Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

  “I’m right willing to take you there, Jimmie B.,” said I, “but I must first finish my charwoman duties.”

  “I can help,” said he.

  “It’ll go faster if you do.”

  And so together we finished the task, and together we hauled down two great buckets of ash and burnt coals, which we dumped in a deep hole dug in a corner of the yard for that purpose. After dusting off a bit, we were off to make our visit to Mr. Donnelly.

  I had not been to see him since his move to Drury Lane. Yet I knew the location well from earlier trips to fetch his predecessor, Dr. Amos Carr, at that location. It was not far to go. And once arrived, I noted that the new surgery had the undeniable advantage of placement in the ground floor; the windows of Mr. Donnelly’s waiting room looked out upon the street; a plaque upon the wall next the door announced his residence in the building.

  Within the waiting room three prospective patients sat —two women of middle age and an older man. There was naught that Bunkins and I could do but take our place among them. We had not long until Mr. Donnelly made his appearance. He came escorting a patient from his consulting room, a young woman of quality dressed for the street. Once he had sent her on her way with murmured words of encouragement, he turned to me with a questioning look and beckoned me to him.

  “Jeremy,” said he in a whisper, “what is the matter? Has Sir John sent you?”

  “No, he has not,” said I. Then I quickly explained the purpose of our visit in a tone of voice equally quiet. Bunkins, for his part, had risen from his seat upon a chair, yet hung back, hat in hand, waiting hopefully.

  “He is your friend?” asked Mr. Donnelly, having heard me out. “You vouch for his serious intent?”

  “Oh, I do. When first he looked upon the hideous thing, he told me that he believed he once had known him to whom it belonged, yet could not call him up exact from his memory.”

  “So many have come in off the street demanding to look upon it that I have begun turning away all but those whom I judge to be here for the true purpose of identification. The rest seem to wish some perverse thrill. But so long as you vouch for him …”

  Then did he wave Bunkins forward. “This will not take long,” he announced to those in the waiting room. “It is a court matter.”

  He led us through the door into the consulting room, which seemed to me to be grandly equipped with all manner of medical paraphernalia, then took us beyond into his private quarters, consisting of two good-sized rooms and a small kitchen. Into the kitchen we went. Mr. Donnelly produced a key, and with it he unlocked a cabinet. Reaching in with both hands, he pulled out a large and heavy glass jar and placed it carefully upon the counter below. He stepped back to reveal that which Bunkins had come to view.

  “There you are, young Mr… . Bunkins, is it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Have your look then. It is naught but how all would appear, were their heads separated from the rest of them.”

  “Yes sir,” repeated Bunkins, and he settled himself upon the counter to stare face-to-face, as it were, at the head which floated in the jar.

  I myself took not much more than a glance at it. More I would not have wished. The thing looked to me much as it had looked before, except that in the clear solution the hair attached to the scalp fanned out and floated free around the head in a kind of unholy halo.

  Mr. Donnelly seemed impressed by the intense concentration with which Bunkins studied the face in the jar. He saw no trace of a smirk upon his features, heard no sly remark or chuckle from him. This was to Jimmie B. a matter of the utmost seriousness. The surgeon was moved to be helpful.

  “You should think of the living face as narrower than what appears before you now,” said he. “The time spent in the sewer water, the process of decomposition, and the solution in which it is now suspended would all tend to loosen and thicken the features of the face.”

  “Is that gin it’s in now?” asked Bunkins.

  “No, a solution of pure alcohol. The nose, especially, would have been broadened, the cheeks loosened. The face you see now is distorted from the original.”

  Then did Bunkins shut his eyes and thus concentrate with the same intensity. And opening them, he stood and said with some degree of certainty, “Bradbury.”

  “You believe you know him? I should be very happy to bury this with the rest of his parts if they can be found. Oh, I would indeed.”

  “Well, I ain’t absolutely sure,” Bunkins replied. “But what you said about the face puffin’ up, like, gave me the clue. The top of his napper and around the eyes is like him I knew when I was out on the scamp.”

  “Pardon?” queried Mr. Donnelley with a blink of his eyes. “Scamp? I don’t quite understand.”

  “Thievin’,” said Bunkins, “which was my trade in my younger days. I was a proper village hustler. When you said I should think of the cod as thinner, I thought of him so, and out come Bradbury. He had a pawnshop on Bedford, and he would take naught but ticks and rings and such. Very particular he was.”

  “Stolen goods?”

  “Oh, he weren’t particular about that. He was a proper fence. Every scamp and dip in London knew him.”

  “You’re sure about this, then? This is a positive identification?”

  “Well, now, I don’t know about that. Positive means sure certain, don’t it, Jeremy?”

  “Sure beyond a doubt,” said I.

  “Well, maybe I ain’t that sure. The thing is, I seen him on the street not so long ago. He was healthy enough then.”

  “How long ago, Jimmie B.?” I asked a bit breathlessly.

  “I’m tryin’ to think —a month, maybe more. How long’s he been like this, Mr. Donnelly, sir?”

  “It’s difficult to be exact, but judging from the degree of decomposition, probably about a week.”

  “There, see? Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “Well,” said the surgeon, lifting the heavy jar and replacing it in the cabinet, “let us place it, then, at a strong suspicion as to the identity of this poor fellow. That, I should think, would be sufficient to report to Sir John, wouldn’t you say so, Jeremy?”

  “I would indeed,” said I.

  He locked the cabinet, pocketed the key, and said, “Now I must attend to my patients. It would not do to keep them waiting long.”

  With that, he led us back the way we had come. Yet in the waiting room as Bunkins stepped out into the hall, Mr. Donnelly held me back long enough to say, “I’m much intrigued by your friend. You must tell me about him when next we meet.”

  Bunkins said nothing until we reached the street. Then did he turn to me and mutter, “I don’t think we should go to your cove just yet, chum.”

  “You don’t? But why not?”

  “Well, I’d feel right foolish if the cod was still alive, walkin’ the street and tendin’ his shop.”

  “I see what you mean. Well, what do you propose?”

  “Simple enough. We go to his shop, and if he comes out, we’ll know it ain’t him floatin’ in that jar. I tell him I was just passin’ by and thought I’d. inquire how he was gettin’ on. I gives him a shake and a wink, and we shove our trunk right on out of there.”

  “And if he isn’t about?”

  “Then …” He paused. “Then we’ll see.”

  “That sounds like a reasonable course of action,” said I, “and it shouldn’t take long. I’m for it.”

  So off we went to Bedford Street — down Long Acre and James Street, cutting the corner of Covent Garden; it was not a long walk, and Bunkins did amuse me as we went by telling tales of his thieving days and particularly of his dealings with Mr. Bradbury. It seemed he only -went to him when he was eager to rid himself quickly of stolen goods —“when the hornies was hot after me,” he explained. “Reason was ol’ Bradbury was a skinflint. He would rather lose a finger than pay an honest thief a fair price.”

  “In the end he may have lost his head for it.”

  “Now that’s a possibilit
y, ain’t it? There’s highway scamps wouldn’t stop at such if they thought they’d been cheated. But there’s so many dips and hustlers workin’ in Covent Garden they’d keep him well supplied, most of them too lazy to take a tramp to Field Lane, where there’s so many pawnshops which are, truth to tell, just fences.”

  “And they paid better?”

  “Oh,” said Bunkins, playing the expert in such matters, “ever so much better. See, each one on that street is playin’ against the rest. If you don’t like the price you’re offered, you go on to the next and get a better one. I been out of the game quite some time, but I’m sure it’s the same now there up on Field Lane.”

  “Do they never get caught?”

  “Some do, but not often do they get crapped for it. Judges seem to look kinder on commerce than out-and-out thievin’. And the fence can always say, ‘I never had no idea these goods was stolen. The fellow brought them in said they were his own. I wrote them out a pawn ticket and all.’ He can say that, see, and there’s none who can prove different.”

  With that, my mind did go to that wad of pawn tickets I had found among the belongings of Thomas Roundtree.

  Bunkins continued: “I remember ol’ Bradbury never let me leave without a pawn ticket. Once I ran all the way to that shop of his on Bedford with a proper gold tick I’d lifted. I thought him I’d taken it from was right behind me. Bradbury gave me no more than a shilling for it, but he grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go till he’d writ out the ticket. He slapped it in my hand and made me take it. See, if you get caught, such is evidence against you.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What did I do? I ate the ticket.”

  I laughed in surprise at his ready answer. Yet I wanted confirmed what I hoped and suspected. “So no true thief would hold on to pawn tickets for stolen goods. They would be, as you say, incriminating.”

  “Oh no, you wouldn’t keep ‘em. No point to it unless you mean to buy the goods back.”

  At that I felt relief. I had, because of his daughter and their hapless situation, come round to some degree of sympathy for Roundtree; I no longer wished to think the worst of him.

  Thus came we, Bunkins and I, to Bedford Street and to a dingy, dusty little shop which I had passed many times before without notice. Its windows were so dirty that one could bare see inside; but putting my face up close, I made out an assortment of musical instruments hanging from a rack, as well as a clock or two propped upon a shelf, and in the center of the display a delicate china figurine of a shepherdess which appeared to be of some worth. There were more goods within the shop proper, yet I saw no human form or movement in the dark interior.

  I turned to Bunkins, who stood beside me at the shopwindow. “It seems to be closed,” said I. “It’s dark inside, and I see no one about.”

  “It ain’t closed,” said he. “They live up above the shop, as all shopkeepers do. Ol’ Bradbury keeps the place dark because he’s such a skinflint, won’t keep a lamp or even a candle burnin’ unless there’s a need. We go inside, somebody 11 be out before you know it. Mark me on that.”

  “All right then, let’s go inside.”

  “Awright, but just you let me do the talkin’, clear? If I want to hear from you, then you back me up in what I say. You got that?”

  I gave him an emphatic nod, more than willing to leave such discussion to him.

  “And one more thing,” said Bunkins. “Try to look like a thief.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Well, your clothes is awright — right dusty after cleaning that fireplace. But look kind of skulky, if you get my meaning. Don’t hold your head so high. Don’t look nobody straight in the eye.”

  I hunched my shoulders, lowered my head, and thrust my hands in my pockets. “Will this pass?”

  He took a moment to give me an inspection. “It’ll do. Come on, then. Let’s inside.”

  And into the pawnshop we went. He led; I followed. A bell jingled above us as we entered. And responding to that signal, a heavy curtain was thrown back, and a woman entered the shop proper from its rear. She carried a single lit candle in a silver candleholder that must once have cost some lord or knight a pretty penny. She was young, in her twenties, and attractive in a lithesome sort of way. Richly dressed was she; what she wore was less a frock than a gown, yet it seemed to hang loose upon her in a number ol places. Her face was fixed in a rather haughty smile, the sort that must indeed have been practiced before a looking glass. In her own way, she was playing the grand lady. But then did she open her mouth and greet us, and in a trice the ladylike illusion had vanished.

  “Wot kin I do fer you two young gents?” Her voice was like a crow’s, at once squawking and shrill. The only human voice I had ever heard make such a sound was that of our departed cook, Mrs. Grudge.

  “We come to see the cove of the ken,” said Bunkins in a most authoritative manner.

  “He ain’t available to you, so you must talk to me.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “Who might be?” I am his lawful wife is who — Missus Bradbury, and I’ll thank you to address me as such, I will.”

  She was all ruffled and indignant, as if some great insult had been done to her. As she pouted for a moment in the gloomy room, I glanced round me at its crowded contents. There were a great many clocks about, large and small, tucked into corners and up on shelves. I saw a rack of grand dresses and gowns, some of them quite old-fashioned, an open clothing box from which one might grab what was needed, pieces of furniture of all quality and description—and so on. Upon the counter was a showcase, no doubt locked, containing a great many watches, rings, and odd bits of jewelry. The jumble and amount of goods was such that there seemed little room for the three of us in the place.

  “Awright, then, Mrs. Bradbury,” said Bunkins, in no wise more respectful than before, “at one time we done quite a lot of business with your husband of a particular kind, if you get my meaning. But we been out of the game for a couple of years now, and I come back to find that George Bradbury got himself married. Well, you can suppose our shock. Ain’t that so, Jemmy?”

  “Right so,” said I, “ain’t what we expected.”

  “Twoyears gone, is it?” she replied. “Prob’ly spent on Duncan Campbell’s Floating Academy or I miss my guess.”

  (She referred, reader, to the hulk, Jiutitia, which floats at Woolwich and served as a prison ship at that time; Duncan Campbell was its governor.)

  “You may guess what you like,” said Bunkins, all bluff and tough, “but we’re shy to do our business with any but your husband, since it’s him we dealt with in the past.”

  “He left me in proper charge to do all business for him —even your kind.”

  “Our kind? Listen to her, Jemmy. Ain’t she got a queer tongue on her?”

  “I never heard the like,” said I.

  “And what kind might our business be, Mrs. B.?” You’re as rum a pair of scamps as ever I seen.”

  “Just supposin’ you’re not too far off the mark—just supposin’, mind. Well, it might be that a pair of scamps such as you take us for might learn a new knuckle trade at the Academy, might learn burglarin’ f’r instance. With such we’re no longer dealin’ in ticks and rings, but in roomsful of the best. So the question is, could you take a wagonload? Them up in Field Lane could, I’ve no doubt of it.”

  “You got the wagonload now?” she asked, leaning forward eagerly. All but licking her chaps she was. “I’ll give you a better price than them on Field Lane. I’ll give you a better price than George ever would.”

  Then did Bunkins quite literally back away, bumping into me who was behind him in his movement. “That’s as may be,” said he, “but still I’d feel easier dealin’ with him. Where is the old cod? When’ll he be back?”

  She sighed, principally, it seemed, from exasperation. “When’ll he be back?” said she. “Well, that ain’t easy to say. He was called back to Warwick, for his father was near to death. Th
at was over two weeks past. Just yesterday I received a letter from him sayin’ that his father was takin’ a turn somewhat for the better but was still in danger of death, so that he could not but stay on longer. How long, he could not say. In the meantime, said he” — and here her voice rose to an imperious shrillness — “I was to go on conducting business in the manner he had taught me, for he had all faith in my good sense and judgment.”

  “His father?” queried Bunkins. “How old must he be? George is near sixty, ain’t he?”

  “Sixty-one to be exact, and his father’s fourscore years and something. It ain’t rare for a man to live long outside London. He’s got property. Set George up in business here, he did.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s right with him, should be right with me. Tell you what, I’ll visit, or Jemmy will, and tip you when we be comin’ by. It’ll be long past midnight, sure.”

  “Just tell me the when of it, and there’ll be a man or two to help you unload. You can pull around the back where you’ll not be seen by the hornies.”

  “Fair enough, but Mrs. Bradbury, I warn you, if you cut us on the price, we’ll load up again and be off to Field Lane.”

  “Have no fear of it, chum. You’ll come away with a smile on your mug.”

  With that, and without goodbye, we did leave her. Outside, in Bedford Street, Bunkins said naught till we were well away from the pawnshop. Indeed he may have kept silent longer, for it was I spoke first.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking, Jimmie B.”

  “I’m thinkin’ she murdered him,” he whispered.

  “Truly? She told a good story, and she’s a mite small to do the deed herself.”

  We rounded the corner onto Maiden Lane, and he pulled me into a recessed doorway, where we might talk without fear of a listener. I had never known him to be quite so cautious before. It was a mark of the seriousness with which he took the matter. Only then did he speak, and then not much above a whisper.