Die I Will Not (21 page)

Lively interrupted these reflections. “It matters not that the mother had died, sir. Sponsors may bring a child to be baptized. Christians who have a babe's best interests at heart.” The old gentleman peered at the record. “See here. There's an annotation in the margin. The sponsors were Edith Cantrell and Mary Rex. Does that help you, Mr. Chase?”

***

When Chase stepped into the crowded tobacconist's shop, he was obliged to wait his turn. Several patrons stood at the long glass counters, either sampling snuff mixtures or chatting animatedly with the proprietress. The proprietor, a hulking fellow with arms that strained at his coat, hovered nearby. He rarely addressed the customers himself but instead fetched and carried at his wife's smiling command. Often the tobacconist seemed to anticipate her needs and pop up with just the right variety as she made a recommendation to a customer.

For some minutes Chase pretended to study a pamphlet explaining the relative merits of snuff that had been rasped to a texture of “fin, demigros, or gros” and informing him that papier-mâché was the best receptacle to keep the snuff moist, though one was never to cram too much of the mixture in any container. Keeping his eyes planted on the pamphlet, he listened to Amelia Ecclestone (for he was sure this was Nell Durant's sister) converse earnestly with a dandy sporting impossibly high shirt points about the virtues of such sorts as the Prince's Mixture, Martinique, and Bolongaro. This gentleman, who took his snuff with nary a sneeze in prospect, sampled these and many more before finally making his purchases. Probably the most important decision the man would make all day, thought Chase. When the other patrons had completed their business, Mrs. Ecclestone approached him.

“Good day, sir.” Her smile seemed to stretch her thin lips in a polite grimace. “I apologize for the delay. May I help you?”

“Not at all. You have a pleasant establishment here.”

She curtsied. “Thank you, sir. I am Mrs. Ecclestone, wife of the proprietor.”

“Is there a Mr. Hanson too? I saw his name on the sign outside.”

“Passed on, I'm afraid. It's just the two of us and a shopboy.”

Standing closer to her, Chase saw that she had never been a beauty even in her youth, which was long past. Her chin was too weak, her brow too heavy over smallish blue eyes, her nose too pronounced. And yet he thought her face compelling in its mercurial movement, its constantly shifting emotions. “I'll ask you to show me some of your snuff. The gentleman who just left seemed highly knowledgeable, but you'll need to offer me more advice.”

A faint contempt communicated itself in the downward sweep of her eyelashes, but it was gone so fast Chase might have imagined it. “If you are a beginner, sir, you will want something rather mild. I can also show you some snuffboxes.”

As the proprietor moved away in quest of the snuff, Chase said, “A gentleman recommended your shop to me, ma'am. A Mr. George Kester.”

She looked surprised. “Oh, indeed? I've not seen Mr. Kester in years. He is well?”

“Quite well. He mentioned that he was once acquainted with you and your sister.”

Ecclestone's bustling hands stilled, and he shot a warning look at his wife. After a pause, she answered in a high-pitched voice. “Yes, Nell had many friends among the
ton
.”

“Your sister's death was a tragedy, ma'am.”

Passing a hand across her forehead, she stepped back from the counter, putting distance between them. “Why do you ask about Nell?”

“Because I mean to know who killed her. I'm sure you've heard that another woman, Mrs. Dryden Leach, has recently been murdered. The two crimes are connected.”

The proprietor stumped forward to place several jars of snuff on the counter, pouring out a small amount of each variety on a cloth and pushing a handkerchief at Chase. “You wish to try the snuff or not? Use the wipe to protect your neck-cloth.” His accent was considerably less refined than his wife's.

“Certainly.” As Chase had seen the dandy do, he took a pinch from one of the piles, brought it to his nose, and inhaled—an entirely disagreeable sensation in his opinion. He dusted his upper lip with the handkerchief. “I need to talk to you about Nell Durant,” he told Mrs. Ecclestone.

“You a journalist?” demanded Ecclestone.

“No. I have a friend concerned in the matter. Her father is Eustace Sandford.” He watched them both carefully to see if they recognized the name and was rewarded when he observed Mrs. Ecclestone's slight stiffening.

“All that is long buried. There's no call to resurrect it.”

“I'm afraid there is, ma'am.” He removed the knife from his pocket and showed it to her. “This was found in Mary Leach's bedroom. It belonged to Nell, didn't it?”

They stared at the knife but made no move to touch it. “It was Nell's,” admitted Mrs. Ecclestone. “She must have given it to Mary after—”

“After the Prince abandoned her?”

“He never met his obligations to her, and she had debts. Perhaps she sold it to Mary. Lord knows, they always had their heads together, those two.”

An angry flush mottled the proprietor's cheeks. Before he could interrupt, Amelia Ecclestone said quickly, “A day doesn't go by that I don't grieve for my sister, but we don't want any trouble. It's bad enough that monster never paid for what he did to her.”

“Who, ma'am?”

“Your friend's father, Eustace Sandford. He was the one. That I always said and will go to my grave saying. I would have been a witness against him in court, but he turned tail and ran.”

Chase felt his pulse accelerate. Could this woman be telling the truth? “What evidence do you have?”

“Why, I was in the house the night she died. I heard Mr. Sandford's knock and saw him in the hall. I went to bed, but I heard them shouting at each other. I found Nell the next morning, stabbed to the heart…the blood, you can't imagine what it did to me to see that sight.”

“You lived with your sister?”

“I was Nell's housekeeper. Oh, she lived a fine life while it lasted, but she'd have been better off without her fancy liveried servants and her silly opera box hung in pink satin. Nell thought she could turn everyone up sweet. She thought no one could resist her.” Mrs. Ecclestone was practically spitting her words, her voice rising higher. “Better to dine on a single joint of mutton at home and live in peace, I always said. Money ran through her fingers like sand. She was always in debt, always worried about being put out in her shift one day. She was spared that much at least.”

Jealousy and rancor and rage had passed in quick succession over her mobile features rather like a summer squall at sea, but now her mouth drooped in sadness. Glancing at Ecclestone, Chase saw that he stood with fists clenched, not looking at either of them. Did the tobacconist resent his wife's preoccupation with Nell Durant? It seemed that Nell was a third person in their marriage.

Amelia Ecclestone added more quietly, “She used to say she'd never be wholly at any man's disposal. But they owned her, body and soul, every one of them.”

“What happened on the night of the murder?”

“She'd gone to a masquerade ball dressed as a shepherdess, and I knew the gentlemen would be after her in droves. Still, she came home early just before midnight. She went into her sitting room, told me to go away. All she would say was she'd had a quarrel.”

“She didn't tell you what it was about?”

She regarded Chase coldly. “She kept her own counsel. It was no good my asking her to confide in me.”

Ecclestone reached out to slam his hand on the counter, and the two little piles of snuff went flying. “That's enough. Have you made your selection, sir?”

Chase remembered Kester's remark about Amelia Ecclestone prying and listening at doors. He ignored her husband. “You must have some notion of what Eustace Sandford wanted that night. Midnight seems a strange time to visit a lady.”

An odd smile lit her face. “Not for them two.”

“They were lovers?”

Her eyes glinted in triumph, and when she spoke again, her voice dripped venom. “They were lovers, all right. I'm sure he killed her because he got jealous of the other men sniffing around. I never saw a man more enamored. Or maybe he finally realized that she cared only for herself. She would betray him and his Jacobin friends as fast as she'd change her silk stockings.”

It was Chase's turn to draw back, disconcerted by her savagery. “Did you hear Sandford leave the house, ma'am?”

“I told you. I went to bed. He was the last person to see her alive.”

“Did you know your sister had written her memoirs? What happened to the manuscript after her death?”

“It wasn't among her effects. She must have given it away or sold it to someone.”

“And Nell's child? She had recently given birth to a son, I understand. Where is he?”

“Dead. Nell had sent him to be cared for by a widow, who took the babe into her family for a few extra coins to feed her own children. He was a puling little creature. He died the month after the murder. It was a relief to me. I wanted no reminders.”

“Did the Prince of Wales father this child?”

She shrugged. “Nell said so, but it doesn't matter, does it?”

“Do you recall the widow's name?”

Her eyes shifted away, and she moistened her lips with her tongue. “It's a long time ago, sir. I've forgotten.”

Chase said softly, “You're a liar, ma'am. Your nephew Lewis Durant is alive and well. Suppose you tell me the truth.”

Goggling at him like a sheep about to get its throat cut, she swallowed and gulped. “Alive? Why, what can you mean?”

“When was the last time you saw Durant? I need to find him.”

Ecclestone wrapped an arm about his wife's shaking shoulders. “Get out of my shop before I land you a facer.”

“In a moment.” Chase turned back to Mrs. Ecclestone. “Tell me what I need to know, and I'll leave you alone. Why did you lie?”

“I…I…men came round asking questions the other day.”

“What men? And what did you tell them?”

Her husband spoke for her. “They were from the police. We didn't tell them nothing for the simple reason that we don't know where the boy is. Amelia's not seen him since he was a babe.”

Mrs. Ecclestone nodded. “It's all Mary's fault. It was her idea to lie. We told everyone the child had died. She said he'd be safer that way.”

“Who was the father?” Chase held her gaze to be sure she told the truth this time.

She was crying hard, her face flushed and distorted. “Who do you think it was? It was that villain Eustace Sandford, that's who.”

Chapter XX

As the light faded from the sky, Chase waited on the street outside Penelope's house. He had come here for the first time nearly a fortnight ago, and he could not then have imagined that he would be steeling his nerve to tell Penelope she had a brother—a brother about to be arrested and tried for seditious libel and murder. John Chase had always believed in plain dealing. Telling someone an unpalatable truth had never bothered him. If he were honest, he would admit he often relished such telling. But this was Penelope Wolfe. She had been hurt by this business, and he must add to her burdens. Standing there, Chase was aware of the watchers that lurked in the shadows. He couldn't see them, didn't know where they were, but he knew they were there. Let them look, he thought. What could they see? A man hesitating before he knocked at a door, no more than that. He reached up and banged the knocker defiantly.

When Maggie Foss opened the door, her face split into a smile. “Mr. Chase! Come in, and I'll let Mrs. Wolfe know you're here.”

“Are the other servants occupied, Maggie? I'd expect you to be with the children.”

“We got no servants anymore, sir. Mrs. Pen turned them all off and with full wages for the quarter too. We come into some funds from Mr. Jeremy's painting, but what must she do but throw good money away?”

Chase absorbed this news, understanding its significance. “Is Mr. Wolfe at home?” He had decided it might be wise to have Jeremy Wolfe on hand to support and comfort his wife if he could be counted on for that much.

“He's out, sir. If you'll come with me, I'll light you to the sitting room.” She lit a candle from a lamp on the hall table and conducted him down the passage to the room where he had sat with Penelope before. Once inside, Maggie built up the fire and excused herself. “I'll fetch Mrs. Wolfe and make some tea, sir.”

Moving to the hearth to warm his hands, Chase thanked her, feeling strangely nervous—which was utterly unlike him. To relieve his feelings, he seized the poker and drove it into the pile of coals, sending flames roaring up the chimney.

Penelope came in. “I told Mr. Buckler I was anxious to speak to you, but I had hardly dared hope you would come so soon.”

He took her hands. “Of course, I came, Mrs. Wolfe. Maggie is bringing us some tea. Shall we wait until it arrives before we have our talk?”

She released him, stepping back to study him. “What is it? I can see you have something to tell me. Don't keep me in suspense.”

Chase was busy mocking his own stupidity. What had made him think he could be two minutes in the same room with this woman without her detecting there was news? She had always been perceptive and annoyingly forthright, and she was looking at him now with more than a hint of impatience in her brown eyes. Stubbornly, he waited until Maggie had come in with the tea-tray and some cakes. Realizing how hungry he was, he ate a few cakes and used the delay to marshal his forces.

Too polite a hostess to challenge him while he refreshed himself, Penelope waited but seemed incapable of small talk. She left the plate of cakes untouched, sipping her tea and observing his every move.

Finally, Chase swallowed a tasteless bite and launched into a rather disjointed description of his interview with Amelia Ecclestone, emphasizing that he found her an untrustworthy witness and he himself did not credit her accusations against Sandford. Penelope did not react, and he forced himself to come to the heart of the matter. “I've also been this afternoon to the church of St. Marylebone. I was seeking Nell Durant in the parish records. You recall that she lived there prior to her death?”

“Mr. Rex told you that?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you discover?”

“I found a memorial erected by her sister Mrs. Ecclestone and an entry in the parish's christening record. It says Nell's child was illegitimate, as we knew already. According to this record, the babe was called Lewis. He was baptized in the church in June of '94, a few days after her death and around the time you and your father left London. I checked for a death record, but there wasn't one. Nell's son is still alive.”

He held up one finger to forestall the eager words trembling on her lips. “There's more, Mrs. Wolfe. Today a colleague from Bow Street brought me word that the Home Office has identified Collatinus as Nell Durant's son. The authorities are preparing to lure him into a trap. He will likely be in custody by tomorrow night.”

“Why do you look like that? You seem afraid to speak. It's not like you, Mr. Chase.” She was getting nervous, and he heard a hint of accusation in her tone.

He took a breath and plunged on. “When a child is baseborn, often the father's name is not indicated in the record, but in this case the clergyman recorded it. Though it's possible this information is not accurate, I've had confirmation from another source.”

“Nell claimed the Prince of Wales was the father of her child.”

“She was in debt. I believe she invented the story to seek her own advantage and obtain financial compensation.”

“If it wasn't the Prince, then who?”

Chase reached across the table to grasp her hand. It was a small hand, sturdy and elegantly formed, a hand that would be deft about its daily tasks and gentle to a child in illness. He held it firmly. “The record states that your father sired this babe, Mrs. Wolfe. As I said before, this information may not be accurate, but if it is, then Lewis Durant is your brother—or rather your half-brother.”

Her face went white. “My brother? I have a brother, and he is Collatinus? Are you telling me he is guilty of killing Mary Leach? At least we know he couldn't have killed his mother. No, it seems that honor belongs to my father.”

“Drink your tea.”

For once, she obeyed him. She dropped his hand and sat in silence while she drank the tea, holding the fragile cup so tightly he was afraid she might shatter it. Finally, she said, “Did my father know about this child?”

“I don't know.”

“What are we to do?”

Ah, the question she was bound to ask. He only wished he had a better answer. Chase told her that he hoped to obtain more information before the rendezvous at the Crown and Anchor and would try to locate Lewis Durant before the Home Office did. She listened, a faraway look in her eyes. Some color had returned to her cheeks, but he could see a rapid pulse beating at her throat.

She interrupted him as he was laying out a plan to prevent the arrest or arrange for Lewis' defense if they were unsuccessful. “I am certain my father knew about this child,” she said. “One night when he was drunk—the time he told me about Collatinus—he made a remark I didn't understand. He said the worst thing he'd ever done was to abandon an innocent. At the time I thought he meant
her
, his mistress, the woman he had injured.”

“I will do what I can for the boy. I promise you.”

“He's not even twenty,” she murmured in wonder. She sat up straighter in her chair and seemed to banish the mists from her brain. “Yes, we must help him, Mr. Chase.”

***

After Chase departed, Penelope sat at a table in front of the fire, spooning up soup from a bowl. Maggie asked no questions but simply bustled about, delivering a low-voiced monologue about the naughtiness of the children, the chill of the evening, and any other commonplace topic that rose to her lips. She didn't seem to expect any response, so Penelope allowed her thoughts to wander.

For years she had banished her memories of the days when she was five years old and always afraid. Her father had gone out a great deal, leaving her with a young maid called Laura, whom Penelope detested with every fiber of her small being. She cried for her mother and stormed at her father. She tormented herself with jealousy of the people who took him away from her, whose company he seemed to prefer. In retrospect, this conduct astonished her, for in later years she would never have dared flout his authority. She had dared then because she somehow understood he was absorbed in some private drama all his own. With a child's simple logic she decided that her father had broken his promise to be everything to her in her mother's absence. Memory suddenly assailed her, and she saw him standing in front of the glass in their dreary lodgings, as he adjusted his domino and secured a mask to cover his face. He had gone to the masquerade ball to see Nell Durant, she realized. And afterward, said Amelia Ecclestone, he'd followed Nell to her house in Marylebone…

Penelope set down her spoon. She would not believe he had lain with a woman, put a child in her belly, then raped and murdered her—just as she would not believe Lewis, a boy not quite nineteen, capable of beating Mary Leach to death with his fists. The world would say the father had killed the one woman and the son, cut from the same infidel cloth, the other. Penelope had been upset when Fred Gander published his nasty insinuations about her in the newspaper, but how small a matter that seemed as she sat brooding over her father and Lewis Durant.

When Jeremy came in about an hour later, she got to her feet, pasting a pleasant smile on her face. “Have you dined? There's not much, but I can give you some bread and cheese.”

He went to lean against the mantelshelf, his posture elaborately casual. “I've eaten. Is Sarah asleep?”

She looked at him curiously. “Hours ago. She was asking for you, but I told her you'd be out late. You can see her in the morning.” Her instincts prickled. “Is something wrong, Jeremy?”

“No, nothing. What should be wrong?”

“I don't know.” Watching him closely, she sat down again in her chair. “You seem worried. Did you have a good day?”

In an instant he had lurched across the room to throw himself to his knees and bury his face in her lap. As her hand went out automatically to caress his hair, he began to shake with sobs.

“I'm sorry,” he said when he could command his voice. He lifted his head, and she was appalled by his expression of agony. For one wild moment, she thought he had come to tell her that Lewis Durant had been arrested or even killed. But then she perceived how foolish this was and felt an angry impatience. He was about to treat her to more of his dramatics—on this night of all nights. Any impulse she had to tell him her own news evaporated immediately.

“What is it?” When she reached out to touch his shoulder, he turned his head away.

“I cannot stay here, Penelope. One of my creditors has taken out a writ, and I will have the bailiffs at my heels tomorrow. There are debts I cannot pay.”

“We'll pawn your watch or my pearls and settle them that way.”

He forced a weak laugh. “A mere drop in the ocean. I am bankrupt, my dear. They'll take it all, everything we possess, and arrest me into the bargain. I can do nothing to prevent them.”

“How much?”

“I don't know for sure. The creditors can claim nine hundred or a thousand pounds of me. Maybe more.”

Penelope's hand dropped back to her lap. “How can you owe so much?” she said blankly. She could have told him to a penny the total of the household bills she'd struggled with for weeks, but Jeremy's response made clear how foolish she had been to think she could salvage the wreckage. Roughly, she took his chin in her hand to stare into his eyes. “What about your friend Mr. Rex? He will help you. You must go to him.”

“I tried. He won't even see me. I'm finished.” His voice broke. “The only thing I can do for you and Sarah is get away and save you the disgrace.”

Pushing him aside, Penelope got to her feet and took a few steps across the hearthrug. “You will leave me to face the bailiffs by myself?”

“You know you can't be held responsible for my obligations. If I could do any good here, I would stay, but I will only end up rotting in prison. There will be other creditors—too many of them. I'll never find a way to satisfy them all. What's worse, I have debts of honor. I am ruined, Penelope. I'll never hold up my head again.”

“Gaming debts? How could you? What about me and Sarah?”

Seeming to realize that he cut an absurd figure on his knees, he stumbled back to his feet. Shame seemed to rise in his throat and choke him with harsh, ugly sobs. After he had himself under control, he said, “I can't ask you to come with me. But I swear I'll send for you and the child as soon as I can put a roof over your heads.”

“Where will you go?” She heard her own voice from a distance. Her anger had died; she felt nothing. Later she would cry for Sarah's inevitable confusion and grief. Now she merely wanted to get out of the room.

“I don't know. I suppose I could go to Calais and let the French arrest me instead—or maybe I'll return to Ireland. Somewhere I won't be known.”

He raised his arms to embrace her, but she stepped out of his grasp and went to the door. “Go and kiss your daughter good-bye, Jeremy.”