Die I Will Not by S. K. Rizzolo Page A

necessary. Why is she in need of charity?” After some years as Mrs. Beeks’ only lodger, he was jealous of his hard-won peace and privacy—such as it was for the resident of a district filled with gin shops, coffee-rooms, and brothels that never slept. But in reply, Mrs. Beeks had only shaken her head and lumbered off to her kitchen in the nether regions.
    Again today after breakfast, Chase encountered the young woman in the entrance hall. Dressed in the same faded gown and bonnet she’d worn the last time he saw her, she carried a large box and was on the point of going out.
    Chase moved to open the front door for her. “Good morning, Miss Fakenham.”
    His reward was a freezing glare accompanied by a disdainful elevation of her chin. Without returning his greeting, she swept out the door and walked away without a backward glance.
    Leo Beeks, observing the exchange, spoke from behind him. “Your courtesy is wasted on her, sir. She doesn’t like anyone.” He sounded aggrieved, and Chase, amused, thought the seamstress must have rebuffed his puppy overtures of friendship.
    â€œCourtesy hurts no one, Leo.”
    The boy gazed up at him out of fearless, deceptively angelic blue eyes that missed nothing. “Yes, sir,” he said a little scornfully. Then, moving on to more important matters, he added, “Any word from Jonathan?”
    Inwardly, Chase groaned. He had made the mistake of telling Leo about his son in America and as a result had to endure persistent questioning about his correspondence. Mrs. Beeks would not thank him if he told her son about Jonathan having joined a privateer, for such news would only fire the boy with renewed determination to seek his own fortune at sea. But his landlady had other ambitions in view for both her sons: William with the scholarly bent to become a secretary or a tutor, Leo to be safely apprenticed in some worthy trade as a printer or an apothecary’s assistant. At least Leo had stopped talking about becoming a Runner, to Chase’s great relief.
    â€œNo word since the last time you inquired.” Chase nodded in dismissal.
    Retrieving his hat and coat, he walked from his lodgings in King Street through Covent Garden Market to the public office. Though the air remained chill, a stiff breeze had blown away the clouds. He felt the occasional twinge in his bad knee, but he was reasonably whole and rested. With the ease of long practice, he weaved through the market, avoiding the refuse, animal droppings, cabbage leaves, and general muck that littered the pavement, barely registering the raucous cries of the aproned stall-keepers as they strove to attract customers.
    After fetching his prisoner from the basement cell at the Brown Bear, Chase marched him across the street to join the assorted thieves and vagrants waiting a turn for their committal hearing. In the airless, grimy courtroom, Chase and Farley lounged at a table in the well below the magistrate’s bench along with the clerks and shorthand reporters. On the opposite wall was the elevated dock where each prisoner would face the magistrate. Adkins and a new Runner called Victor Kirby, who had recently been promoted from conductor of the patrol, guarded the prisoners.
    Farley spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Word is Kirby’s been summoned to Great Marlborough Street.” This was the location of one of the other public offices.
    â€œFor what purpose?”
    â€œMagistrate there wants to pull him into a delicate inquiry. Instructions from on high. They say it’s something to do with the Princess of Wales. I reckon they’re after more dirt, if they can find it.”
    Chase’s professional pride stirred. “Why Kirby? He was a good patrolman, but he’s too green a principal officer as yet.”
    â€œMaybe that’s the point,” said Farley shrewdly. “No time to have formed his loyalties among us. He’ll keep it