Die I Will Not (29 page)

Once inside the coach, Malone retreated to the corner and rested his head against the squabs, eyes determinedly closed, a sullen look on his face.

“Why did you run away?”

“I'm a poor man, Mr. Chase.”

“Not so poor as when this business began, eh? Were you bribed to make yourself scarce?”

“I thought maybe I'd be in bad loaf if I stayed. When all's said and done, I'd already made a bit on what I could tell.”

“Tell it again now. What did you see that night?”

Malone opened his eyes. “What about me? I don't want no more trouble.”

“You'll stand up in court like an honest man and tell the truth, what else? What did you see?”

“They got the villain what done for Mr. Leach. I read it in the papers.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Malone,” said Chase, restraining himself with some difficulty. “Did you—or did you not—see Mary Leach enter the building that night?”

“I never saw her go in. But I saw her run out right enough.”

“What else?”

He blinked rapidly. “Sir?”

“What happened next?”

Malone had stared after Mrs. Leach. Though she hadn't stopped to speak to him, she'd noticed him sitting there, and never before had he seen a look like that on a human face.
What in the name of Old Scratch is this?
Where'd she come from?
“Mrs. Leach,” he called after her; then she was gone, a lady alone in the night. He had a dim sense it might be his duty to go after her, to make sure she was all right. But the next thing Malone knew, footsteps were pounding down the stairs, and Malone saw his employer Mr. Leach stumbling after his wife. He ran to open the front door for him. Leach's progress was erratic, and at first Malone thought he was drunk, very drunk. But he wore a look of stunned amazement—this cold man who had always seemed untouched by his fellow man. He had never had a kind word or a smile of greeting for his porter. He had walked right by Malone every day for three years with a growl of complaint if Malone didn't get the door open fast enough.

“Help you, sir?”

Leach did not reply.

“Sir, are you ill?”

By this time, they were outside, and he was holding Leach up as they watched the woman escaping down the street. She looked back once to see them standing there, her face a white blur in the dark.

“Get me a coach,” bit out Leach, speaking with difficulty. When some of the other journalists came out of the building to see what had happened, he waved them away.

Malone obeyed, motioning frantically at a passing hackney coach. “Can I summon Mr. Blagley to you? Or a doctor?”

“I'll go home.”

“What shall I say has happened, sir?” He wrapped his arm tightly about his employer's shoulder and guided him down the pavement.

“Keep quiet if you value your position. I'll speak to you in a day or two when I return.”

Malone helped him into the coach, giving the driver Leach's address, and it was only then that he discovered the blood on his hands. As his heart began to pound, he wiped the blood off on his trousers and returned, slowly, to his post.

“Only Mr. Leach never came back. Three days later, I heard he was dead.”

“What of this masked man tale?” Leach had discovered the identity of Lewis Durant, Chase thought. Even in his agony he might have believed that he and Hewitt could pin the stabbing on Durant, and perhaps Leach had also decided he could rid himself of his rebellious wife without too much fuss. He certainly wouldn't have wanted the humiliation of being known as the man whose own wife had dared to joust with him in the public press and then pinked him with a knife. With Mary out of the way, he could have published the story of his career and taken credit for bringing down Collatinus.

“She was his wife, wasn't she?” said Malone. “Stands to reason. Better a masked man than a murdering she-devil.”

“But you told someone about Mrs. Leach, didn't you?”

“That's right. The Prince's Man came around asking questions. He was supposed to have a meeting with Mr. Leach. He were generous, but all the same…”

“Why'd you run away, Malone? You could have sold your information a second or a third time, to me for one.”

“Mr. Hewitt told me Bow Street might be nosing around. He said there was treachery afoot against the realm and our Regent. I would play into the scoundrels' hands if I opened my mouth. Even the police weren't to be trusted. There was something about him. I wasn't going to chance it.”

Chapter XXVII

Penelope took a seat in the gallery. Marveling at Hewitt's tranquility, she kept thinking of Mary, Nell, her father, and Lewis, and her anger threatened to leap its banks like a swollen river. As she waited for John Chase and watched the parade of prosecution witnesses, she repeated to herself, over and over, that she wanted Hewitt to pay. But Buckler's attempt to force a penmanship comparison hadn't worked, and now Victor Kirby's testimony seemed to strike the jury with renewed belief in Lewis' guilt. Here, finally, was a piece of concrete evidence—the mask and cloak. Listening to Quiller's measured questions and Kirby's replies, she felt a queer trembling in her limbs. Then, to her enormous relief, it was Buckler's turn to cross-examine, and the momentum shifted.

“Who instructed you to examine the privy at Durant's lodgings?”

Hesitantly, Kirby said, “It wasn't a directive. A suggestion we thought might bear fruit.”

“Who is ‘we,' sir?”

“Mr. Hewitt broached the matter to me.”

“And he is?”

“A gentleman often engaged in the Prince Regent's affairs.”

“This gentleman told you to look in the privy? It was kind of him to tell you your business. Did Mr. Hewitt give you any other…suggestions in regard to Lewis Durant, specifically at the time of the arrest?”

“He said Durant was a desperate a villain and might even fire into the crowd if cornered.”

“A desperate villain?” Buckler stood gazing with a puzzled expression at the defendant who waited, still and composed. Point taken: he did not look the part.

Buckler went on. “Which is why you fired on Durant without warning, though he was quickly apprehended with no weapon in his possession?”

“Yes.”

“Was anything in particular found in Lewis Durant's pockets when he was arrested? For example, was he carrying the promised Collatinus letter?”

“No, nothing, but I'm sure that was because—”

“Did you not find Mr. Hewitt's conduct strange? A gentleman involving himself in police affairs?”

Kirby bristled. “I did not. Everyone was eager to catch Collatinus.”

“Should not such instructions have come from your superiors? You didn't consider that?” Before Kirby could respond, Buckler added mildly, “Well, after all, perhaps you were a trifle distracted by the rewards at stake.”

He started to withdraw, then turned back, as if suddenly recalling a thought to mind. “One more thing, Mr. Kirby. Were there any witnesses to the finding of this mask and cloak?”

When the Runner just glared in impotent rage, Buckler offered him a polite smile. “Thank you. You may step down, sir.”

Penelope had seen the jurors exchanging worried glances, for they knew that the Runners had at times been suspected of entrapping criminals in order to obtain reward money for the convictions. Remembering that the jury was composed of freeborn Englishmen, she began to feel more hopeful.

And then John Chase entered the Old Bailey.

To the end of her life, Penelope was to remember this moment. There in that dark place that had seen so much suffering, so many desolate souls condemned to the gallows, her heart lifted to watch him stride toward the judges' bench, shepherding the porter under an authoritative hand. Chase had an air of easy confidence and a look of grim satisfaction that spoke of a job well done. Ducking his head, Peter Malone seemed anxious to avoid the crowd's eager scrutiny, but Chase hurried him forward.

Buckler came forward to meet them, and his hand went out to grasp his friend's in welcome. Jubilantly, he said, “Mr. Serjeant Quiller, it appears the missing witness has been found.” As he spoke, he looked up, seeking Penelope in the gallery, and smiled, a small, private smile closing out the rest of the world.

Caught up in this drama, Penelope forgot to keep her eye on Hewitt, but Hope Thorogood, sitting at her side, squeezed her arm in warning. Head down, the Prince's Man edged along the gallery. “Mr. Chase,” Penelope shouted. “Stop him! He's trying to get away.”

At the sound of her voice, Chase dropped the porter's arm and set off in pursuit.

***

He caught Ralph Hewitt at the door. Hearing Thorogood's heavy footfall behind him, Chase told the lawyer to stay back, but it was quickly apparent Hewitt had no intention to fight. He put up no resistance when Chase clapped a hand to his shoulder and wrestled his arms behind his back.

Thorogood spoke into the murderer's ashen face. “You'll go nowhere, sir. You are wanted to testify.”

Every person in the Old Bailey had observed this confrontation, and Hewitt seemed to shrink, as if trying to avoid the sea of eyes. He allowed himself to be conducted to the front, where Chase sat him down and stood guard over him. As Peter Malone spoke, Hewitt remained silent. The judges studied Chase curiously but seemed to have decided to permit matters to unfold without interference. The prosecution lawyers conducted low-voiced conversations with the exception of Latham Quiller, who waited like a statue in his red robe, fur-trimmed cloak, and white lawn coif. Quiller's look said he was prepared for anything.

With one part of his mind, Chase listened to the porter's testimony, but he was conscious of a restlessness, a feeling that something still eluded him. It was a nagging irritant, a thorn in his thoughts, until he noticed the cloak and mask, discarded on the lawyers' table after Kirby's testimony.

Chase bent to whisper in Thorogood's ear. “What's that?”

“The cloak and mask Kirby claimed he found in the privy. A shame that Buckler didn't get him to confess he put them there or Hewitt did. They don't matter now. They can't be used against Lewis if there never was a masked man.”

“You're wrong. They matter more than ever.”

No one, except Thorogood and perhaps Latham Quiller, paid Chase any heed as he walked over to spread out the folds of the black cloak. Made of broadcloth, lined with satin, and sporting several capes, the cloak had three buttonholes but only two flat buttons at the neck. Its material was slightly stiff in places, caked with unmentionable substances and probably also with dried blood. From his pocket, Chase withdrew a plain button covered in thick black cloth—a perfect match. He held it up to the cloak, smiling to himself. Watching him, Thorogood grinned too.

In the witness box Malone had finished his testimony. Buckler stepped forward to address the panel of judges, accompanied by a buzz of excited anticipation. “My lords, we have a fatal variance between the indictment and the proof. The prosecutors have undertaken to prove that Lewis Durant, in the guise of a masked man, stabbed Dryden Leach.” He paused. “But according to the testimony of Peter Malone, no such masked man was seen in the vicinity. On the contrary, the evidence suggests that the person most likely to have committed this crime is Mary Leach herself.”

Worthing nodded. “I am inclined to agree. Here is no evidence against the prisoner in the first felony count.”

Buckler gestured at Ralph Hewitt. “My lords, we have not yet got to the bottom of this matter. Peter Malone related the particulars of Mr. Leach's attack to Mr. Hewitt on the day after the stabbing. And yet Mr. Hewitt, who has connections in the Home Office and friends of the highest degree, appears to have shared this information with no one. Instead, he allowed the prosecution of Lewis Durant to go forward and, as we've heard, even intimated that Durant's life could well be dispensed with. We must hear from Mr. Hewitt.”

“My brother Quiller?” said Worthing.

Quiller raised an ironic eyebrow at Buckler.
Your move now
. “I have no objection,” he said. “Let Mr. Hewitt be sworn, and my learned friend may pose his questions.”

The tension in the court was palpable as Ralph Hewitt rose to his feet. His effort to maintain calm was a failure, Chase thought. He was not used to the glare of the public gaze—he had always worked in shadows. Sweat glistened on his broad forehead, and he raised his hand, a fleshy dead thing, to his forehead to dash away the moisture. There was a stiff, mechanical quality to his movement, as if he were propelled, unwillingly, by some inner voice instructing him to face all, dare all, and somehow come off the victor. As he walked haltingly by the journalists' table, Fred Gander waved his quill in greeting and gave him a cheeky grin. Hewitt closed his eyes briefly before mounting the witness box.

Chase took out Nell Durant's knife and handed it to Edward Buckler. When Buckler extended his palm to Hewitt, the spectators drew an audible breath. “Tell me about this knife, sir.”

Hewitt tried to look away, but the knife drew him inexorably. “It appears to be a pocketknife. What significance it holds for you, I cannot say.”

“The device on the knife—the three feathers atop a gold coronet. Would you identify it, please?”

“That is the badge of the Prince of Wales.”

“And the motto?”

“
Ich Dien
. I serve. It refers to the ruler's duty to serve his people.”

“In turn, you have loyally served the Prince of Wales these many years?”

“His Royal Highness has been good enough to favor me with his patronage, yes.” This he said with more confidence.

“Surely, His Royal Highness did not command you to bribe the porter Peter Malone?”

“No,” Hewitt answered in a low, strangled voice.

“Why did you so?”

“I thought the matter warranted discretion.”

“Because you feared what Mrs. Leach might reveal if she were accused of writing the Collatinus letters and attacking her husband? Because you feared she might denounce
you
as the murderer of her friend Nell Durant?”

Hewitt did not reply, and Buckler pressed on. “You do not recognize the knife? It was a present from the Prince to his inamorata, the mother of the prisoner, a woman murdered nearly twenty years ago. Do you remember her?”

“You know I do. Why bother to ask?”

“Your pardon, sir,” said Buckler conversationally. “Possibly you aren't aware that after Dryden Leach was stabbed, this knife was found in Mary Leach's possession? The lining of its case was stained with blood. I assume Mrs. Leach didn't have time to clean it properly before she restored it to its sleeve. I have a witness to testify to this fact.”

“That's nothing to do with me.”

“Mrs. Leach had kept this knife as a memento of her dead friend, a reminder that justice was denied. And I believe she used it to prevent her husband from selling Lewis Durant's identity to you, sir. The man responsible for negotiating with the newspapers on the Regent's behalf. Three days later she was dead.”

Here Mr. Justice Worthing intervened. “Mr. Buckler. You may impeach this witness to defend your client, and I confess I am strangely eager to hear this line of questioning. But I cannot permit you to cast aspersions on royalty.”

Buckler bowed. “I have no such intention, my lord.” Chase was at his side, whispering in his ear and slipping something in his hand—and a gleam of wonder dawned in the barrister's eyes. He faced the bench again. “Your pardon, my lords. If you will indulge me, I have a few more questions for this witness. We've heard about the mask and cloak supposedly tying Lewis Durant to these crimes. The person who put them in the privy would have assumed there was no reason for anyone to trace the garment to its real source.”

Here Buckler brandished the button for all to see. “Do you see this button torn from a gentleman's cloak, from a murderer's cloak, in fact?” He turned back to Hewitt. “What if we were to seek intelligence of your valet to help us identify the cloak, sir? After all, it falls to every respectable gentleman's gentleman to know his master's belongings. You may be sure we will seek such an affidavit.”

He picked up the cloak to hold the button in place. “Perhaps you had what must have seemed a clever notion, a way to kill two birds with one stone. We already know you had concealed Peter Malone's story. Did you then cause this cloak to be found where it would incriminate my client Lewis Durant? Did you thus rid yourself of incriminating evidence that pointed only to you? But where did you obtain the mask to go with your cloak?”

The Prince's Man was gripping the front of the box as if afraid of drowning. His shoulders were slumped; his perfectly styled hair had wilted over his collar; his eyes blazed with terror as he tried to hold himself straight. He started to choke out an answer to this question, but his voice caught in his throat and died.

Still Buckler's implacable voice went on. “Indeed, it must have seemed a clever scheme, though no doubt you see it now for the colossally stupid mistake it was. But perhaps we shouldn't judge, sir. After all, why should we link the cloak and mask to anyone but Lewis Durant? We believed in the masked man; we believed he was Collatinus; we were sure Durant was the culprit. And who would presume to question
you
? But if there was no masked man”—he prodded the cloak with one finger—“this garment belongs to someone else.”

He dropped his words into the hushed court, pointing toward John Chase. “Mr. Chase found this button at the bottom of a water trough in the underground cow-pen where Mary Leach was killed. Whoever owns this cloak is almost certainly her killer.”

Now Buckler's voice thickened with revulsion. “I have nothing further to ask you at present, Mr. Hewitt.”

***

The next day the newspapers reported that Ralph Hewitt was dead by his own hand. He went into his study, locked the door, and shot himself with Leach's missing pistol. Though he left no confession to his crimes, his valet confirmed Hewitt's ownership of the cloak. The news reports also informed the public that the murderer had returned home late on the night of Mary Leach's death, having told his man not to wait up for him. The article speculated that somehow he must have washed himself and disposed of the bloody water, but the next day the valet had noticed the missing cloak as well as a missing shirt. To silence him, Hewitt had told a tale of a nocturnal adventure with a prostitute who had stolen his clothing along with a favorite ring when he had unwisely fallen asleep in her bed.