The Price of Murder

by Bruce Alexander

  Mr. Deuteronomy’s description had done him fair justice: he was tall (about six feet) and certainly fair (his hair was so blond that it appeared at first look to be white), and he could not deny his name was Stephen, for he answered to it when Mr. Patley bellowed out the name. He came from the rear of the stable, a pail of water in his hand. I allowed Mr. Patley to take the lead at this place, as he had at each one thus far.

  “Your name is Stephen, then?” Mr. Patley asked.

  “Supposing it is,” he said, “what was it you wanted?”

  “We’re looking for a woman named Alice—Alice Plummer. Do you know her?”

  He gave it some thought, then pouched his lower lip and shook his head in a firm denial. “No, I can’t say I do.” Then he surprised us by adding, “But I used to know a woman by that same name, I think it was. What was the last name again?”

  “Plummer.”

  “Yes, I knew an Alice Plummer, all right, but that was seven or so years ago.”

  “Oh, well, have you seen her about in the last few days?”

  “Why no. Is she here?”

  “She’s been seen. If you happen to run into her, or if she comes by for a visit, ask her to get in touch with us, will you? That’s Mr. Proctor and Mr. Patley at the Good Queen Bess. We’re up here from London, and we’ve a message for her about her daughter.”

  “Well, what is the message? I’ll pass it on to her if I see her.”

  For some reason, Mr. Patley looked at me in an inquiring manner, as if wondering what now he might say and asking me for a suggestion. I was ready for him.

  “We’ve been told to give the message to none but her,” said I. “Sorry.”

  He hesitated, and then, certain there was no other way out, he promised to pass the message on to Alice, should he happen to run into her. We left him, staring after us and looking a bit confused.

  We were no more than a few steps away and just out of earshot when, in quiet tones, I called the constable’s attention to a wall just round the corner where we might wait for Alice.

  “I give her five minutes at the most,” said I.

  “Closer to two, I vow.”

  If we’d had a wager riding on it, Mr. Patley would have won. There was no mistaking her voice: first, a mildly acrimonious overture as she and Stephen wrangled over whether or not she should go to the inn and discover the nature of the message about Maggie.

  “Alice, dear Alice, don’t you understand? ’Tis only a device to force you out, to get you to show yourself.”

  “And don’t you understand?” came the muffled reply (for they were still inside the stable). I’ve little choice—none at all! If Maggie needs me, then I must go to her.”

  Then did they quite explode into view—she running out the door of the stable, and he pursuing her, catching her up, grasping her arm to pull her back. The two nearly collided with another couple, older and ill-tempered, who abused them with harsh words and curses. Then, as Alice struggled to free herself from Stephen’s grip, they gathered a crowd round them, which was not at all to our liking. Yet those in the crowd were mostly women, and they set up a great din in her favor; whores and pickpockets were they by the look of them; they were her jury, and they found in her favor.

  “Leave her be!”

  “Unhand her, you bully!”

  “She did naught to deserve such treatment, I wager.”

  Her friend Stephen found it impossible to withstand such force. In spite of myself, I pitied him, though had he prevailed, our immediate problem might have been greatly complicated. Yet his last words could have been, and should have been, much gentler.

  As he released her, he snarled, “Awright then, you drunken cow, you’re goin’ into a trap. I’ll do what I can for you, but I’ll have to wait till my relief comes on.” He turned away and headed back to the stable.

  Alice, now free to go, stumbled about for a moment, looking round her wildly. Then, without a word to her rescuers, she set off down the hill at an awkward run.

  I had then to restrain Constable Patley. He was all for catching her up and detaining her soon as ever we could—chasing her down, if need be.

  “No,” said I, “all we need do is keep her within sight. And even if we should lose her, there is little doubt that she will be there awaiting us.”

  We trampled along a good many yards behind her. No longer attempting to run, she now walked, staggering a bit, balancing with some effort. Years of gin-drinking had plainly taken a toll upon her.

  In spite of all, I felt troubled—though I could not at first fathom the reason. It came to me then that I felt guilty. In spite of the fact that we had found Alice Plummer and would soon have her safely in custody, the means we had used to do this preyed upon my conscience somewhat. Had we not used Alice’s own maternal feelings against her? Indeed we had. But had she not also acted against these same feelings when she sent her daughter off to be the paramour of one whose notions of carnal love were utterly perverted? Yet had she known that of him? What Katy Tiddle had said suggested she had not. But reporting Maggie as a stolen child to Mr. Patley indicated that she suspicioned that something was not right about the unnamed recipient of her child. And why, if she truly believed she were bettering Maggie’s life, had she accepted money for her child?

  Such questions always seemed to be clouded over with moral considerations of this sort, so why, indeed, should I feel guilty? And why, for a final why, must all be so damnably complicated?

  In point of fact, we did lose her just as she came to the Good Queen Bess, yet that was because she had circled round it that she might enter respectably by the front door of the place.

  She was leaning forward over the desk, speaking in a rather distraught manner to him in charge. Indeed, she was repeating our names over and over again. Then did he glimpse us with obvious relief as we entered.

  “Ah, but here they are now. What a happy coincidence!”

  She whirled round and, seeing us, ran to us.

  “I heard you had a message from my daughter,” said she, wheezing slightly from her trip downhill.

  “No,” said I, “that’s not quite right.”

  She turned from me in disappointment and looked hopefully at Constable Patley. “It was you who said it, wasn’t it? But—but I know you from before, don’t I?”

  “That’s right, Alice. You and me talked together.”

  “About Maggie, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe we could step inside the tap-room. We could sit in there and talk,” I suggested.

  She frowned at me in a somewhat befuddled way.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “A glass of gin would be nice.”

  “Well, then.” I gestured toward the door to the tap-room, and she nodded and followed. I noticed the deskman continuing to look at us with considerable curiosity.

  We must have made a strange-looking trio as we entered the room. And though I cared little what the many who gaped might think of us, I did wish to keep our conversation with this poor woman as private as might be possible. I directed the other two over to that same table in the corner, where Mr. Patley had seen her first. Then did I hasten to the serving woman and order two coffees and a glass of gin.

  “Who’s the gin for?” she asked suspiciously.

  “For her,” said I.

  “This ain’t that kind of place. They won’t let you upstairs with her.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, if you permit, we’ll have two coffees and a glass of gin.”

  Without another word, she turned away from me and made for the bar.

  I went to the table and found Alice and Mr. Patley engaged in the sort of talk that I can only call neighborly. Though I should have, I’d never really noticed what a personable manner he had. He seemed to get people to do what he wished them to do simply by being agreeable, kind, or what they had taken lately to calling “nice.” What was it they were discussing as I sat down with them? As I recall, it was something to do wit
h how and when he had happened to see her out the window.

  “When was that, yesterday? or the day before? I ain’t sure about that, but I am sure I looked right out the window, and there you were.” He tapped it. “This very window,” said he.

  “Is that how it was?” said she. “Just imagine!” She managed a smile.

  It was strange to see him so. I realized that there were things that I could learn from him.

  “I think,” said she, “that must have been day before yesterday.”

  “Is that so? You’ve got a pretty good memory. You know that?”

  “Better’n some people think.”

  He chuckled at that. “How long have you been up here?”

  “A long time, but I ain’t sure just how long.”

  “Well, take a guess at it, why don’t you?”

  “It was right after I talked to you about . . . about Maggie. That’s when I left London and come here—near a month ago.”

  “But you didn’t tell anybody where you’d gone. If we’d found Maggie, how could we let you know?”

  “Well, I knew you wouldn’t find her, because she got adopted.”

  The serving woman came then with what I had ordered. She insisted on immediate payment, an interruption in the flow of the interrogation that could cost us dear. But at last she accepted payment and was away. Alice drank greedily from the glass of gin, and Mr. Patley judged her ready to begin again.

  “Who told you about this practice of adopting, Alice?” he asked.

  “Well, first it was Katy next door, and then it was Walter.”

  “Walter? Who’s he?”

  “He was the one took my Maggie away to the good couple who couldn’t have a child all by themselves. Never did find out his last name. But I told Maggie all about how her new family would love her and have money enough to take good care of her, like I never could. And so when Walter took her away she didn’t make no fuss nor nothin’. Just kissed me goodbye and waved.”

  “Did Walter give you the name of this couple he took Maggie to?”

  “No, not hardly. He said it had to be a secret because if it weren’t, sometime when I got to missin’ her bad, I might go and try to steal her back. Oh, and I might, because even now I get to missing her so bad I can’t hardly stand it.” There she paused and looked up winningly at Mr. Patley. “Could I have another gin?”

  He glanced over at me, and I, feeling that the interrogation had gone well thus far with a glass of gin to loosen her tongue, decided that a second glass might make it go even better. I signaled for another gin to the serving woman who pulled a sour face but passed it on to the man behind the bar. It was most quickly forthcoming. Alice took it from the serving woman with polite thanks and treated herself to a hasty sip. Then, with a smile, she returned her attention to the constable.

  “There is only a couple more questions we got to ask you,” said he to her. “You’re doin’ fine so far, Alice.”

  She smiled foolishly at that. “All the right answers?”

  “No mistakes yet. I’d like you to tell me, though, just how it was you came into all that money?”

  “All what money?”

  “Well you came up here from London on the mail coach, didn’t you?”

  “Certain’y. It was the onliest way I could get here, ’cept walk.” She remained silent for a moment, then said playfully, “Oh, that money!”

  “Yes, Alice, that money.”

  “Well,” said she, “I never asked for a penny—truly I never. But the day that Walter came for Maggie he brought me a proper bag of coins and said that the couple wanted me to have this money, ’cause they were so grateful. I never did get a proper count on it in pounds and pence, but it’s a lot, and it’s lasted me a long time. Course I knew where I’d go just as soon as ever I got that much money in hand.”

  “And where was that?”

  “Why, right here—right in Newmarket—to see my sweetheart, Stephen. He’s been my sweetheart for years and years.”

  “Did you two write letters to each other? Did he invite you to come?”

  “Stephen? Oh no, he didn’t know where I was, and I couldn’t write to tell him, because I never had any learning. But I just came to him, and we picked up just where we left off. It was beautiful. Course he’s angry—now, maybe a mite jealous, because I came down here to see you two.” She said nothing more for a moment, but thrust out her lower lip in a pout. “When are you two going to give me that message from Maggie I been waiting to hear?”

  “In a while, Alice. It won’t be long,” said the constable. “Just one more question.”

  “All right, what is it?”

  “Whose idea was it to report Maggie as missing? Was it yours?”

  “Oh no, nothing of the kind. Katy Tiddle thought it up. It was all her idea. She said it would keep people from asking a lot of questions when they noticed that Maggie was gone. I could just say she was stolen and I’d reported it to the constable.”

  She waited, frowning. “Well,” said she, “I answered your last question. Ain’t I goin’ to hear now what Maggie has to say?”

  Mr. Patley looked at me with great uncertainty. Clearly, he wished me now to assume the burden.

  “Alice,” said I, “we didn’t say we had a message from Maggie. We said we had a message about her.”

  “Well, all right, what’s the message about her then?”

  The difficulty I was having putting the information that I had into words must have shown in my face. No doubt I looked terribly distressed, for that was indeed how I felt.

  She read my face. For, of a sudden, the expression upon her own altered to one of alarm, then went beyond that to horror, utter horror.

  “Oh, dear God in heaven,” said she, “Maggie’s dead, ain’t she?”

  “I fear it’s true, Alice. You were deceived by Katy Tiddle and Walter.”

  “What do you mean? Say it!”

  “Uh . . . well, it’s . . .” I temporized, glancing at Mr. Patley and finding no help there, unable to find the right words, unwilling to say it plain. I sighed, then plunged on: “Alice, there was no nice couple waiting for Walter to deliver your daughter to them. Walter may have kept Maggie for his own use, or sold her on to someone quite rich. We think—I think—that the latter is the way of it.”

  “Can you help us find Walter? He made a whore of her, Alice,” said the constable. “If he delivered her to someone else, then he can tell us who, so we can get to that someone else.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know she’s really dead? Maybe this is just another trick to get me back to London.”

  “A waterman pulled her body out of the Thames. I took it to the doctor who pronounced her dead, and then your brother had her buried in the churchyard at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden.”

  “My brother? Deuteronomy?”

  “That’s right. He’s right here in Newmarket. He’ll tell you everything we said is true.”

  “No, keep him out of it. He’s always tellin’ me what to do.”

  Having heard all that we had to say, she sat quietly, as if devising a plan of action. Neither Patley nor I spoke. We simply waited. I know not quite what we expected from her, yet certainly not what she gave us; in fact, she quite astounded us.

  She began to scream.

  I know not quite how to describe her cries, for there was naught of surprise nor fear in them. Call them, rather, screams of outrage: protests against the cruelty of fortune, the unfairness of fate.

  In any case, they had an immediate and electrifying effect upon all there in the tap-room. Those at the tables and bar—thank God the place was not then greatly crowded—turned immediately, open-mouthed in shocked surprise. The innkeeper and the serving woman came running. And as for Patley and me, we had leapt to our feet and were making helpless gestures with our hands. Yet what more could we do?

  “You must get her out of here!” shouted the serving woman at a volume that seemed to match that of the screa
ms.

  “Yes, but how?”

  “I don’t care how you do it. Just do it!”

  There was a rhythm to Alice’s cries, and they were of a predictable duration, so that as she halted to take a breath, Mr. Patley, a man of fair proportions, was able to clap a hand over her mouth and pull her to her feet.

  He quick-marched her out. There was little for me to do but run ahead and get from the innkeeper the location of the magistrate’s court. This was a situation that called for desperate measures.

  “I knew you was bringin’ trouble the moment you came through that door,” the serving woman shouted after us.

  Luckily, I had with me the letter dictated by Sir John to the magistrate of Newmarket, Malachi Simmons. I had carried it round with me in the inside pocket of my coat since we had left London. I recalled well that there was a problem in using it, and that had to do with when it was presented to the local magistrate. It was best to use it only in an emergency, Sir John had said, but if it were offered too late, it had best be given with a good excuse as to why it had not been presented earlier. I believed I had just such an excuse.

  Alice Plummer had quietened down a bit by the time we arrived at the magistrate’s court. Not that she had reconciled herself to the shocking news we had given her. No, indeed. I believe, rather, that the strain put upon her throat by her repeated screams had overtaxed it to the point that she could scarce speak above a whisper. Yet that was not immediately apparent to us, for at some point shortly after we three had left the Good Queen Bess she silenced herself altogether: she spoke not a word, nor did she scream again. And I thanked God for it.

  The magistrate’s court stood upon that very street off Market Square that I had latterly overlooked; the name of that street, if indeed it ever had one, I have completely forgotten. We found the house quite easily, a couple of hundred years old it was, but large and imposing. I banged loudly upon the door, and as we waited for a response, I muttered to Mr. Patley that he was to let me do the talking. He nodded his understanding and agreement. We heard steps behind the door, and a brief moment later, it flew open to reveal one who was at least as tall and wide as Bow Street’s Constable Bailey.