Die I Will Not Read online

  When she descended from the coach in Greek Street, the front door of the town-house she shared with Jeremy was ajar, a pool of light spilling onto the street. She was about to hurry inside when she heard her daughter call, “Mama!”

  She stopped short. “Sarah?”

  Heart pounding, Penelope peered into heavy London smoke and fog that had settled under the dome of the sky, giving her the curious sensation of being inside an enormous, dark cave. Through tendrils of mist—shifting, swirling, settling again—she glimpsed a form bent over her daughter, who stood on the pavement some distance away. Penelope ran, snatching Sarah up, no doubt looking like a crazy woman as she ran frantic hands over her small body. Sarah’s arms clung, she gripped her mother’s waist, hard, with her sturdy legs, and Penelope looked up into the face of the man, who had straightened to his considerable height, arms folded across his chest.

  He touched his low-crowned hat. Penelope could not see his eyes or the rest of his features clearly, though she noted he was decently dressed, clad in a heavy greatcoat and stout boots. From behind, a voice, on a rising note of panic, shouted Sarah’s name. It was Maggie, the nursemaid. Relieved, Penelope answered, “I’ve found her, Maggie. Where is Mr. Wolfe?”

  “In the painting room. Shall I fetch him, mum?”

  “We’ll be there directly.”

  Down the road in the direction of Soho Square, another hackney had stopped, and Penelope saw a passenger step out. She caught the sound of voices as the coachman on the box called a remark. Reassured by this evidence of ordinary life, she turned back to thank the man, but he spoke first.

  “You must be more careful with the little ’un, ma’am. The city ain’t safe for the pair of you.”

  Sarah tried to raise her head, but Penelope pushed her down and took a step back. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Best go inside, ma’am.” Before she could say anything more, the man touched his hand to his hat and walked away, melting into the fog.

  Maggie met Penelope on the doorstep, carrying her son Jamie, a child less than two years old, in her arms. Her five-year-old son Frank hovered at her side with the hired housemaid and manservant waiting in the background, eager to take any gossip back to the servants’ table.

  “You’ll be angry with me, mum,” said Maggie contritely. “But indeed I thought she was safe with her dad. He took her while I was getting Baby settled. How she got out of doors is what I can’t tell you. That door was locked.”

  Sarah adored her father, who liked to sweep in and bear her off to play, but his attention was apt to stray. While usually a biddable child, she had a streak of curiosity, occasionally causing her to act on impulse, especially when she thought no one was paying attention or when upset. Penelope remembered guiltily that she herself had been abstracted and short-tempered this morning when she sat down at her desk to try to determine if there were any bills she could conveniently settle. Examining the door now, Penelope saw what had happened. The child was just tall enough to reach the lower bolt.

  She set Sarah down and knelt on the carpet to address her, holding her by the arms. “You must never wander into the street alone again. Do you understand me, Sarah?” She gave her daughter a slight shake. “It’s not safe. You could be struck by a coach or worse. Mama doesn’t know the person you were with—he could be a bad man.”

  Sarah fixed earnest eyes on her mother’s face. “He’s a moon-man, Mama. He comes out at night to watch the moon.”

  “Oh, Sarey. Why did you leave the house?”

  Tears welled in her daughter’s eyes, several fat drops trailing down her cheeks to drip off her chin. “I heard a carriage and thought it was you. So when you didn’t come in, I went to look.”

  Penelope’s heart twisted, and she pulled Sarah into a hug. “Don’t cry, darling. Mama was gone quite a time. But listen to me. You are not to worry if I go out. You must know I will always come back to you.” It was no wonder the child was afraid, she reflected. How much stability had she experienced? In her short life, they had moved from place to place, her father there one day, gone the next.

  Jeremy’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I see you’re back, love.” He stepped closer to kiss her cheek and throw an affectionate arm around his daughter. Attired in silk stockings, knee breeches, long-tailed coat, and pristine cravat, he looked every inch the gentleman. His artfully arranged locks framed a countenance alive with light and energy, his blue eyes sparkling at her, daring her to see the world as he did.

  “Make haste to dress for dinner, Penelope. It will soon be time to leave for the rout.” As she stared at Jeremy, speechless, he tweaked his daughter’s nose. “Where did you get to, Sarey-bird? I thought we were playing a game.”

  ***

  Buckler and Thorogood had retired to Buckler’s chambers in the Inner Temple to enjoy a punchbowl. With the delicacy of a connoisseur, Thorogood pared his lemons and poured the rinds and juice together over loaf-sugar. He bathed the whole in boiling water and mixed well with a long spoon. When he was satisfied, he added exact quantities of brandy and rum, stirring the whole.

  Face screwed up in anticipation, Bob waited at Thorogood’s shoulder. Buckler’s clerk was a friendly young man with intelligent eyes, hollow cheeks, and a thin nose quivering as it inhaled the fumes. Fiercely loyal to his employer, Bob spent his days consulting dusty law books or attending to Buckler’s rather meager correspondence. When there was no employment, he sat at his desk for hours at a time, scratching away with his pen on mysterious projects of his own. Once in a while, he made a half-hearted attempt to restore order to the piles of papers, dirty dishes, and clothing that bestrew the chambers. And when Buckler took to his bed in one of his periodic bouts of melancholia, it was Bob who made sure he drank his tea and ate his bite of buttered toast.

  The fourth member of the group, a mongrel called Ruff, lay on the hearthrug in front of the fire, his head on Buckler’s slippered foot and his nose stuck in the folds of his master’s dressing gown. Ruff had been a rather dubious present from Penelope Wolfe when she rescued the dog after it was nearly run down in the street. Though Ruff could hardly be called an expressive animal, Buckler had learned to read the small signs indicative of alarm or content or disdain, as the case may be. When, as now, Ruff felt happy and peaceful, he sank his ugly face in his paws, folded his ears, and emitted faint wheezing sounds. Similarly contented, Thorogood smiled to himself, humming an old song.

  “You look like a hag gloating over her cauldron.”

  “Quiet, Buckler.”

  Finally satisfied with his efforts, Thorogood removed his spectacles to wipe them free of vapor. He poured the mixture into three glasses and included a portion for Ruff, who roused himself enough to lap at the saucer. Thorogood then took his own glass and set it on the low table next to his usual armchair. Packing and lighting his pipe, he was soon puffing away, smoke wreathing merrily around his head.

  Only then did he open the conversation. “A near-run thing, Buckler. I was by no means certain you and Dallas would triumph today. Quid enim sanctius, quid omni religione munitius, quam domus unusquisque civium? What more sacred, what more strongly guarded by every holy feeling, than a man’s own home? The jury might easily have decided to punish the adulterer.”

  “For Taggart’s sake, I am relieved they did not.” Buckler rattled the fire-tongs against the bars of the grate, making the flames leap higher. “And I’m glad to be quit of the business with some gold in my pocket.”

  “Left a bad taste in your mouth, eh?”

  “Servants testifying to hearing nasty ‘knocking noises’ from adjoining rooms? I admit I find cases of this nature rather sordid.”

  “You cannot afford to be so nice, my friend.”

  “Too true.” Buckler stared into the fire. “At this rate, I’ll never get a chance to stand for Parliament. It’s hard to know what’s worse: defending adulterers or criminals. Alway
s to suffer the fools who condemn me as an Old Bailey barrister willing to sell my voice to any purchaser. And to be told that at least three-fourths of my work is calculated to bring off the marauders who prey upon society.”

  “Console yourself that you are come up in the world to try a case at Westminster Hall,” said Thorogood a little sternly, for this was an old argument between them. “After all, today you saved your client from a gentleman marauder.” His tone too casual, he added, “Were you pleased to see Mrs. Wolfe?”

  From his desk across the room, Bob’s head popped up. “Mrs. Wolfe? Did you indeed see her today, sir? Is she well?”

  Buckler chose to answer his clerk. “Not particularly. She seemed rather worn.”

  Relaxing in his chair, Thorogood sipped his punch with appreciation. “What did you think of her story? She is a sensible woman. I suspect she has good cause for her anxiety.”

  Bucker and Thorogood explained something of Penelope’s situation to Bob, suggesting that the clerk might ask around about Collatinus among his own extensive acquaintance. Knowing Bob, who conversed freely with anyone he met, they thought he might happen upon a bit of gossip making its way through the taverns and coffeehouses.

  “I should be delighted, sirs,” said Bob, gratified.

  Thorogood tapped his pipe against the table, relighting it with a spill he took from a vase on the mantelpiece and thrust in the fire. “What we need is someone who remembers Sandford.”

  “You mean an old rogue like you? I’m surprised you were able to keep out of Newgate without Mrs. Thorogood to curb your excesses.”

  The lawyer chuckled. “Oh, I was a pretty tame fellow then, Buckler. Later I discovered that respectability is vastly overrated.”

  “Speaking of respectability,” said Buckler, “I’ll have a word with Latham Quiller. There was a reference in the second Collatinus letter to L. Q_____er of the Temple. You know Quiller was once a member here before he became a serjeant? The letter mentioned something about a lawyer failing a lady in distress and savaging her reputation to boot.”

  At the mention of Quiller, whom he cordially disliked, Thorogood made a face, blowing out an indignant puff of smoke. “So shining a representative of the English bar would hardly do anything so shabby.”

  Bob rose to dig through a pile of newspapers discarded in one corner. “The letters are published in The Free Albion, did you say? Here’s one.” He scanned the columns. Lips thinning in disapproval, he quoted, “To suffer the dignity of rank as a veil for depravity is to mock every sacred principle of our honor.” He lowered the paper. “Ugh, why do you read such stuff, sir?”

  “I don’t know. It passes the time?” Buckler sent a whimsical glance across the room toward his ever-unreliable long-case clock. His relationship with time—in other words, his inability to master the productive use of it—was an old joke among them.

  Bob ignored him. “Collatinus was a Roman, Mr. Thorogood? Why would Mrs. Wolfe’s father choose this particular name?”

  Thorogood leaned forward, a pedantic fervor kindling in his eyes. “Lucius Tarquinius Collatinus. Roman patriot who married Lucretia. When Collatinus was away, Sextus Tarquinius, the king’s son, broke in one night to ravish her. He told her that if she didn’t give herself to him, he would swear she’d committed adultery with a slave.”

  “What happened to her?” inquired the clerk in ready sympathy.

  Buckler affected a groan. “Do not encourage him, Bob.”

  “Livy says she plunged a dagger into her heart to cleanse her shame, but that was not the end of it. While the king was away fighting a campaign, Collatinus and Brutus, the king’s nephew, raised a mob and locked the gates of Rome against its rulers. They established a republic, and Brutus and Collatinus became joint consuls. A triumph for the people.”

  “You’ve forgotten the end of the tale,” said Buckler. “Sandford’s choice of name seems rather ill-omened when one remembers that Collatinus was soon ejected from his consulship. The people didn’t care for the royal blood in his veins, and even Brutus didn’t remain loyal to him. Collatinus became an exile, rather like Sandford, strangely enough.”

  Thorogood looked grim. “With an indignity suffered by a lady at the root of it all. What if this N.D. was wronged and Sandford sought to avenge her honor?”

  “Possible, I suppose. In any case, if the author of these new letters realizes Mrs. Wolfe is Sandford’s daughter, she may be at risk.”

  “What motive can Collatinus have?”

  “It may be political, or he may intend blackmail.” Buckler drained his glass and set it among the other dirty cups on the table. He felt a pleasant languor he hoped would take him into a restful sleep untroubled by dreams of Penelope Wolfe. “A touch too much rum this time, Thorogood.”

  “Nonsense. The punch was perfect.”

  As Thorogood prepared to depart, wrapping himself in his fur-lined cloak and muffler, Buckler said, his voice low, “I want to help her, Zeke. Mrs. Wolfe should not face this business on her own, and he is not the sort to care for anyone but himself.”

  Thorogood had no need to ask who “he” was. “We will do all in our power, of course. Buckler, be careful.”

  “Do you suppose N.D. was her father’s mistress? It must make Mrs. Wolfe unhappy to suspect her father of infidelity, whatever else he got up to while he was in London.”

  “Yes, she is awkwardly placed, and I suspect history repeats itself in her own marriage.” Thorogood plucked his white hat from the stand and faced his friend squarely. “But I was cautioning you, as you are well aware.”

  A frigid gust of wind hit Buckler as he turned away to open the door. “That bastard Wolfe does not appreciate his good fortune,” he said.

  Chapter IV

  “A word with you,” said Fred Gander. John Chase, sitting at his usual table in the Brown Bear tavern, did not immediately reply. Instead, he exchanged a derisive look with fellow Runner Dugger Farley, who stood nearby, casually holding the arm of their prisoner while he conversed with an acquaintance and quaffed ale with his other beefy hand. Farley loomed over the culprit, a man about forty years old, hunched over, defeated, with mud on his trousers and a deep rent in his shabby coat. Desperate eyes gleamed from his haggard face.

  “As you see, I am occupied.” Chase did not care for the journalist Gander, who made frequent sport of the Bow Street men in the press. In his last effort Gander had developed his witticisms around the theme of “bulldog” Runners drawing “badger” malefactors into the open and seizing them in an obstinate grip. The point being that there was nothing to choose between them in terms of “animal propensity”: the one fiercely grasping his portion of the forty-pound reward for a capital conviction, the other clutching his illegal gains.

  Chase turned his eyes toward the door. To Farley, he said, “The prosecutor should be here soon. Put the prig at a table and let’s see if he can identify him.”

  “Why bother? We got what we need.” Farley held up the packet of fine muslin handkerchiefs they had pulled from the thief’s trousers after dragging him into a corner of the tavern to search him to the accompaniment of drunken shouts of encouragement from the tavern’s customers.

  “Just do it.”

  Obligingly, Farley took the prisoner to a table and sat him down, ignoring the protests of two men whose raucous drinking song had been interrupted.

  Gander still hovered at Chase’s side. “I will await the completion of your business.” After pausing to exchange a few words with Farley, the journalist moved away to stand in front of the taproom fire. He ordered a pint from a barmaid.

  Ignoring him, Chase nursed his own drink and tried to feel more interest in the proceedings. Of late he’d been troubled by a lingering sense of boredom and discontent. He stood guard for the Regent on state occasions, attended the occasional ball to lend protection to the nobles, raided disorderly houses, or chased down
culprits from the never-exhausted fund of petty thieves who peopled the streets. He sometimes went out of town employed on private inquiries, which helped to break the monotony. But he knew it was not really dissatisfaction with his job bothering him. Rather, it was the growing realization his life was empty. Upon this thought, he touched his coat pocket where reposed a letter from Abigail, an American woman who had nursed him after the battle of Aboukir in ’98 and borne him a son named Jonathan. She had not wanted to marry him; instead, she opted to return to Boston to raise their child in more affluence than Chase could offer.

  Now she had sent word that Jonathan had joined the crew of a privateer as cabin boy to sail the seas in search of fat British birds to pluck—merchant ships carrying valuable cargos. For Chase, a former first lieutenant in His Majesty’s navy who had become a cabin boy at the same age, this was unsettling news. Pride in his son was uppermost. Yet he worried for Jonathan’s safety and wrestled with the knowledge that his own flesh and blood served the enemy. Since the Americans had almost no navy of their own, they relied on privateers to conduct the war, with unanticipated success. The many stings inflicted by these rampaging pirates could not sit well with an Englishman. So on this gloomy March night Chase was in no mood for sly, slinking Fred Gander.

  The door opened, and the shopboy, radiating triumph, preceded his master into the taproom. He had served his employer well, first in trailing the thief to his hole in a ramshackle building, then in fetching the Runners to arrest him. He brought the linen-draper over to Chase’s table.

  “Here’s Mr. Scoldwell, sir.”

  “You have recovered my property?” The linen-draper Scoldwell wore a neat, black suit and an unhappy expression, clearly knowing himself to be out of place in the taproom’s low company. Old age had rounded his shoulders and carved lines of weariness around his mouth. He moved with hesitant steps, leaning for support on a cane decorated with a roaring lion’s head.

  Farley spread the wares on the table for him. “Yours?”