The Price of Murder sjf-10

by Bruce Alexander

  “They all seem the same to me,” said he. “But then I ain’t no gin-drinker, and gin is what them in such places crave.”

  And they craved little else, it seemed, for when we began our canvass of Alice’s haunts we were struck most immediate by the quiet that pervaded them. There was little talk or laughter to be heard-a few mumbles from the tables, perhaps-but nothing so demanding as a conversation. That awful silence is what I recall most vividly. And again, how different this was from those rowdy dives in Bedford Street. There one could barely hear his own voice from the roar of the crowd, day or night. A few even offered music of a sort.

  Why, I recall the last such place we called at in Seven Dials-and well into the afternoon it was. The place had no name, or at least none that I can remember-and no sign or decoration of any sort; all that I can recall is the single word, GIN, painted in bold letters upon the door.

  We entered, and for a moment we were blinded by what at first seemed a total absence of light within the place. Yet the absence was not complete; a few candles burned inside, and as our eyes customed to the dimness, we did at least perceive the size and shape of the world we had entered. And yes, a “world” was just what it seemed, so distant and different was it from that we had just left. There must have been twenty-five or more seated at tables and standing at the bar. A few of them looked our way, staring at two who plainly did not belong. We were intruders, no question of it. Slowly, still surveying the dark interior as best we could, we made our way to the bar. (I noted, by the bye, that none made comment upon Mr. Deuteronomy’s size at that location, nor had they in such places as we had visited earlier.)

  The innkeeper climbed down from the stool upon which he was perched and came over to us.

  “Which will it be?” he asked us. Then did he point to a sign up above his head. The sign did read: DRUNK FOR A PENNY/DEAD DRUNK FOR TUPPENCE.

  “Neither one,” said I. “Sir John Fielding did send me here to Seven Dials to ask a few questions of you. We’re curious what’s the last time you might have seen Alice Plummer?”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Well, you ought to know her,” said Mr. Deuteronomy to the innkeeper quite sharply. “She would come round here for her first glass of the day.”

  “That so? Well, we ain’t too good on names round here. You take all what’s in here now, about half of them couldn’t tell you their own names, much less anyone else’s. What’s she look like?”

  I, who had never seen the woman for whom we searched, could only shrug and gesture toward her brother. Yet, he provided quite satisfactorily.

  “She’s taller than me by near a foot,” said Deuteronomy. “She’s got kind of mousy-colored hair, blue eyes, and wears a blue cape that I gave to her.”

  “That ain’t much of a description.”

  “Well, it’s the best I can do.”

  “What about this?” said I. “She had a daughter about seven years old-but small for her age-name of Maggie.”

  “We don’t serve them that young around here,” said the innkeeper sternly. “You got to draw a line somewheres.”

  “I didn’t say you did serve the little girl,” said I. “I meant only that she might have been along.”

  “Oh, well, let’s see.” He concentrated visibly, a hand to his forehead, a pained look upon his face. “Wasn’t there a Beak Runner come around a couple of times, asking after her? I mean the little girl, of course. He said she’d been stole. Now I recollect her and the woman who used to bring her in.”

  “That’s her, all right,” cried out Mr. Deuteronomy as loud and jubilant as if she had thus been brought back to life. “That’s the both of them!”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I told that Beak Runner. I ain’t seen either one of them for near a month.”

  FOUR

  In which Maggie is buried, and her uncle continues the search

  Had there been mourners in attendance, the funeral of Margaret Plummer would have been grand as any. Strange it was to hear choir and organ in the nearly empty nave of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. They thundered forth in that early morning hour, yet only Deuteronomy Plummer, Clarissa, and I were present to hear. Mr. Deuteronomy sat front and center in the first row, and we two but a few rows behind him. The vicar said a proper funeral mass, at the end of which he ascended to the pulpit and preached a brief sermon.

  Sermon, did I say? It was hardly that. There was little could be said as eloquently as was stated by the mere presence of that sad, small coffin before the altar. Yet it was, I suppose, a sermon right enough, for the vicar quoted St. Matthew, chapter 18, verse 6.

  “But who so shall offend one of these little ones which believe,” said he in a voice that rang forth strongly and filled the great church, “it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.”

  Then, pausing but a moment to look each of us in the eye, he continued, signaling by some lightening of his tone that he no longer quoted scripture but spoke now as himself: “It should be understood that this is the most frightening passage of any in the gospels. I know of no harsher words to come from the lips of our Lord than these. Why then did he save them for those who commit crimes against children? The answer should be plain to us all. Because such as they are quite unable to defend themselves. They must depend upon the generosity of others for their defense. I am told that this child, Margaret Mary Plummer, had no chance at all-that she was sold into a life no better than a form of slavery, which quickly ended her, and. .”

  The vicar, a man of sixty or more, went on in this vein for a bit longer, but my notice was just then diverted to Mr. Deuteronomy. ’Twas Clarissa who called my attention to him. She gave me a sharp nudge with her elbow in my side. Having thus signaled, she pointed across the rows that separated us and showed me how the vicar’s words had affected our friend. His head was bowed, and the line of his shoulders was irregularly visible only just above the pew, for those little shoulders of his heaved up and down quite uncontrollably. He was weeping forlorn and bitter tears.

  Even the vicar seemed to notice. He hurried his remarks through to the end and called for the pallbearers. Two men-no more-appeared from some spot secluded from our sight. Placing themselves one on each side the small coffin, they lifted it, and, to some stirring anthem sung by the choir, followed the vicar to the side door of the church, which, as I knew, led out to the churchyard. Mr. Deuteronomy fell in behind the coffin, and we behind him.

  One of the pallbearers looked remarkably familiar. Though I could not immediately place him, I was inescapably certain that I had not only seen but also talked with him most recent. Now, who was he? Then, soon as I had put the question to myself, I had the answer. ’Twas Walter Hogg, the fellow I had talked with before the race in Shepherd’s Bush. He it was had also removed his hat to the jockey the day before the race when we met by chance in Covent Garden. I’d no idea why he served as pallbearer. How strange that he should have popped up again this way. Had he volunteered for such duty? I resolved to speak with him at the earliest opportunity and find out.

  The grave, newly dug beneath an oak tree, was easily detected as soon as we made our way through the entrance into the churchyard. It was a choice location. Deuteronomy Plummer must have paid a pretty penny for it, I reflected, for there’s naught that comes cheap in such a funeral as this one. And of course Mr. Deuteronomy would spare little or nothing in providing his niece with the finest for her final resting place. By and by we came to the spot. The pallbearers rested the coffin upon the cross bars above the grave and stepped aside. Then did the vicar begin his prayers at the graveside as Deuteronomy wept on ceaselessly. At the prayer (“Man, thou art dust”) the vicar indicated that Mr. Deuteronomy might toss a handful of dirt upon the coffin, but the offer was declined. At another signal, the two pallbearers picked up the ropes with which the coffin would be lowered into the open grave. Yet there was something still to be done. The vicar seemed to be looking at me
and pointing down. At first, I had no notion of what he wished from me, yet a bit of gesturing made it all clear: I was to pull out the cross bars that supported the coffin. I scrambled to it, and as the pallbearers supported the box with the ropes, I whisked the wooden bars out from under it. And then slowly, little by little, it disappeared down into the darkness of the earth. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. .”

  Oddly, Mr. Deuteronomy seemed to regain his composure immediately after the graveside service. He went straight to the vicar and, after blowing his nose loudly into a silk kerchief and dabbing at his eyes to dry the tears, he pulled from his coat pocket a purse filled with coins and opened negotiations with the clergyman.

  And, for my part, I sought out Walter Hogg that I might discover how he came to participate in these proceedings. As it happened, he was on the far side of the grave, working free one of the ropes on which the coffin had rested. He wound it swiftly and expertly round his arm. He seemed eager to be away. Clarissa followed me out of curiosity and listened in.

  “May I have a word with you, Mr. Hogg?”

  “Well, I haven’t much time now, have I? Must be on to another funeral,” said he.

  “Have you something to do with the church here?”

  “Naw, naw, ’tain’t like that at all.”

  “But you’re not a friend of Mr. Plummer, are you? I seem to recall from our conversation that you. .”

  “No, I told you I never had sand enough to walk up to him and meet myself up to him. Arthur and me”-he nodded at his companion-“we work for the embalmer. Learning the secrets of the trade, as you might say.”

  “Surely not as an apprentice? You’re a good deal too old for that.”

  “No, we just works for him. That’s all. Part of workin’ for him is we fill in as pallbearers when it’s necessary, as so it was today.”

  “Well, all right,” said I, “but wouldn’t you like to meet Deuteronomy Plummer? I’d be happy to introduce you.”

  “No time for that. Like I say, another funeral.”

  With that, he turned his back on me and, having concluded his winding of the rope, he called quietly to his companion: “Arthur, you ready, are you?”

  Arthur nodded, shouldered his coil of rope, and shuffled about, indicating his readiness to depart. Walter Hogg turned back to me.

  “Now, if I understood a-right,” said he, “that little girl in the coffin, she was some relation to Mr. Deuteronomy, ain’t that so?”

  “That’s so,” said I.

  “Well, I wonder, will he be riding at Newmarket this Sunday? It’s a King’s Plate race-all the best from all the counties will be there. Didn’t mention anything about that to you, did he?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Just as I feared. Well, I’ll go there and take me chances. Goodbye to you, young sir”-with a nod to Clarissa-“and to you, young lady.”

  Then did he leave with Arthur in tow. The two men headed for the gate that led to Bedford Street. Their wagon was there in the alley, no doubt, and indeed, I vaguely recalled an embalmer’s shop in King Street, if I were not mistaken. But it was not the sort of thing that would stay in your head, was it?

  “What was that all about?” Clarissa whispered.

  “I’m not sure,” said I quite honestly. “Just someone popping up where he wasn’t expected. Probably just a coincidence.”

  “Writers of romances know there is no such thing as ‘just a coincidence,’” said she smugly. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t like the looks of the fellow at all.”

  “I’ll tell you all that I know about him later on.”

  “See that you do.”

  Having come at last to a figure that suited them both, Mr. Deuteronomy and the vicar clasped hands. Then did the jockey count out the sum into the clergyman’s hand. Though I had not a good view, judging from the time it took to count it out, it must have been a considerable amount. He turned round then and came toward us, casting not a downward glance as he passed beside the open grave. Looking from one of us to the other, he made it plain that he wished to be introduced to Clarissa. I did the formalities with dispatch and (I thought) a bit of style, as well.

  “I wish to thank you both for coming to the service,” said Mr. Deuteronomy. “She got a proper sendoff, don’t you think?”

  Clarissa seemed puzzled. “She?”

  “Maggie, Margaret Mary-my niece.”

  “Oh,” said she. “Oh, yes of course-the funeral. It was all quite grand. I. . I shall always remember it. The sermon!”

  “The choir,” said I.

  “Anyways,” said he, “it seemed like the least I could do for her.”

  “You. .” I hesitated, not knowing quite how I might best frame the question. “You may not wish to go out today in search of your sister. I can well understand if you do not. Just say the word and-”

  “Oh no! No indeed,” said he, interrupting. “I would not think of deserting the hunt. Not now, not ever! Just give me time to duck back to me ken to change me duds, and I’ll meet you at that same coffee house we met at yestermorn. That suit you?”

  I nodded. “It suits me well.”

  “Good. Then it’s agreed, ain’t it? Oh, but one more thing. When we first met, you had a pistol you was carryin’ about. You recall, you took it from that Tiddle woman.”

  “I recall right enough.”

  “Bring it along again, would you?”

  “Why? Are the places we’ll visit today so dangerous that we must enter them armed?”

  “No, not so. I’ve got a notion about that pistol, so bring it along. I’ll tell you about it when I see you in the Haymarket. And bring along that last pawn ticket, will you? That’s part of my notion.”

  I spent the length of our walk to Number 4 Bow Street bringing Clarissa to date on aspects of the case. She wanted first to know all I could tell her about Walter Hogg-which, in truth, was not much.

  “What is most interesting about him,” said I to her, “is that he has appeared quite unexpectedly twice since he first doffed his hat to Deuteronomy Plummer here in Covent Garden.”

  “But, as I said earlier, Jeremy, there are no coincidences.”

  “Well, no doubt they are rare, but surely this is one.”

  “Perhaps-but I doubt it. Do you think he and Mr. Deuteronomy are acquainted?”

  “I doubt that very strongly. You recall I offered to introduce him to Mr. Deuteronomy? Well, it seemed to me then that the fellow was truly in awe of the jockey. Look upon it so, Clarissa. We may see Deuteronomy as no more than one who rides upon racing horses-though having seen him at it, I can well believe that he is the very best there is-nevertheless, Mr. Hogg sees him as something more, a source of money, dependable income. I doubt not that Hogg makes more by betting upon Mr. Deuteronomy each Sunday than he does from laboring the rest of the week for his embalmer.”

  Clarissa gave that some thought. “Do you mean, Jeremy, that there is so much to be made from wagering upon horses?”

  “I’d say there was no question of it. Why, I saw near as much cash changing hands at Shepherd’s Bush a day past as I saw of an evening at Black Jack Bilbo’s Gaming Club.”

  “Really? I’d no idea.”

  “And bear in mind,” I continued, “that the meet in Shepherd’s Bush was by no means one of the grand races-nothing, that is, compared to what’s held at Newmarket out on the heath. You heard what Hogg had to say about that, didn’t you?”

  “That all the best from all the counties would be there-horses, presumably.”

  “Horses indeed! And they’ll be there to run because the prize money is grandest there-though Mr. Patley insists that for the owners and breeders it’s the honor of winning that means most.”

  ’Twas when this was said that we left the Garden and struck off down Russell Street on our way to Bow Street, just round the corner-that much I recall exact, though I am not near so certain of the precise words of Clarissa that followed. I believe, however, that they went something like this:


  “Jeremy?”

  “Yes, Clarissa, what is it?”

  “That King’s Plate race in Newmarket-that’s next Sunday, is it not?”

  “So it is.”

  “Will you be going to it, as you did to Shepherd’s Bush, in order to keep an eye on our Mr. Deuteronomy?”

  “I doubt it,” said I. “First of all, Newmarket is quite some distance north-near Cambridge it is. And then, too, Deuteronomy has been so cooperative the last day or two that I, personally, think there’s no need to keep a close watch on the fellow.”

  “But say you were to go up there,” said she. “Since this is an all-England event, might it not be that there would be an even greater number of bettors, and consequently greater sums wagered?”

  What was she getting at, I wondered. “That would be a probable result,” said I.

  “Well then, Newmarket offers a great opportunity.”

  “An opportunity of what sort?”

  “Just think of it. If we were to combine your money with mine-we each have a little, after all-the combined amount would be, well, no longer just a little, but more than that.”

  “Yet still not a lot!”

  “Nevertheless,” she declared, “it could be enough to win us our fortune, given favorable odds.”

  “Favorable odds? Dear God, Clarissa, are you seriously proposing that we gamble away the little money we have in pursuit of making a fortune for ourselves? Why, that’s. . that’s laughable.”

  “Not with favorable odds and the right attitude.”

  Though what she said was silly, somehow she did not appear silly saying it. No, the expression she wore on her face was one of quiet conviction. She believed profoundly in what she said.

  “And what, pray tell, is the right attitude?”

  “Prayerful and submissive.”

  At that I threw up my hands in dismay. “Oh, Clarissa, be serious, won’t you?”

  “I am being serious-and never more so. This is our future we’re discussing, is it not? Don’t you see? We could be married!”