I took the permission given as an invitation and picked it up from his writing desk. Mr. Donnelly wrote a rather florid hand, full of decorative curls and flourishes. The content of it, too, seemed rather florid. He stressed the fortunate coincidence which had brought him together with Dr. Isaac Diller at the unlortunate death of Lady Laningham. Describing how these two men of medicine had compared observations on the deaths, but eight days apart, ol Lord and Lady Laningham, he declared that they had discovered a number of startling similarities. Rather subtly, he gave all credit to the senior medico and suggested that the matters he had raised prompted him, Mr. Donnelly, to urge that an autopsy be performed upon the corpus of the late Lady Laningham. He knew it might indeed be considered an extreme request by Mr. Trezavant, yet since he had been led to it by so eminent a physician as Dr. Isaac Diller, he felt it only right to make it.
There the letter ended. I replaced it upon the writing desk. Mr. Donnelly noted my action in his mirror. He turned and gave me a sharp look.
“Well, then, Jeremy, what do you think of it?
“A good letter,” said I. “There is much honey in it. I believe you shall catch your fly.”
“What … I …” Then he laughed. “Ah yes, of course, honey and vinegar. Surprised you remembered that. But it’s true, don’t you think?”
“Mr. Donnelly, I’ve not had enough experience of the world to know.” He always seemed to overestimate me in such ways.
“Ah, well,” said he, “no matter. Do you believe it needs something more — a closing paragraph in summary or some such?”
“No, I believe it to be fine just as it is. You must have worked long and hard on it to create such phrases.”
“Not a bit of it. They come to me quite natural. The Irish call it ‘blarney,’ and I’ve a good store of it. In point of fact, Jeremy, I’ve been up for hours, even been to the chemist with those paltry samples of m’lady’s vomit. There, by the bye, I received a bit of a disappointment.”
“They were insufficient for any sort of test, as you assumed?” said I.
“Nay, more. I learned to my surprise that there is no known test for separating and identifying the poison I most strongly suspect was employed in both instances.”
“And what was that, sir?”
“Arsenic, Jeremy—common enough, has all manner of uses.”
“Among them,” said I, remembering what I had learned from Mr. Bilbo, “poisoning rats.”
“Ah! You know that, do you? Quite right you are —and with the right dosage it can be just as effective when used upon men and women.”
“Does that mean, sir, that an autopsy would be of no use?”
“Certainly not. Arsenic and other strong poisons, as well, leave their tracks in the body. It will be up to us to find them.”
That was said in such a way that it seemed to beg clarification.
“Uh, sir?” said I. “Will you require help?” I was eager to provide assistance if such be needed.
He had by then done with his shaving and was toweling patches of lather from his face. He looked at me sharply, as if he had perceived the purpose of my question. “Will I require help? No, let us say, rather, that I have had it thrust upon me. In winning the help of that fellow Diller, I left the way open for him to take part in the autopsy. He is eager for the chance.”
“Then he will no doubt do all he can to see that the autopsy takes place.”
“And I must do no less,” said Mr. Donnelly, going to his desk. “Here, I shall sign this thing so you may take it away.” He took up the quill, dipped it, then paused a moment in thought. “How does one end such a lickspittling letter as this one?”
‘ ‘Your humble and obedient servant,’ I suppose,” said I. It was the line chosen most often by Sir John to conclude his letters. “Such forms mean little.”
“Yes, that should do. Though in truth, as I glance now at some of the phrases, they seem more to have been authored by some educated slave, rather than a servant, much less a doctor of medicine,” said he. Then, with a sigh —“Ah, well” —he bent to his task, dashed off some phrase in conclusion, and signed his name. “All in a good cause.”
So it was that I took the letter sealed and addressed to Mr. Trezavant back to Number 4 Bow Street. There I discovered that in my absence the promised missive from Dr. Diller had arrived by messenger. I was instructed by Sir John to deliver all three letters to the coroner and wait for a reply.
Arthur, the respectful butler, greeted me at the door of the grand house in Little Jermyn Street, bade me wait just inside the door, then set off up the long hall to communicate my arrival to his master. It took no more than a pair of minutes for him to return and invite me to follow him. When ushered into that same room in which I had earlier met Mr. Trezavant, I found another man present, a gnarled, gnomish sort of old fellow. He was seated behind the large desk next Mr. Trezavant. The two men seemed to have been occupied in the examination of a great pile of ledgers. The old gentleman offered me an annoyed stare, no more. Mr. Trezavant, the very soul of formality, struggled out of his chair. Erect, he seemed near as wide as the desk.
“I presume you have a letter for me, young man.”
“In fact, sir, I have three.”
Having said that, I offered them to him. He took them and continued to hold them out, weighing them in his hand, more or less.
“Three, is it? And what do these letters concern? I take it you must know, since you took them in dictation.”
“Only one of them, sir, and that be the one from Sir John Fielding. The other two are from your medical advisor, Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, and Dr. Isaac Diller of St. James Square. I am certain that Sir John’s letter and Dr. Diller’s have to do with the death of Lady Laningham the evening past. As for Mr. Donnelly’s, I think it likely that that, too, is its subject.” Then said I, lying most glibly, “Of that, however, I cannot be sure, for it is addressed to you and sealed, and I did not see its contents.”
“I did not know Lady Laningham was ill,” said Mr. Trezavant.
“She died very suddenly, sir. There is some question as to what caused her death.”
“Is this, then, another request for an autopsy, so called?”
“It is, sir,” said I. “Sir John has instructed me to wait for a reply.”
“Well, in this instance, young man, I must disappoint you and your master. As you can see, I am deep in matters of business here. Sir John shall have his reply —written, if it must be so —before the end of the day. There are three letters to read, consideration to be given, and perhaps advice to be sought. Rest assured, however, that I shall not take lightly any cause to which Dr. Diller has lent his name and his energies.”
I stood awkwardly, wondering what I was to do. I was hardly in a position to insist, yet thought perhaps he might yet be persuaded were he to know more of the facts.
“You . . -you … should know, sir,” I stammered forth, “that Dr. Diller was in attendance at the time of her death.”
“All the more reason to give the matter close consideration,” said he calmly. “Good day to you, young man. Arthur? Show him out with our good wishes.”
The butler, who on this occasion had not absented himself from the room, opened the door behind me. I had no choice but to bow and wish Mr. Trezavant a good day in return. Even quicker than we had come, the butler and I paced the distance down the hall to the front door. It was opened for me, and through that portal I exited.
“Good wishes to you, young sir!” the butler called after me.
Yet I, sulking a bit, gave him nothing in return, not even a wave. I felt ill used. While on my previous visit I had been treated with excessive courtesy, on this occasion I had received it in the minimum. Much later I discovered that the old man who seemed resentful of my intrusion was Mr. Trezavant’s partner in business. Whenever he was present, I would be treated similarly.
There was naught to do but tell Sir John that I had failed to coax a reply from Mr. Trezavant. Yet he took
it lightly and seemed satisfied with the promise that he would have a reply before the day was out. Having nothing more for me to attend to, he bade me go up and study the Instituted of the Law of England, if that were my wish — and indeed it was my wish.
What he had told me was true. The great work was indeed well written. Sir Edward Coke’s sentences marched across the page in stately, though somewhat archaic fashion. Yet the matter with which they dealt was often so complex that it challenged my understanding. I had made it my habit to read through it very slowly, noting passages on a sheet of paper to which I might return for further study. Thus in near a month I had penetrated no more than fifty pages into the first of the four volumes. Yet I was determined that nothing should dissuade me from my task, nor from my ambition, which was the law.
Thus I read and reread through the rest of the morning, a session of study that lasted two hours or near three. It ended with Annie’s arrival from her schooling with Mr. Burnham. It was her habit to offer me an enthusiastic report on all that she had learned that day —and in truth she seemed to be learning quickly and well under his tutelage. And so, as I heard her footsteps upon the stairs I reluctantly marked my place in the book and closed it. She came bursting through the door in her usual manner, her cheeks aglow from the chill January wind, and dropped her books — Shakespeare and a primer — upon the kitchen table.
“Well,” said I to her, “what have you to tell?”
“Oh, much,” said she, “but that can wait. Jimmie B. walked the way here with me. He waits below in the street.”
“In the street? Why did he not come up with you?”
“A good question. I did what I could to persuade him, but he would have none of it.”
“Ah, what does it matter?” said I, grabbing my hat. “I shall see what it is brought him here.”
“He says it’s important.”
Then down the stairs and out the door I went to Bow Street. There Bunk-ins waited, leaning against a streetlamp, hands thrust deep into his pockets, his coat collar turned up about his muffler. In short, he appeared quite uncomfortably cold.
“Hullo, Jimmie B., what have you for me?”
“I’ve a surprise should give you a rise.”
“Indeed I can’t wait till I’m told, but come in, come in, out of the cold.” I beckoned toward the door.
Yet Bunkins shook his head. “Nah,” said he, “let’s take a walk and have our talk.”
Unable to think of proper rhymes to express myself, I burst out in frustrated prose: “Jimmie B., why is it you will seldom come up and visit? What have you against our little home?” Then I added, “Ain’t it grand enough for you? “—which I knew was not true.
“It ain’t that,” said he, “it ain’t where you live. It’s what I have to go through to get there —past the gaoler and the Beak Runners, past that terrible strong room with its iron bars. Something in me left over from when I was a scamp and a proper village hustler, well, it just turns me cold at the thought of shovin’ my trunk by those poor cods behind those iron bars. I must be feared of bein’ grabbed and locked up for my past sins. I got a dream about that comes often in my sleep. Same one over and over again.”
Regarding him closely, I saw that he was most serious about the matter, for it distressed him to tell it. I could do naught but shrug and say, “As you will, then,” as I fell into step with him. I noted that we proceeded in the direction of Bedford Street and George Bradbury’s pawnshop, which did not much surprise me. As was often so with Bunkins when he had some bit of information to impart, he said little along the way, choosing, rather, to pick the time and place to make his revelation. And so we walked in near silence as we cut across Covent Garden, where the wind whipped across the open space. It was colder at that hour than it had been earlier when I made my journey to Mr. Trezavant’s residence on Little Jermyn Street. Perhaps a storm was coming. Perhaps there would be snow by morning. Only once did Bunkins complain against the cold, but that in such curses and obscenity that they need not be quoted here.
“You’ve a cape,” I responded a bit sullenly (for I felt the nasty chill as keenly as he did). “Why don’t you wear it?”
“Aw, I feel a fop when I do. Wouldn’t look right where we’re going.”
When indeed we did turn down Bedford Street, I assumed we were to pay another visit to the pawnshop. Yet as it developed, I assumed wrongly, for he led me to a grogshop directly across the street from it.
“In here,” said he —and only that.
The place was dark and murky with tobacco smoke, as such places are even in the daytime. A single lamp burned over the bar. Greater light issued from the fireplace, where a warm fire blazed. Though I had expected (and hoped) that we would crowd in with those on the benches round the fire, Bunkins led me to a table next to the rattling windows. I thought he could have chosen better. Spitting on his fingers, he wiped more or less clean a panel of glass so that he might better view the pawnshop.
“You do the same,” said he.
I managed as well as I could and was gratified that the place I had smeared clean did not immediately frost over from the cold inside the dive. Oh, indeed it was a proper dive, as ill kept and filthy as any on the street. And the serving girl who approached as plump and ill favored as any of her occupation in London. When she inquired our pleasure, I had difficulty making out her words, as she had lost many of her teeth in the front of her mouth. Yet Bunk-ins understood her and called for grog. I asked for coffee.
“You only get that with a flash of lightning here, dearie.”
“Then I’ll have the gin on the side.”
“That’s two cups to wash,” said she.
“When did you start washin’ them?” Bunkins sneered.
She took offense at that. “You been here every day,” said she to him. “You seen me workin’ away behind the bar.”
“Only in fun, m’sweet.” (Said with a wink.)
Mollified somewhat, she rumbled corpulently back to the bar.
“Been here every day, have you?” I asked Bunkins.
“I have,” said he. Turned to the window, he spoke, his eye fixed upon the patch he had cleaned for viewing. “Been keeping close watch upon Bradbury’s shop across the way. Now, there’s not many come into such a place. So it’s easy to note when one comes in often or stays long. And I noticed two in particular. One’s a tall fellow who comes and goes, not like he belongs exactly, though something tells me he dorses there. He — “
I reached over and touched his arm as the serving girl returned. He glanced over in her direction and nodded to me. He fished fourpence from his pocket and dropped them on the table. She, in turn, lined up the drinks and scooped up the coins. Without a word, she went back to her place by the bar and near the fireplace.
“You going to drink that?” Bunkins asked, pointing at the cup of gin before me.
“No,” said I, “it would only put me in trouble.”
He reached over for the cup and downed the gin in two gulps. Meanwhile did I sip at the coffee. It was vile stuff but strong and hot, welcome on such a day.
Bunkins returned to the window and resumed where he had left off: “Like I said, the tall fellow just comes and goes, and he don’t stay away long. When Mrs. Bradbury goes off by herself to do errands and buying and such, he looks after the shop while she’s gone.”
“I understand,” said I. “Butyou said there were two.”
“Indeed there is, chum, and that other one comes regular as the clock on the wall, just about this time every day.”
“Well, who is he?”
“I’ll not say, not now. Let’s just wait until he comes, and see if you recognize him. You’ll know the cod. Oh yes, indeed you will.”
Bunkins would say no more. We waited, our eyes fixed to the two spaces we had made for watching. Bunkins had said I would know the fellow, implied he was an acquaintance — a friend? Quite baffled, I tried to guess who or what he might be. One of the Bow Street Runners, perhaps?
Surely not. I had at least a nodding acquaintance with one and all. And while some had their faults, none would consort with a murderess. None would, according to Bunkins s suspicion, take part in murder.
“Here he is now,” said Bunkins.
I leaned over so as to see better, and my eyes were drawn most immediate to a figure strutting down Bedford Street as if it were his place alone. Did I know him? Yes, I did. You might call him an acquaintance, though never, never a friend. He was none other than him I had fought, his knife against my club, in an alley quite near to this place just off this very street, not much more than two months past.
“Why,” I whispered, amazed, “it’s Carver.”
“So it is, chum, Jackie Carver.”
“He’s made a remarkable recovery.”
“He has for sure certain.”
I watched him walk up to the pawnshop, throw open the door, and enter it —again with that bold sense of proprietorship. He quite disappeared inside. It was my guess he had walked past the curtain into the rear of the shop. I turned to Bunkins.
“He’s the other visitor? The second one?”
“Oh, that one, he’s more than a visitor. You saw how he walked into the place. When he goes inside, he goes to stay. I sat here Sunday, which Mr. Burnham gives me free. I watched him go in about this time that day and he never come out. She slipped down and locked the door, and he stayed I never knew how long —three hours, at least. That’s how long I waited. There’s your murderer, chum.”
I gave that but a moment’s consideration. “I think you’re right, Jimmie B.”
“Course I am. He woulda killed him while the old man was sleepin’.”
“That’s his way,” said I. Then did I add most solemnly, “You must tell Sir John.”
“I ain’t sure I’m ready to do that just yet. I’d like to know more.”
“If you don’t tell him, then I shall.”
Bunkins, his face screwed in torment, slammed his fist down upon the table. “Damn! I was feared you’d say that!”
SEVEN
Jack, Knave and Fool Page 18