Since that cursed paragraph’s appearance, Edward Buckler had read it at least twenty times, and every time he discerned new shades of meaning, possibly even beyond the author’s sly intention. Finally, on the second morning after Gander’s public blast, Buckler decided that honor demanded he explain his conduct to Jeremy Wolfe, so after picking at his breakfast and dressing himself with unusual care, he took himself off to Greek Street. Buckler gave his name to the manservant and asked to speak to Wolfe, but as the servant opened his mouth to reply, the artist himself appeared, carrying several draping cloths over one arm.
“Mr. Edward Buckler to see you,” said the servant.
The two men measured each other in the gloom. Outside, the day was blustery and cold, and very little light had penetrated the paneled entrance passage lit by a single wall sconce. After an awkward pause, Wolfe smiled and extended his hand. “Are you here to see my wife? She’s gone out to do some shopping.”
“Can you spare a few minutes, sir? I would like to see Mrs. Wolfe but had hoped to speak to you first.”
The artist bowed. “Certainly. Step upstairs, and I’ll show you my gallery. I am arranging a private showing. A friend comes later today to see one of my portraits.” He glanced at the manservant. “Bring Madeira.”
Wolfe led the way up the stairs to a large chamber at the front of the house that had once been a drawing room. Plaster busts of Greeks and Romans on pedestals overlooked the riot of color that was Wolfe’s collection of portraits, placed high and low on the walls with some propped on easels. Other canvases leaned in a corner along with some stretching frames. But Buckler’s attention was pulled irresistibly toward the painting hung over the chimney. He went to stand before it.
“You show good taste, Mr. Buckler. My Psyche, my most recent effort, my masterpiece. What do you think of it?”
“A work of genius.” Buckler did not trust himself to say more, for he was gazing at Penelope with all his eyes and was afraid to think what he might reveal. Even if he did not find this man’s wife impossibly beautiful, he would have admired the work. This surprised him. He was accustomed to deeming Jeremy Wolfe an utter failure of a man, an irresponsible, buffle-headed fop.
The artist looked complacent. “I agree with you, of course. I wish I had the means to tear out this hideous yellow wallpaper. It clashes. But that is not to be. Perhaps my Psyche will soon gain a setting more worthy of it.”
“You won’t sell it?” Buckler had spoken too quickly.
“Not exactly. As you are an old friend of my wife’s, I don’t mind owning that our affairs are in a bit of a tangle. But I have a friend willing to make me a substantial loan with Psyche as collateral. A decent sort, my friend. He will keep the portrait for me until I can redeem it.”
Buckler was saved from having to reply by the servant entering with the wine decanter and two glasses on a tray, which he set down on the three-legged table under the window after removing some gallipots of color. After the man had poured out, Wolfe dismissed him. Seating themselves in two hard chairs, they sipped in silence a minute or two. Buckler had met Jeremy Wolfe once before in Newgate Prison, but, oddly enough, Penelope’s husband had displayed a good deal more lighthearted flippancy on that occasion. This time he seemed rather subdued.
“I wanted to speak to you about the paragraph in the newspaper,” said Buckler. “I was afraid you might have the wrong idea.”
Wolfe grinned. “Do you intend to satisfy my honor, sir?”
“If you mean we should meet each other with pistols at dawn, no, I hadn’t thought of it.”
“I’ve no intention of calling you out even though Penelope is terribly cut up about the matter.”
“I’m not surprised. I only wish there was something I could do. But perhaps Fred Gander has expended his malice and will leave her alone in future. I’d see the man myself if I didn’t think I’d only make matters worse.”
“There is something you can do for me, Buckler. You can stand my wife’s friend whenever she might need you. Even if just to advise her. We both know—” Wolfe broke off to take a long pull of his wine, still gazing at Psyche, as if the portrait could give him the answers to his problems. Then he put down the glass and picked up a hog’s-hair brush lying on the table. He inspected it, keeping his face averted. “Never mind. Will you do it?”
“I’m not sure I understand you.” Buckler felt acutely uncomfortable.
“I’ll ask you to keep this conversation to yourself. You know Penelope’s written to the Great Man to ask about Collatinus? The thing is, she can’t depend on him. He’s just as likely to take her to task for getting herself in trouble.”
“You don’t get on with your father-in-law?”
“I wasn’t good enough for his daughter. Well, that’s the only thing he ever said I agree with. I took her away from him, and he never forgave me. You see, he had made her childhood a misery. He forced her to spend every waking moment in study and improving activities—never a bit of understanding, never any praise for her efforts, never any…love. It’s no wonder she wanted to get away. And he worried her mother into an early grave.”
“He was unkind to his wife?”
“Not openly from what Penelope has told me, but he let her know in a thousand small ways that he held her in contempt. She was a simple woman, daughter of a Sicilian shopkeeper. She’d been educated, but, of course, she couldn’t hold her own with Sandford.”
“A sad story.”
“Quite. Now he’s got Penelope involved in this Collatinus business.”
“Do you think Sandford capable of murder?”
Jeremy Wolfe frowned. “It’s possible. In a fit of passion or temper, not otherwise. I suppose any man is capable of murder under the right circumstances.” He tossed the brush aside and looked Buckler full in the face. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“I will always stand her friend, Wolfe. You can rely on me.”
***
The sound of church bells drifted on the wind, louder and softer and louder again. Rain fell from the sky, soaking the black silk mantilla that covered Penelope’s head and shoulders. No one paid her any attention—the veil rendered her invisible. Years before, in Sicily, her mother had worn it to church in token of her submission to God, and on the day of her funeral, the nurse had wrapped it around Penelope and led her to the same church to say good-bye. Later she always associated that day with the odor of incense and antiquity and with a terrible fear she could not assuage.
Today she had worn the mantilla as a gesture of respect for the dead and for another reason too. From her window this morning, she’d seen the watchers lurking outside, two of them, ordinary men in heavy overcoats and hats that shadowed their faces. They weren’t the journalists strutting around as if the city belonged to them; these were men who moved furtively and slouched in doorways. But she had fooled them. Using her mother’s mantilla to shield her face, she had gone up the area stairs and slipped past them without being identified. They had likely thought her a kitchen maid.
Now Penelope stood on the pavement, waiting. She could smell damp wool, horse excrement, and a hint of rosemary from the bunch the old woman next to her clutched in her hand. After a while the woman called out “It’s coming!” and brandished the bunch of rosemary in her fist. Two mutes appeared, their countenances suitably somber; they wore black sashes and carried crepe-covered wands. Holding their own staffs, pages in black suits and gloves followed. The pages showed far less decorum, laughing and shouting vulgar remarks to the crowd, some of them obviously inebriated. Penelope saw one of them take a long swig from a flask stored in his coat pocket and stumble on after his fellows. But the old woman didn’t seem to have noticed. She looked at Penelope, wrinkled her face in glee, and pointed at the hearse, driven by six perfectly matched blacked horses, all with ostrich feather headdresses gleaming with moisture and drooping in the damp air. Bearers accompanied it, pacing slowly as they lifted the corners of the black velvet silk pall draped over the two coffins. Dryden and Mary Leach, bound together in death and soon to rest in a burial vault.
The people around Penelope were all intent on the procession, and one or two were crying, their tears mingling with the rain. The papers had reported that the outpouring of grief for Mary continued, with crowds gathering in Adelphi Terrace where the bodies had lain in a room lit by innumerable wax candles burning night and day. Mary was the gentle wife, the angel, ripped from her home and children by unimaginable evil. No one knew she had likely stabbed her own husband.
Who had killed Mary? Penelope’s own father had admitted to being the long-ago Collatinus. He might have murdered Nell Durant, but he certainly hadn’t killed Dryden Leach or his wife. Though Penelope had no evidence to support her theory, she felt instinctively that the same person had murdered both women. He could be a part of this crowd, watching this funeral procession. He could even be one of the mourners riding in the line of coaches. The blinds of these vehicles were drawn.
She watched as the last of the coaches rumbled through Temple Bar, the narrow, blackened gateway serving as the boundary between Westminster and the City. The cortege would proceed down Fleet Street to its destination at St. Bride’s, where the funeral service and burial would take place. But Penelope would not be there to see. She waited until the crowd had thinned, then melted into the current of pedestrians, walking with her head down, the cold seeping through her half-boots, probably spoiled by this excursion.
She was almost home when she came upon an urchin hawking copies of a newspaper. He wore a tattered livery with trousers short enough to display ankles like ghostly twigs. He looked cold and miserable, but he blew his postman’s horn with vigor. “Collatinus is back!” he was shouting at the top of his high, clear voice. “See for yourself. He’s written another letter!”
With chilled fingers, Penelope groped to find a coin in her reticule, and a moment later she had the paper in her hand. She rushed away, eager to gain the privacy of her sitting room. She quite forgot about the watchers, only remembering them when she was taking out her key for the front door. Now she saw an agent on the opposite side of the street strolling by. He flicked a glance at her but kept going. In her anxiety Penelope fumbled at the lock but finally got the door open and stepped into the hall to find her husband with Edward Buckler. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and she shot the bolt home. Removing her veil, she smoothed her hands over the wet silk, not looking at either man.
Jeremy came forward to help her with her pelisse. “How was your shopping, my dear? Rather a dismal day, isn’t it?”
Buckler stared at the newspaper tucked under her arm and said nothing.