Die I Will Not by S. K. Rizzolo

saw he had lost his fare, he merely picked up the ribbons and set his horses in motion as soon as a break in the traffic allowed.
    As they moved down the pavement, Chase’s senses were alive to every detail of the familiar scene: shoppers flowing in and out of the cutlers, wax-chandlers, hatters, bookstalls, mapmakers, tobacconists, and tailors that lined the street. A man wearing a signboard that advertised a lotion for loose teeth stumped by, and a street hawker selling oysters struggled to be heard over the din. But, after a minute or two, Chase noted that they had picked up another interested party. This was a man in a brown felt hat, who had been standing outside the newspaper office when they emerged. The fellow had carefully kept his face turned in the other direction, apparently absorbed in reading a bill pasted to the wall, but Chase had felt the watchful attention on his back during their brief flirtation with the hackney. Observing that the man in the brown felt hat slouched down the street in their wake, he cursed under his breath.
    To test his theory, he led Penelope out of the stream of pedestrians over to the window of a pastry cook. When she opened her mouth to question him, he gripped her arm in warning, feeling her give a little start of surprise, but she followed him obediently enough, even showing the good sense not to glance over her shoulder. Behind them, the man in the brown felt paused to examine another shop window.
    While Chase pretended to ogle the tarts, pies, and jellies on the other side of the glass, he fumbled at his purse to make sure he had his money ready. “There’s a man following us. We’ll move again in a moment and nip round the corner to the stand.”
    Her nod was a barely perceptible inclination of her head, the stiffness in her posture betraying apprehension. Giving her arm a reassuring squeeze, he guided her back into the line of pedestrians, and they set a rapid pace, weaving in and out of the passersby, several of whom erupted in protests at their rudeness. As Chase and Penelope made an abrupt right turn, the coach-stand came into view. Three hackney coaches were drawn up awaiting custom, and the waterman sat on a barrel at the curbstone next to the pump used to supply the horses. Confound it, thought Chase, there would have to be more than one coach available.
    The waterman leaped to his feet. “Where to, sir?” He motioned to the conveyance at the head of the line. The box was empty, the jarvey having gone inside the pub to grab a pint while he waited. The driver of the second coach in line looked up indifferently and went on polishing a panel of his vehicle with a filthy cloth.
    â€œGreek Street.” Chase slipped a large tip in the waterman’s hand and leaned closer to whisper in his ear, simultaneously showing his Bow Street baton. The waterman brightened. “Yes, sir! Never fear. I’ll attend to it.” Turning his head, he bellowed for the driver of the first coach, who stepped out of the taproom and mounted the box. The waterman opened the door of the coach and touched his hat politely to Penelope; the driver set his horses in motion, and they rattled off.
    When they had gone a short distance, Penelope said, “What did you tell him?”
    The side-glass was too small for Chase to get his entire head out, but he caught a glimpse of the man in the brown felt hat jumping into the second coach. The driver seemed to be finding it difficult to get his restive horses under control. As loud execrations followed them down the street, audible even over the cacophony of carriage wheels and voices, he leaned back, satisfied. “The jarvey will take our friend on a pleasant detour.”
    Penelope’s eyes gleamed with admiration. “An immensely clever trick, Mr. Chase. But who on earth was the man, and why should he follow us?”
    He waved away her praise, absorbed in an attempt to assemble the facts as he knew them. They