck of the street. Taking to his heels again, the porter was soon lost in the crowd. Slowly, Packet picked himself up. By the time he staggered out onto Holywell Street again, Malone was long gone, and Packet was left to stare up into the stern countenance of a half-moon shop sign sailing placidly above his head.

Now, Packet shivered, glaring at Chase. “I should never have hoofed it after that fellow. It's you as I blame. Had your voice in my head, saying like always, ‘I got to know.' I told you before—you a plague of God, you is.”

“You said it yourself, Packet. You owed me. How'd Malone find out I'm a Runner, do you suppose?”

“Queers me. He had the smell o' fear on him, and that made him mean.”

“He was eager enough to sell his information until someone scared him off after I spoke to him at the
Daily Intelligencer
. You think we got some big men behind this little drama?”

Packet pushed his plate away. “The next time I decide to do you a favor, you have my permission to darken my daylights yourself. You leave this one alone.”