The Price of Murder

by Bruce Alexander

  As for what she had written therein, the text wound about her drawings, in some instances taking on the shape of the object with which it shared the page. A number of them seemed to be books in synopsis, mere ideas for books, or the beginnings of books. And some of the faces that surrounded these entries might well have been the faces of the characters as she visualized them. Could the faces have come first? An interesting supposition, that.

  Thus entranced, I paged through more than half the journal-book, which is to say, near all that she had written in it. Yet ’twas not her text that stopped me and held me there: again, it was the drawings, the sketches, the pictures. One of them, that one of a bearded man, that could be none other than Black Jack Bilbo—and the face beside his, a woman, there was something about it—Marie-Helene? Of course! Then did I find on the overleaf a rather good sketch of Tom Durham, and below it, another male face, which I could not quite recognize. There was something familiar about it, yet . . .

  I turned back to the beginning of this section and began to read:

  “Why not [she wrote] a book about Jeremy and me? It would be great fun and a considerable relief to write of events just as they happened. I would be relieved of the need to plot, which I find so difficult. And after all, the events of our lives, arranged in order, and perhaps tightened up a bit are just as exciting as any can be read in a romance, and the sentiments presented in it would be real as can be. I could include, perhaps even begin with, the capture of Marie-Helene by Black Jack Bilbo and their eventual escape. In a sense, that happened to Jeremy and to me as well as to them. But no, to begin there would be to lose too much of our story, Jeremy’s and mine—individually and in concert. Ah, how romantic it will be to trace our early history—the squabbles and the wrangles that persisted intolerably long until they end—as they will—in wedded bliss. Should I use real names? I’m not sure. In a way, it matters little what names I give them if they are well-described. To speak of a certain blind magistrate would surely bring only one man to mind. And if I were to describe another as a lexicographer from Lichfield, he would—

  There did her projections end, for at that point I must have appeared with the invitation from Sir John that she come and join him for a talk. And by a strange coincidence of events, I did hear her step upon the stairs at just that moment. Hurriedly I replaced her journal-book, making every effort to fix it in the exact angle in relation to the ink bottle. Afterward, I wondered why I was so careful to put the book back in place just as it had been, for I would have words with her about it, or know the reason why I should not.

  She appeared, stepping sprightly with a smile upon her face.“Well,” said she, “that was not so bad. No, not bad at all.”

  “I thought it would not be,” said I rather coolly.

  ’Twas not what I said, but the manner in which I said it that seemed to disturb her. She looked at me closely as if to find the reason for the slightly sullen expression written upon my face.

  “What ails you?” said she.

  I said naught but looked her straight in the eye.

  She settled down in the chair at the table wherein she sat before her interview with Sir John. Looking about her, she suddenly understood and started to laugh.

  “You’ve been looking at my journal-book, have you not?”

  “Well ... I ...”

  “Admit it,” said she with a proper chuckle. “I was half-hoping you would read through it in any case. What did you think of it?”

  “Well . . . I . . . that is . . . I thought your drawings were very good,” said I, thinking it better to begin upon a positive note. “I’m amazed that you’ve kept your light under a bushel for so long. Have you no wish to study? To learn to paint?”

  “No, not a bit of it. Women publish books. They don’t paint portraits. I draw pictures to amuse myself and to help me in my writing.” With that, she leaned back and looked upon me with curiosity. “But that’s not what has set you going, now is it?”

  “Well, no,” I admitted.

  “What then? It was what I’d written, of course.”

  “I suppose it was.”

  “Were you surprised to find that I’d not made a diary of it—the kind all girls keep when they’re eleven or twelve?”

  “Perhaps a little.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “No!”

  “But what was it upset you so to find I’d made of it a repository for all my ideas for writing?” (But the question was rhetorical and not truly directed at me.) “I know! It was the last thing in the book, was it not? That upon which I was working when you brought to me Sir John’s summons. You object to having our life put before the world, do you? Well, does it mean naught to you that I hold our lives to be as truly exciting and adventurous as any in a romance—or a book of any sort? Real life is grand, Jeremy. Don’t you—”

  “Still, Clarissa,” I said, interrupting her, “‘a certain blind magistrate,’ ‘a noted lexicographer from Lichfield?’ How could you?”

  “Oh pish-posh,” said she, “I was but having a bit of fun there.”

  “Well, your fun may be another’s misery.”

  “None of that now. Sir John and Samuel Johnson can defend themselves.”

  I was about to reply to that when she spoke up once more and uttered words that proved prophetic.

  “Sometime in the future, Jeremy, you yourself may write books about Sir John. And why not? What better memorial could he have? Until then, let us consider that he can and should be written about by one of us. Does that not seem reasonable?”

  I had to admit that it did. Perhaps, reader, I had already, at that early date, begun to think about writing this series of books. There we left the matter. I, for one, was quite exhausted by our quarrel—if quarrel it was. But, as Clarissa gathered up her things, I added what, for a while, I later came to regret.

  “It’s been decided,” said I to her, “that I shall be going up to Newmarket for the big race, as we discussed.”

  “I know,” said she. “Sir John told me.”

  What I later came to regret for a little while was that Clarissa had not given up that daft idea of hers of combining our savings and betting all upon the longest shot on the boards. She made that plain when, just as I was waiting to leave with Mr. Patley next day, she suddenly appeared and, from her large apron pocket, drew a great, jingling pile of coins tied up neatly in a kerchief.

  “Here,” said she, “you’ll find a pound and eleven shillings. You don’t need to count it, for I’ve done that over and over again. You’ve probably twice that amount. Just put it together with mine and wager it where it will do the most good.”

  “But Clarissa—”

  “Not a word, Jeremy! Just remember what I said: favorable odds and the right attitude. That will do it.”

  And, having spoken thus, she planted a kiss upon my cheek and ran for the door. There she waved and disappeared inside.

  So there I stood in Bow Street, awaiting the arrival of Mr. Patley, so that we two might leave together for the Post Coach House and catch the evening mail coach to Newmarket. I knew that there was time to spare till it departed; nevertheless, I was eager to be under way.

  Mr. Marsden had come to work early that day as if to assure Sir John and the rest of us that he was fit to do all that was asked of him. Even so, his voice was thin and wheezy, and he seemed to speak only when it was absolutely necessary. I was worried about him; and Sir John, though he voiced no doubts, did not demand much from him.

  The magistrate took me aside and told me that I might continue with my packing, for he accepted Mr. Marsden’s assurances that he was well enough to finish the week out. I was to alert Mr. Patley that all would be proceeding as planned.

  Before leaving, I sat down in Sir John’s chambers and took down a letter from him to the magistrate of Newmarket, explaining who Mr. Patley and I were and what purpose we had there in the town. He asked the cooperation of the magistrate in our efforts and assured him that we would respe
ct his jurisdiction in all matters.

  When he had signed the letter, and it was sealed with his official seal, he handed it over to me and told me to tuck it away someplace safe.

  “Between us I will advise you only to make use of this if you get into trouble with his constables. You will then have to explain why you did not present the letter the moment you arrived.”

  “And what shall I tell him?” I asked.

  “Anything you like,” said he with a sly smile. “Lie, prevaricate, give him the best sort of story that you can make up quickly. But at such a distance, I warn you, I cannot help you much.”

  “I noticed that you said nothing in the letter about firearms. Am I to take it that that means we are to take none with us?”

  “You have taken it correctly,” said he. “Mr. Patley may take his club, and you, I suppose, that God-awful weapon you secretly carry with you wherever you go.”

  “The cosh?”

  “That’s it. But you may make use of them only in the most extreme situation. You understand that, do you?”

  I assured him I did.

  “And you will pass it on to Mr. Patley?”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Then Godspeed to you, Jeremy. Come back with Alice Plummer, and we’ll be much closer to solving this case. I believe that to be true with all my heart.”

  With such a leavetaking as that, you may well suppose that I was determined to do my very best, and I took the hand he offered me in both of my own and gave his a proper squeeze.

  “Good lad,” said he.

  I left his presence and took my place just outside the door to Number 4 Bow Street, my new portmanteau at my feet, and there I awaited the arrival of Mr. Patley.

  After bouncing along for the entire night, we came at dawn to Cambridge. Though not so grand as Oxford, the towers of the university there gave it the appearance of some fairy-tale city of a past that never was. Then, as we approached, the rays of the rising sun caught them so that for a minute or two they shone quite brilliantly. The early morning sun can make even London look thus enchanted.

  There we stopped, and, as the great bags of mail were tossed down, I myself descended to the cobblestones and helped down two of the passengers—an elderly man and his much younger wife. The couple had grumbled all the way from London at the roughness of the road and the speed of the horses. I was glad to be rid of them. I walked about then in the early morning cold, glad to have the chance to stretch my legs a bit. In the distance, I could see what I took to be the university buildings, yet I was not to get much closer to them than the coachyard, on that trip. Then came a call from the driver, and I hopped up into the coach and closed the door after me.

  Through it all, Constable Patley had slept. I, on the other hand, had dozed only fitfully, and that during those brief periods wherein the horses were walked that they might rest a bit. Yet we were not long beyond the outskirts of London when the constable had fallen into a dreamless sleep—no mumbling, no tossing nor turning; he was simply dead to the world for the duration of the journey. Later, I asked him how he had accustomed himself to sleeping so soundly under such conditions. He told me that it was a skill (if that be the word) he had developed whilst serving in the army. “Oftentimes,” said he, “’tis necessary to take your sleep whenever you have the opportunity—and such times come more often in the army than you might suppose.” Mr. Perkins, who had the same sort of ability, told me much the same thing: he developed it in the army.

  Not far out of town, we came upon the river Cam and followed it alongside until Newmarket was visible in the distance. It is no match for the Thames, as you may suppose; by comparison, it is hardly more than a stream. Nevertheless, the river and the bankside greenery are as pretty as any could wish. Indeed, some of the scenes I saw along the way were quite beautiful in the quiet way of the English countryside.

  As it grew brighter, Mr. Patley began to stir. He stretched, flailing round him slowly in ever-widening circles. He blinked his eyes open, saw that we were alone there in the coach, and let out a moan.

  “Ohhh, Jeremy, I’ve a terrible piss must be taken.”

  I banged upon the ceiling of the coach and felt the conveyance grinding to a halt most immediately. Yet Patley did not wait for a complete stop. He jumped out the door as soon as it was safe and ran to the side of the road.

  “Why didn’t your friend do his business back in Cambridge like the rest of us?” the driver called down to me.

  “He was asleep,” was my reply.

  “Asleep, was he? Well, I’ve half a notion to leave him where he’s now standin’.”

  “You do that,” said I, “and you’ll have Sir John Fielding to answer to back in London.”

  “What’s he to do with you two?”

  “You’d find out soon enough.”

  I would go no further with my threat. Truth to tell, I thought perhaps I’d gone too far already. We were headed into territory in which Sir John’s name had not quite the weight that it carried round Covent Garden. From this point on, I promised myself that I would use his name much more sparingly. But now was Constable Patley returned, and there was no need to wrangle further with the driver. He hopped inside and closed the door after him.

  “Ah, I’m a new man,” said he.

  “I hope not,” said I, “for I liked the old one pretty well.”

  “Let me tell you something, Jeremy, old lad. There’s few in this world who I owe anything to—but you’re one of them.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “I can write as well as any of the constables now, which ain’t to say I can write perfect. And I can even read a bit now. It’s a great time-passer, it is.”

  I, who had no difficulty passing the time, had never thought of reading in quite that way before. What he had said struck me as funny—and so I did what may have struck him as rude: I laughed. Yet he took no offense.

  “No, it’s true,” said he. “You take a fellow like me, he gets out of the army, and all he knows to do when he ain’t workin’ is go out and drink as he used to do in the army. And y’see that ain’t right, for it’s too easy to fall in with the same element you’re keepin’ an eye on whilst you’re on the job—the whores and the robbers and such—if you get my meaning, and that ain’t right.”

  “Oh, I understand,” said I—and indeed I did. ’Twas the first time I had considered the matters he spoke of.

  “Now I know for fact that readin’ ain’t just to pass the time. You got all your learning, which is considerable, out of books, didn’t you?”

  “Well, not quite all. A lot that isn’t facts and some that is I got from Sir John.”

  “And him,” he laughed. “He was just born with it, I reckon.”

  “Indeed,” said I, “he must have been.”

  “But whenever I come to a word I don’t know, I just take a look into that Johnson dictionary you gave me—and there it is. I know what it means, and I know how to spell it proper. I want you to know, Jeremy, that giving me that dictionary is about the most considerate thing anybody ever did for me. And I’ve read that Robinson Crusoe book twice through, I have!”

  “Well, it’s about time then that you got another, don’t you think so?”

  “You just tell me what to get, and I’ll get it.”

  “Well,” said I, “let me give some thought to that.”

  “You do that.”

  Then did Constable Patley sit back, blushing with excitement at having said his piece. He nodded a good, firm, manly nod.

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Patley.”

  We finished the rest of the trip to Newmarket in complete silence—or near it.

  Yet, as we entered the town of Newmarket, Mr. Patley pointed off to the left and called my attention to the heath just beyond us.

  “It’s there they run the race,” said he. “It’s the longest and the fastest, and the only one that’s run on a permanent course.”

  Of the even
ts that followed—our arrival and search for the Good Queen Bess, and our disappointment at learning Mr. Deuteronomy and his party had not yet arrived—I shall have nothing to say. Such mundane details have little place in such a report as this, for they seem only to clutter the narrative. Let me begin this section, rather, with our first survey of the race site. We were, I suppose, searching for Alice Plummer, yet neither Mr. Patley nor I expected to find her quite so immediate. And, truth be known, I do believe that both of us would have been disappointed if we had found her quite so soon, for we must then have turned round and taken her back to London without ever having viewed the great race for the King’s Plate. I had told Patley of Mr. Deuteronomy’s bold boast that he would win, riding Pegasus, and we were both greatly impressed by that. We would see him win—sister or no.

  In my case, after we had rested ourselves a bit in the room provided us, we went out to get a proper view of the race course and a sense of the town. Newmarket itself was not much—nor is it today, if what I have heard of it still pertains. The surrounding countryside is pretty enough, but the buildings in the town have to them a rather decrepit air, as if a good, strong wind might blow them all down. The main street in town is the same road we took from Cambridge. It is withal, as its name implies, a market town— and probably has been such for near a thousand years. There is a central square, and in it, foodstuffs—fruit and vegetable—are sold. Though not so grand as Covent Garden, I do believe a greater variety of growing things are sold there. Yet what the town of Newmarket may or may not be matters little, for it is known not so much as a town (there must be half a hundred or more like it) as it is a location for the greatest horse-racing to be found in all of England. Without its race course, it would be simply another market town.

  The King’s Plate race was still a few days into the future, yet there seemed to be more people in the area surrounding the course than in the town proper. Was it always so? Their number would doubtless increase on race day. Where had they all come from? Where did they sleep? These visitors must have surely doubled the population of the town already.