The Price of Murder sjf-10

by Bruce Alexander

  “There were hints that she held something back, were there not? What did she mean when she viewed the corpus and identified her, then asked the child’s forgiveness?”

  “Yes, of course, I see that now. She felt a degree of guilt.”

  “Perhaps a considerable degree,” said Sir John. “And what did you tell me she had to say of the goodly price paid to Maggie’s mother for the child?”

  “Well, I don’t recall the exact words, but Tiddle certainly left the impression that she was envious.”

  “Exactly! And she would only have been envious if she had played a larger role than mere observer, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, I see what you mean.”

  “No doubt you can come up with other examples, other hints, if you think back over what was said by her.”

  “No doubt I can. But sir?”

  “Yes, Jeremy? What is it?”

  “If such as these gave you pause for thought, then why did you not send me back immediately to bring Tiddle in for questioning? If you had done so, she might now still be alive.”

  “Why? Why?” He sputtered a bit, seeking a proper rejoinder. “Well, because I-that is, if-” Then did he pause and take a deep breath before proceeding: “Because, I confess that I am, as you, an imperfect investigator. My mind was on the nature of the crime, on the sins of our society, and, finally, like so many others because my hindsight exceeds my foresight. In short, I could have done better.”

  “Yes sir. I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, you did well to put the question to me. But what I wish you to do now, Jeremy, is return to the room of Catherine Tiddle and find out all you can about her from the bits and pieces in her room. Can you do that, lad? Don’t allow anything to slip through your fingers.”

  “I can, sir, of course. I’ll give the afternoon to it.”

  With that and a quick goodbye, I started from the room.

  “There was but one other matter,” said he, calling after me.

  “And what is that, sir?”

  “Would you accompany Clarissa to her destination? It seems that she happened to run into a friend from Lichfield. She said that you knew about this?”

  “That is correct, sir.” He meant Elizabeth Hooker, of course. I recalled that they had arranged to meet that day that they might reminisce and do what other foolish things girls do at such an age.

  “I understand that it’s quite near your own destination- in one of those courts off St. Martin’s Lane-the better part. Still, it is St. Martin’s and quite near Seven Dials, so your company with her would be appreciated. You might make arrangements to walk back with her, too.”

  So it was decided for me. I mounted the stairs quickly and collected Clarissa from the kitchen. She had brought the leftover pot roast up to the point where it needed only to be popped into the oven. As I entered, she was sitting, her cloak over her arm, waiting for me. She took but a moment to throw the cloak round her shoulders and announce that she was ready to go.

  Then, out in the street, we walked close together with barely a word between us for the length of Bow Street-or perhaps even farther. At last, Clarissa, who abhors silence, could endure it no longer. She turned to me all of a sudden and demanded to know why I was not speaking.

  “Why I was not?” said I in a most defensive manner. “I hear nothing from you, do I?”

  “I was quiet because you were. Besides, I asked you first, didn’t I?”

  We could have gone round-about in such a way for an hour or more. And, a year or two before, we would have done just that. Yet now, as both of us attempted, with some success, to act in a more mature manner, such behavior hardly seemed appropriate.

  “Oh, all right,” said I, “to tell the truth, as we are now sworn to do, Sir John gave me a proper burning, then sent me off to accompany you to your friend’s place. And by the way, where is it?”

  “Dawson’s Alley,” said she, “number five.”

  “Should be easy to find.”

  “So you were-oh, how to put it? You were licking your wounds-mentally, that is.”

  I thought about that a moment. I understood the picture perfectly, but still. .

  “Not exactly the image I would use,” said I. “Nevertheless, that sums it up pretty well.”

  “Well, forgive me,” said she. “But is there nothing I can do to help?”

  “No, not really. I deserved it, you see.”

  “Truly so? Wouldn’t it help to talk about it?”

  “Perhaps not as much as you think,” said I uncertainly. Yet it was my uncertainty that led me to tell her all that had passed between Sir John and myself as she waited in the kitchen for me. Yes, I told her all and offered comments along the way regarding my responses and his own. To my surprise, it did indeed help to restore my equilibrium. The telling of it all, her comments as well as my own-all of this took a good deal longer than I expected. In fact, by the time the story was done, we had reached noisy St. Martin’s Lane where the usual crowd of hawkers and barrow-sellers did congregate. ’Twas then just round the corner to Dawson’s Alley and number five.

  It was a larger, more imposing building than most of those there on the narrow little alley. Built of brick and three stories tall, number five was impressive by any measure.

  “This is where her mother lives?” I asked. “Does she own this grand structure?”

  “Ah, no, she rents out the rooms, fixes the meals, and does all that needs to be done. The owner collects the rents. I gather it’s all quite respectable.”

  “It certainly looks respectable-more in the nature of a prison than a lodging house. You’re expected, of course?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Well, do keep in confidence all that I told you on the way here, won’t you?”

  “Oh, I will,” said Clarissa. “Let me repeat that I think you did right to remind Sir John that if he had suspicions earlier, he should have asked to see Mistress Tiddle most immediate.”

  “He admitted as much.”

  “We’ll talk of it later, shall we?”

  “Perhaps. In any case, I’ll come by for you in about two hours, give or take a bit.”

  “Two hours it is.”

  With that, she left me, crossing to the door and banging upon it with the brass hand-knocker that had been there provided. No more than a minute later, Elizabeth appeared, threw her arms round her visitor, and pulled her inside. Clarissa barely had opportunity to wave goodbye to me. My duty then discharged, I set off in the direction of Seven Dials.

  I had not been a great deal of time in Katy Tiddle’s untidy room, not much more than an hour, when I received a considerable surprise. I had thrown open the curtains which covered the window, certain that to do the sort of thorough search Sir John had asked of me, I should need plenty of light. And, indeed, it was so. What the abundance of daylight revealed were bits and pieces of paper scattered here and there round the place. Most of them were of no importance. Mistress Tiddle, it seemed, was in the habit of pulling the labels from all sorts of bottles-chemist’s, whiskey bottles, even French wine bottles (though how and where she had found that last I have no idea). I collected them all, assuring myself that if they had significance of any sort, I would more likely discover it through careful study at Number 4 Bow Street. Yet it may well have been that the labels had no significance at all.

  The pile of numbered tickets and stubs I found in the single drawer of her bedside table was another matter entirely. Could Katy Tiddle read or write? Not likely. Did she know numbers beyond the ten digits she found upon her hands? These, I was sure, were more interesting and of much greater significance-if I could but determine what that significance might be.

  Interesting as these might be-and they did, in the end, prove so-they were not the “considerable surprise” to which I referred a few lines back. That came, as I said, a little over an hour after my arrival. By that time, I had looked near everywhere-through her clothes, under the bed, et cetera. As I
remember, I was standing in the middle of the room, checking the corners, looking about for new places to search, when I heard a noise from the front of the room. I had closed the door after me when I came in to search the place, and, at first, I thought what I had heard was someone unknown to me trying a key in the lock. But no, a moment later the tumbler turned, and I understood that it was not the door to Tiddle’s, but rather the one to Alice Plummer’s, that had just been unlocked. When it swang open, creaking and complaining, I was sure of it. Could it be Plummer come back?

  There were firm steps upon the floor of the room just beyond the south wall. The door had been left open. That meant, perhaps, that whoever had entered had no intent to stay long. If I wished to detain and question that person I had best act quickly and decisively. I tiptoed quickly to Tiddle’s door and opened it. Stepping out into the daylight, I was immediately aware that all my efforts at quiet had been quite unnecessary, for the person in the next room was making a great racket on his own. It was a man. I was near certain of it. Only a man would throw things around and stamp about in such a way. I was in no wise prepared for this sort of interruption and would have liked the opportunity to think through my course of action, but, of course, there was no time for that. If I were to act, I should have to do so immediately.

  I drew the pistol from my pocket and pulled back the hammer. Taking a deep breath, I counted to three and threw myself through the half-open door and then took a couple of running steps into the room. I came to a halt just as quickly when I saw who-or what-it was awaited me.

  One could have called him a dwarf, I suppose, yet there was naught misshapen about him. Leave it that he was a small man, quite small, no more than child-size, yet fully a man. There could be no doubt of it, for, in defiance of custom, he wore a short beard, and, when he spoke, his words came out of him in a growling, rasping baritone.

  “Who the Goddamned bloody hell are you?” he demanded.

  He threw the bedclothes he had jerked from the bed down upon the floor. Then did he stand, hands upon hips, glaring up at me. Behind him, and to the right and left of him, was the chaos he had created in about two minutes time. Drawers had been pulled from a bureau, and clothing was scattered across the floor. In one corner, there was a jumble of toys, crudely carved dolls and the like, all of them Maggie’s, which, I was quite sure, had not been touched.

  “Must I repeat myself?” he shouted out louder than before. “Who the Goddamned bloody hell are you?”

  I fear that I stared at him, so far was he from what I had expected.

  “I was about to ask you the same,” said I at last.

  “Well, I ain’t afeared of giving my name, and I ain’t ashamed of it, neither. Deuteronomy Plummer is what I’m called, and I am cursed with the burden of a sister.”

  “Alice Plummer?”

  “Just so. And she is the sole excuse for my presence here-her and the daughter she don’t deserve.”

  “You have a key,” said I, bringing attention to the obvious.

  “So I do,” said he.

  “How do you come by it?”

  “How do I come by it?” He burst forth with a great booming laugh at that. “How indeed! I pay the rent on this hovel. Ain’t I entitled to a key?” Pausing a moment, he looked me up and down and allowed his gaze to linger upon the pistol in my hand. “Now that I’ve accounted for myself, why don’t you put that bloody big pistol away and return the favor.”

  Though I did not immediately dispose of the pistol, which did clearly make him uneasy, I complied with his request and introduced myself as Sir John Fielding’s assistant at the Bow Street Court.

  “What trouble has she got herself into now?” asked Mr. Plummer.

  “Well, she may have got herself into a bit of it, but we won’t be sure till we find her and have a chance to talk with her.”

  “What sort of trouble?” he repeated in a tone of quiet urgency.

  I decided then and there that it would be best if he discussed that with Sir John. “I tell you what,” said I, “it would be best, I’m sure, if you were to ask that of the magistrate himself. He will tell you all that need be known and no doubt he’ll have some questions for you, as well. You see, it’s all a bit too complicated for me, I fear.”

  He seemed to accept that: “Well, all right. Ain’t that Sir John Fielding the one they call the Blind Beak?”

  “Yes,” said I, “that is how they call him-though not to his face.”

  “Oh, right you are. I’ll not make that mistake. Just give me a little time to straighten up here. I’m afraid my temper got the best of me, and I threw things round a bit.”

  “Right,” said I, “and I’ll lock up next door.”

  I learned a bit more about him as we walked back to Bow Street. Indeed, I learned a great deal, for small though he be, Deuteronomy Plummer was a great talker.

  “Now,” said he to me as we trudged together along Cucumber Alley, “you might wonder how a fella such as I makes his money.”

  “Oh, well, I. .”

  “Let me tell you about it.”

  That he proceeded to do, telling from the beginning and at great length how he had come to London from some town in the north in pursuit of his sister. He found her in Seven Dials, pregnant and whoring and unwilling to return home with him. In the course of his searches for Alice Plummer, he had strayed as far as Shepherd’s Bush. It being a Sunday, he happened to visit upon the day of the horse races at Shepherd’s Bush Common. Now, Deuteronomy Plummer was no stranger to racing of that sort-the hell-for-leather, rough-and-tumble, dirty-tricks kind of racing.

  “I growed up on it,” he boasted. “From the time I was just a babe, I had me a way with horses, and when I started race-ridin’, I found I was just small enough to duck most of the nastiness they’d put my way, and just smart enough to come up with nastiness all my own.”

  That Sunday in Shepherd’s Bush he made a spot of cash, using his horse sense, and betting on sure winners. More important, he got acquainted with owners and saw that there were few riders in his class. And he proved it to the satisfaction of all when, just at the start of the last race of the day, a horse threw its rider, and, knowing full well it was allowed, he jumped into the saddle, gave his heels to the horse, and won the heat and the race. He won the heart of the crowd because of his daring and his diminutive size. And the fact that he had bet heavily on that same horse made him doubly a winner. Ever after, he rode for the owners at Shepherd’s Bush, Blackheath, and all the rest of the major race meets round London. Betting on himself, and only on himself, he had made himself a small fortune.

  “Racing, lad,” said he to me, “ ’tis the only way a fellow small as me has the advantage.”

  I recall that we two were walking cross Covent Garden when he did speak these words, and it was there in the Garden, as well, that I took proper note of the reaction of the crowd to him. Early on, out in the street, I had seen the young, the ignorant, and the rude point at him and giggle at his size. He gave them no heed whatever, so well accustomed was he to such treatment by such ne’er-do-wells. Nevertheless, it was in Long Acre, or perhaps James Street, that I first noticed a different sort of reaction to my companion-and always from men. They noticed him most respectfully. A few did pass us with a smile and a nod; another, just at Mr. Tolliver’s meat stall in the Garden, stepped aside and removed his hat; and indeed, he all but bowed to Deuteronomy Plummer. Previous to this fellow, little attention had been paid to them all by Mr. Plummer. We were not yet past him when the man beside me offered a dignified smile and touched his own hat in response. Then did he wink at me.

  “Who are these people?” I asked. “They seem to know you.”

  “In a way, I suppose they do. That last fellow, the one who took his hat off to me, I see him at every race meet I run. He seems to follow me round, he does. Probably made a good deal of cash just betting on me.”

  “Then you’re a sort of hero, a champion to him,” I suggested.

  “Something l
ike that,” said he pridefully yet modestly.

  “Hmmm,” said I, considering what he had just said. It was an odd idea to me, this notion of fame. In a sense, Sir John had fame, yet his face was so familiar here in Covent Garden that his appearance hereabouts was unlikely to cause the sort of notice that Deuteronomy had caused already. Deuteronomy? Indeed, I must ask him about that.

  “Sir, may I put to you a question that may cause you some embarrassment?”

  “Certainly you may. Though if I find it too embarrassing, I might not answer.”

  “Your name is a rather singular one. How did you come by it?”

  “Plummer?” He seemed to be toying with me.

  “No, Deuteronomy.”

  He laughed at that. “Sooner or later they all get round to my name. I give you credit, lad. You held out longer than most,” said he. “But, well, it’s simple enough, you see. My father was, in his own way, a very pious man, a great reader of the Bible, in particular the Hebrew portion. He had five sons, of which I am the fifth. My brothers’ names are Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers. You see? It makes perfect sense.”

  “All except Alice.”

  “Ah yes, our sister, our only sister.”

  “What of her? I should think a name such as Esther or Ruth would have been more consonant with your father’s past practice.”

  “Perhaps, but it was never discussed within my hearing, nor was I bold enough to ask either of them about it. What I have ever assumed, though, is that my mother, who was also a strong-willed person, said that my father had had the pleasure of naming boys, for he was the father of them all. Yet, she said that since it was that the baby just born was a girl and she the mother, ’twas only proper she should do the naming of her.”

  “And the name she chose was Alice?”

  “Just so.”

  “Why that name? Why Alice?”

  “Oh, probably because it was her mother’s name.”

  “Only that?” He had disappointed me. I felt almost cheated.

  That was quite enough for Deuteronomy Plummer. He halted there, in the middle of the Garden, and where he halted, he fair exploded, stamping one foot and then the other as he shouted out his anger. All of those round us turned to look and wonder.