The Resurrection Fireplace

by Hiroko Minagawa

  “As for signs of a struggle, it seems that the skin has deteriorated too much for any marks to be detected,” continued Anne.

  “To strangle a man takes strength. But two people might manage the job easily if they worked together. Consider this possibility: Evans invites Harrington to his home. Harrington has no reason to suspect him of any sinister intent; his guard is down. Evans mixes laudanum or some such drug into Harrington’s drink. Once Harrington has lost consciousness, Evans strangles him and leaves the disposal of the body to Robert Barton. Or perhaps he had Robert do the strangling for him… . What is in the next report?”

  “Some important new evidence,” Anne said, excitement in her voice. “It was discovered by the constables searching the offices of the Public Journal. From interviews with two of Harrington’s employees, they learnt that, while Harrington himself wrote most of the articles in the newspaper, the satirical verse under the pseudonym ‘N. Pym’ was an exception—and ‘N. Pym,’ they say, was Nathan Cullen’s pen-name.”

  Sir John waited in silence while Anne compared the letter from Cullen to the manuscripts by ‘N. Pym’ that the constables had brought in.

  “There is no mistake,” she said finally. “The letter was written by Cullen himself.”

  “You sound pleased, Anne.”

  “No, Sir John, not at all.”

  “Edward Turner said that they did not think the letter was addressed to them, and so did not read it until after they had finished the job—but Anne, does this not strike you as unnatural, too? The corpse had a letter on its person. Surely anyone discovering it would read the letter first. In it we learn of his confinement by Evans, of his wretched experience in Newgate, of the marks of shame still remaining on his legs. Robert Barton’s name is not mentioned. Our ingenious—or should I say devious?—friend Edward Turner knew already of the relationship between Evans and Robert. Perhaps he already suspected that Evans was using Robert as a cat’s-paw for murder. What he lacked, however, was proof. And so, to direct our gaze towards Robert, he hatches a scheme involving the corpse… .”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Bring out Cullen’s clothes—the ones we took from the Barton residence.” In due course, he asked, “Are the ink stains over the pocket still there?”

  “They are.”

  “Is the letter also stained?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Fold the letter up along its creases and place it inside the pocket. Does the ink-stain on the letter match the one on the clothing?” Sir John waited, then sensed her consternation. “Well?” he asked.

  “The stains do not match,” she said simply.

  “Curious indeed.”

  “Perhaps Edward and—that is, Turner and Hart remembered incorrectly, and the letter was somewhere other than in Cullen’s pocket. I shall ask the two of them again.”

  “Let us delay that for a while. Are there any more reports today?”

  “None.”

  “The grave-robbers who sold Miss Roughhead’s corpse to Mr. Barton are still being detained, I believe?”

  “Yes. Gobbin and Dick are in a holding cell.”

  At this point, a servant entered to announce the arrival of Dr. Robert Barton.

  “Anne, when Dr. Barton leaves, have Abbott follow him. Will he go directly home? Or will he use a more suspicious route?”

  “I shall follow him too.”

  “You are my eyes. You are to remain here.”

  “The surveillance may require more than one person.”

  “Then have someone else form a team with Abbott.”

  “There is no one else. Everyone is out. We need more officers.”

  “Very well, then. But you are not to approach any dangerous locations. And should danger arise, leave matters to Abbott and retire.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her reluctance to accept these instructions was apparent.

  “You are not equipped for a contest of physical strength. Your talents lie in observation and deduction. If imperilled, you are to run, and then provide an accurate report of what transpired. That, and that alone, is your assignment.”

  “I understand.”

  “Anne, I repeat, there would be no shame in withdrawing alone. On the contrary: to run is your duty. Bear that in mind.”

  With this final admonition, Sir John had her open the door.

  “My apologies for my absence earlier,” said Robert Barton. “I hurried here as soon as my servant conveyed your message to me.”

  Restlessness, apprehension, nervousness: there was much that Sir John could sense in his voice.

  “However, it has been just two days since our last meeting,” Robert continued.

  “In connection with the Roughhead girl and the arsenic, yes.”

  Robert had been flustered then too, he reminded himself.

  “I have more questions I wish to ask you,” Sir John said. “But first, a request.” He imposed the same test on Robert as he had on Hume, and clasped the man’s right hand between both of his own.

  “You used a carriage to transport Harrington, did you not?”

  A moment passed. “I beg your pardon?” said Robert, suspicion in his voice. But his hand had already betrayed its owner: in that initial moment of silence, there had been a definite twitch.

  “You drove the horses yourself. Do I have that correct?”

  “What is this about?”

  “Who was it that did the deed, then?” asked Sir John, feeling a minute tremor transmitted through his palm. “You, or Mr. Evans?”

  “Sir John, I fear you have lost me.”

  “What was the exact date of your departure for Marlow?”

  “Did I not say earlier? It was the third of July. I arrived back in London four days ago—the eighth—after receiving Sir Charles’s summons.”

  “You remained at Marlow from the third to the seventh? Not visiting London once during that time?”

  “Sir John, is this an interrogation? If so, I shall have no choice but to bring suit for a grave insult to my honour. I know suing a magistrate is no easy matter, but I believe I can impose on the Lord Mayor of London and a member of Parliament to see that my claim is taken up directly by William, Lord Mansfield, Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench.”

  “Have I said anything to insult you, I wonder? All I asked was whether you used a carriage to transport Harrington and when you went to Marlow. What has caused you such agitation?”

  “It must surely be some suspicion you have that made you inquire about these matters. In any case, I know neither a Harrington nor an Evans.”

  “From the third of July to the seventh, you were in Marlow.”

  “Correct.”

  “During that period, you did not return to London once.”

  “Correct.”

  “Anne, have you written all this down?”

  “Yes, Sir John.”

  “Dr. Barton, pray examine the transcript of our conversation. If you are satisfied that all was recorded accurately, I would have your signature on it.”

  “My signature? To what end?”

  “We would not want arguments later over what was said and what was not.”

  “What is the meaning of this? You treat me as if I were a suspect.”

  “If you were one, the interrogation should be much more severe. What we have enjoyed is a casual exchange, nothing more. Does your reluctance to sign indicate that there was something in our conversation inconvenient to you, or which injured your honour?”

  “No. Of course not. I shall sign.”

  The magistrate released his grip on Robert’s right hand.

  Even with a signature, this would not be a formal record. Nor would it be admissible as evidence in court.

  Chapter 14

  Dennis Abbott left slightly ahead of Anne, who was del
ayed by the need to change into clothing suitable for a woman. Dressing as a man was simpler and allowed her more ease of movement, but as she was clearly a woman it also attracted attention.

  When she finally stepped outside, neither Robert Barton nor Abbott were anywhere to be seen, but there was no need to fear the trail going cold. At several street corners stood a child ready to point her in the right direction. These were children who usually lived off meagre tips received in exchange for carrying luggage or pushing wagons; the Bow Street Runners had earned their trust with regular gifts of money and food, and today Abbott had made sure to leave instructions with them as he passed.

  She set out along the Strand, parallel to the easterly course of the Thames for twenty minutes or so. When she arrived at the Royal Exchange on Cornhill, she saw a flower-girl on the corner across the street from her, pointing into the narrow lane between the buildings on that side: Change Alley. Abbott was waiting for her in front of a building to the left, holding a small bunch of violets. He tucked the violets into her neckline and casually indicated the sign outside one establishment in particular: Jonathan’s. This was the coffee-house Hume had mentioned—the one favoured by stock traders.

  Pretending to converse with Abbott as if they were a couple, Anne glanced through the windows. Robert was inside, sitting alone and sipping irritably at a cup of coffee.

  “As soon as he entered, he wrote a note and handed it to a waiter,” said Abbott. “The waiter gave it to a messenger boy. Presumably he is awaiting a reply.”

  Perhaps fifteen minutes later, a ragged boy ran up and knocked on the coffee-house door. When a waiter emerged, the boy passed on some message. The waiter nodded, shoved him away without tipping him, and closed the door again.

  Anne called the boy over as he walked by, still indignant, and bought him an eel pie from a passing merchant. With a few coins thrown into the bargain, the boy was all smiles again. They asked him where he had been sent.

  “Mr. Evans’s place,” he said.

  “What was the reply?”

  “‘Cocks.’”

  “‘Cocks’?”

  “Aye.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Anne, with some disapproval, saw Abbott hand him a few more coins and whisper a few words. The boy ran towards Cornhill and jumped onto the back of a passing hackney.

  Before long, Robert Barton emerged. The two watchers exchanged a glance and started after him, mingling with the crowd.

  They went west again, retracing their steps back to Covent Garden. Anne expected Robert to return home, but he turned left instead, entering the maze of back streets around Charing Cross.

  That the Tom Queen was an establishment of somewhat—nay, exceedingly—dubious character was clear from the imagery on the sign jutting out above the door, on which a female hand beckoned seductively, indicating the availability of more than just food and drink inside.

  Opened by a retired non-commissioned officer in the Army, the pub was frequented by wastrel scions of the gentry, wealthy merchants, foremen, and leaders of local gangs: men from a variety of social strata, united by a fondness for betting games and consorting with whores. The upper crust attended in domino masks that hid half their faces; in fact, most of the patrons favoured this sinister-looking device. Unlike the Rose, the Tom Queen did not cater exclusively to men who preferred their own sex, but it did have many regular patrons of that persuasion. A room at the back set aside for their use was full of men in women’s clothing and heavily laid-on powder, teasing each other in high-pitched voices.

  On a narrow table near the entrance, phials of medicine, eyeglasses, masks, pipes, and more were laid out for sale. The walls to both left and right were decorated with small-swords and grenadiers’ bayonets and powder-boxes, and on the wall directly ahead hung an obscene painting of a monk and a nun.

  This was certainly one of the “dangerous locations” that had concerned Sir John, but Anne paid no heed, striding in and taking a domino mask from the table alongside Abbott.

  The stairs to the second floor were all but vertical. Instead of a banister, a rope hung from nails hammered into the wall here and there. The rope was black from use.

  Robert Barton stepped carefully over a man and woman lying sprawled at the foot of the stairs. The rope was less helpful than it might have been had the nails been embedded more firmly in the wall, but Robert made his way upwards with practiced ease. A young woman was just coming down. As they passed on the stairs, Robert’s foot slipped. One hand shot out against the wall for support, and he swore as a nail head went into his palm. “Watch yourself, you stupid trollop!” he told her. The woman’s face was plastered with white powder and dotted liberally with beauty spots; her eyes were concealed by a domino mask and her lipstick and rouge were vivid in colour. She grabbed the hem of her lace- and bead-adorned dress and the petticoat beneath it, raised them high, and brought them down over Abbott’s head with a vulgar cackle as he attempted to follow Robert up.

  Anne scraped past them and went on ahead.

  Cock-fighting was said to have been introduced to Britannia some forty years before the birth of Christ, by the Romans, who invaded, conquered, and ruled the backwater isle as a provincia for more than three hundred years. Over the course of the intervening centuries, the practice had been abandoned by France, Holland, Germany, and other parts of continental Europe, but England’s affection for it had not waned. In the eighteenth century, it ranked alongside bull-, bear-, and rat-baiting as one of the most popular pastimes of London’s citizenry.

  Bull- and bear-baiting involved tying a long rope around the neck of the animal in question, inducing several vicious dogs to attack it, and enjoying the show. Bear-baiting in particular had been one of the favourite pastimes of Queen Elizabeth two centuries earlier. When her lover, the Earl of Leicester, invited her to his imposing home, bear-baiting had been part of the entertainment. The Queen developed a taste for it, even having a bear-pit constructed exclusively for royal use. It was a form of entertainment with a venerable pedigree.

  Rat-baiting was a type of sport in which patrons placed bets on whether a single dog would be able to kill all the rats it was pitted against in a certain period of time. Cock-fighting was another betting game, involving tournaments of two kinds: “Welsh Main” and “Battle Royal.” Those held in the cock-pit on the second floor of the Tom Queen were the latter sort, in which multiple birds fought until only one was still standing.

  The cock-pit was a circular area with a raised gallery around it for spectators. It was currently occupied by a small army of roosters with steel spurs attached to their legs, fighting a bloody war of all against all. A dozen or so had already fallen, injured or dead. The spectators urged the others “Go on!” “Carve ’im up!” The money they had bet would either be returned many times over or evaporate. Those who had bet on one of the birds that had already been defeated still stood there restlessly, reluctant to leave.

  Cocks, Anne realized, had been code for the Tom Queen, with its permanent cock-pit.

  Robert Barton parted the crowd to make his way across the room, then opened one of the two doors at the back and disappeared inside.

  Anne leaned against the closed door and listened carefully. Abbott stood beside her. Here, too, they behaved like a couple, so that none of the male patrons should bother her.

  The cries and curses of the spectators; the keening of those who had wagered and lost; the cheers that rose when a cock fell; the sound of the birds themselves, sometimes breaching the pit and attacking the crowd in their excitement. Shouts and laughter. The din so assaulted her ears that Anne was quite unable to hear what was happening beyond the door.

  She carefully tried the doorknob. Locked.

  “Well, this certainly is the perfect place for a private meeting,” she said in Abbott’s ear.

  The brevity of the message Robert had received and his practiced response sugg
ested that he and Evans often used it.

  Anne crouched down and pressed her eye to the keyhole, but saw nothing. The key appeared to have been inserted from the other side, blocking all light.

  She called to mind the way Robert had entered the room. He had knocked lightly, then turned the knob and pushed the door open immediately. She had not heard whether any reply had come from within, but the door did not seem to have been locked at the time. Robert must have locked it behind him.

  She realized that the wall separating the room he had entered from the one beside it might be quite thin and she might be able to hear something through it.

  At her urging, Abbott tried the other doorknob, but was interrupted by a man who seemed to be an employee.

  “You can’t just help yourself to the rooms, friend,” he said.

  “How much?”

  The man named a sum. They handed over slightly more. He stuffed it in his pocket. “Someone’s still using that one,” he said. “I’ll let you know when it’s free.”

  The rooms seemed to be used for more than just talk.

  By now the cock-pit presented a lurid scene. One of the surviving birds had just faltered, and several others had converged on it. Hacking with their spurs, they reduced their weakened rival to a lump of bloodstained meat and feathers. The cries of the spectators rose: “Stand, damn you!” “Don’t give in now!” “Kill ’im!”

  How long was Robert going to be talking in there? Anne was getting impatient. She checked her pocket-watch: thirteen minutes past seven. He had entered the room almost an hour ago.

  “Shall we interrupt them?” she said to Abbott.

  Sir John had told her only to follow Robert. But if she could not hear the content of his secret conversation, she could not just fold her arms and wait.

  “Dr. Barton said he did not know anyone called Evans. If we can catch the two of them meeting in secret, it will prove that he was lying.”