The Price of Murder sjf-10

by Bruce Alexander

  “Make way, one and all,” I shouted, “for Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court. All who dare impede him in the discharge of his duties by thought, word, or deed, do so at their own risk. All here are answerable to him and punishable by jail terms of up to ninety days to be served in Newgate.”

  Having thus said my piece, I felt a little like the crier for some Oriental potentate. And, indeed, that could not have been far from the impression I created, for all fell silent and opened the way before us three to the Hooker rooms. Did I say that all fell silent? Not quite, I fear, for, behind me, I heard a few ill-suppressed giggles and knew they could only have come from Mistress Clarissa Roundtree.

  Even Elizabeth seemed to hang upon my words. She half-lay upon a love seat, ensconced beneath a comforter. Her mouth was half-open as she regarded the three of us.

  “Clarissa,” said she, “how nice of you to come and bring. . your. . your employer.”

  “Jeremy,” said Sir John, “close the door that we may have some modicum of privacy as we question Mistress Hooker.”

  As I turned to do as he bade me, Elizabeth jumped up from the little nest she had made for herself upon the love seat and waved dramatically at the crowd outside the door.

  “Friends,” said she, “I ask you to remain, and I shall finish the story. You will hear all!”

  There were unhappy groans as I shut the door.

  “Mother,” Elizabeth called out, “do you think they will stay?”

  Mrs. Hooker came forth from a dark corner of the room. “’Twould be better, daughter, if they did not. Your worry should be naught but making sure all is told to Sir John.”

  “Thank you for that bit of advice, Mrs. Hooker. Your daughter would be well-advised to follow it.” He turned left and right as if he were looking round the room. “I have the sense that the room is in disorder. Has the furniture been moved?”

  “It has, Sir John,” said I. (I was long past wondering how he managed such feats.)

  “Then move things back again, will you?”

  With a little help from Clarissa, and Elizabeth pointing the way, we managed to do just that.

  “Now bring me a chair.”

  I placed one under him and indicated to Elizabeth that she was to resume her place upon the love seat just opposite Sir John.

  “Are we ready to proceed?” he asked. Then, hearing our assent, he began. “Elizabeth, we are aware that you attended Easter dinner with Mistress Quigley at the home of your aunt and uncle in Wapping. Is that correct?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Yes sir.”

  I glanced over at Clarissa. She, in turn, nodded toward Elizabeth’s mother. The woman was visibly shocked. Nothing of this was known to her.

  Sir John took the girl through all that we had learned of her actions up to and including the moment that she departed from Kathleen Quigley at the Theatre Royal and took off across Covent Garden in the company of the two young gallants.

  When she acknowledged that this, too, was true, it was altogether too much for the Widow Hooker. She had suffered in silence up to then. Now she cried out her daughter’s name as you might wail the name of one who was lost, near dead, or drowning.

  Sir John turned to her. “I must caution you against making such a disturbance again. If you do, you must suffer the consequences. Is that clear?”

  She said that it was, yet even so, she whimpered and sniffled all through the interrogation. Afterward, he conceded to me that his threat to her was but so much bluffing, and that the mother’s presence was probably a good thing, for she served as a balance to the stern manner he had adopted.

  “My question to you, Mistress Hooker-and I charge you to speak only the truth in answering-is this: What happened to you after you left your friend, Mistress Quigley?”

  “The two young men, as I should have known, were black-guards, plain and simple,” said she. “No sooner was I separated from Kathleen than the two of them fell to arguing between themselves about me.”

  “About you? In what way?”

  “Well, the whole question seemed to be whether or not I would do.”

  “Do? Again, in what way?”

  “Whether I would-how shall I put it? — make the grade. Whether I should, well, qualify.”

  “Qualify for what?”

  “That is what I earnestly sought to discover. They talked of me as if I were not present, as if I were an animal of some sort.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” said Sir John.

  “Well, Dick-he was the one on my left-kept repeating that my bosom was not of sufficient size to be interesting. Bobby-it was him on my right-he insisted it was. Or, what he said in all truth was that it didn’t make much difference. Dick said I wasn’t pretty enough. Pretty enough for what, I wanted to know.”

  “And you did ask them?”

  “Well no, not directly. I wanted to know where they were taking me, for I have a fair sense of direction, and I could tell they weren’t taking me the right way.”

  “Which direction were they taking you?”

  “Well, north, it seemed to me-which was just opposite of the way I wanted to go.”

  “And did you inform them of this?”

  “Oh, I did! I told them they were making a great mistake if they thought they could take me some other place but home. They laughed at me. I dug in my heels and told them I would go no further. They did not then laugh, but they dragged me along for thirty or forty feet until I started to scream.”

  “And then what?”

  “They became quite cross with me. Dick went so far as to shake his walking stick at me and threaten me, telling me what he would do to me if I did not cooperate. But I laughed at him and screamed again. That was when he belabored me about the head, and I fell unconscious.”

  “You actually fell upon the ground?”

  “Well, not quite, I suppose. They held me up, one each side, and I s’pose I was making my feet go. But I was dazed, unable to know where we were headed. Oh, I was in a terrible state!”

  “No doubt you were, but-”

  At that moment, a knock sounded upon the door to the hall. Had I not made it sufficiently plain with my threats that we were not to be disturbed?

  “Jeremy, see what that’s about, will you?”

  “Certainly, Sir John. Shall I send them away?”

  “Let’s see who it is first, and then decide, shall we?”

  (It was on such occasions as this that he often made me feel like an utter fool.)

  I went to the door, opened it, and found a small woman of a size not much larger than Mr. Deuteronomy. She was old, about sixty, and swarthy of complexion.

  “Tell her that Goody Moss is here,” said she to me.

  “Tell who?”

  “The Widow Hooker. ’Twas she who sent for me.”

  “Remain here, please,” said I and closed the door.

  I went back and announced the woman. Elizabeth’s mother caught her breath. “Oh, the midwife, of course! I completely forgot that I had sent for her-to examine Elizabeth. I thought you would want that, Sir John. It should not take long for her to be pronounced intact. You do want that, I assume?”

  He sighed a great sigh and rose from his chair. “Yes, all right,” said he. “Jeremy, come along. We’ll wait out in the hall. Clarissa, I’d like you to remain to serve as witness to these proceedings.”

  And so I opened the door once again and beckoned Goody Moss into the room. Then did I see Sir John out and into a corner some distance from the door. About half of those who listened with such sympathy to Elizabeth’s account of her escape had stayed on to hear the tale told complete; they stared at us timidly. I commented upon this to Sir John.

  “Indeed they seem quite fascinated by her,” he commented. “But why not? She is quite the actress.” He hesitated, then: “And I hoped for a ‘clean’ witness!”

  We waited impatiently. In particular, Sir John seemed most unhappy with the interruption and the consequent delay.
He tapped his foot and sighed. At one point he did speculate: “I wonder what reason that woman, Mrs. Hooker, could have had to summon the midwife.” And then, a moment later, he answered his own question: “She must have been so certain of her daughter’s virtue that she wished to demonstrate it to me.”

  And that was how we passed our brief exile in the hall-whistling, tapping our feet, asking questions of ourselves. Yet, as I say, it was but a brief exile: It was not long before the door was opened to us and Goody Moss came forth and made her way to us.

  “You, sir,” said she to Sir John, “would want to know, and so I shall tell you.”

  “Please do.”

  “Though her maidenhead is long gone, there is no sign of entry. . recently.”

  “When you say recently, what does that mean?”

  A knowing smile. “Oh, a day or two perhaps-or a night and a day.”

  “Is that what you told Mrs. Hooker?”

  “I told her what she wished to hear. To you I tell the truth. I whispered to the girl-what is her name? Clarissa? — all the details. She’s a good girl, very smart. She can tell you all you need to know-if you need to know more.” She gave us a wink. “Goodbye, then, eh?”

  She started for the stairway, but stopped, turned, and came back to us.

  “You did know that she was pregnant, eh?”

  “We knew nothing of the kind,” said Sir John.

  “Indeed she is-about a month or two gone, I would say. Not so she would show. She may not even know. But we have ways of knowing.”

  And then she left us. I watched her go, wondering what those ways of knowing were. From her dark face to her bright garb, she seemed an altogether mysterious sort. Her name did not fit her, nor did her slightly odd manner of speech.

  “Who is she, sir? What is she? Her accent of speech was something new to me.”

  “Goodwife Moss is a Gypsy, my lad. I do know that mode of speech, for a number have appeared before me in Bow Street, though not many are to be found in the cities. They are, for the most part, country people, traveling people. And did you notice the striking odor of the scent that she wore?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes.”

  “All Romany females seem to wear it-from the youngest to the very oldest. But let’s go inside, shall we? I cannot say how this bit of knowledge she gave to us will change anything, or if it will at all, but it is certainly of considerable interest, is it not?”

  Without awaiting my agreement, he started to the room we had left. I offered him my arm, and in we went. Sir John entered with a question, thus beginning precisely at the point at which he had earlier been interrupted.

  “As I recall, in response to your screams, you were beaten upon the head with a heavy walking stick by one of the two young men who had promised to see you home. Is that correct?”

  “Yes sir.”

  I know not why, but just at that moment I happened to glance over at Clarissa, and noticed that she was sending me a message. Emphatically was she shaking her head in the negative. I noted that neither of the Hooker women could see her in the place she had chosen. Answering with a single affirmative nod, I resolved to discuss the entire matter of Elizabeth’s abduction with Clarissa at the earliest opportunity.

  “Then, as you said, you were in a dazed state, not quite fully conscious, yet still moving your feet and stumbling along between the two men. And you were moving in a northerly direction. Is that correct?”

  “All of it, yes.”

  “How long do you reckon you were going in that way?”

  “Well, that’s not easy to say, is it?”

  “Perhaps we can work it out. For instance, you must soon have passed out of Covent Garden and onto the surrounding streets. Think back. Do you remember walking upon the streets?”

  She gave the matter some thought. “Yes, oh yes, we walked some ways upon the street.”

  “You say ‘some ways,’ by which you must also mean some time. Did you hear church bells chiming the hour? St. Paul’s, I believe, strikes every quarter hour. Did you hear it strike once? twice? three times?” Again, she concentrated, pulling a suitably fierce face.

  Then, nodding, smiling. “Why yes,” said she, “I believe I heard it strike three times.”

  “Good! Then that means that, even considering that there are no straight streets in London, if you had been proceeding in a general northerly direction, you would have been somewhere between Holborn and Clerkenwell- that is, with at least a half hour’s walking time. Is that correct?”

  “Well, I suppose so.”

  “But now, what I would know from you is how you managed to travel so far in such a state and cause no notice among those you met along the way? Though it was after dark, it was not late. The area north of Covent Garden is one of the most populous in the city. You must have passed dozens along the way. Even Clerkenwell and Holborn have many afoot that time of the evening. What must it have been? Somewhere round eight, would you say? And here are two young men conveying a girl of your years between them. She is disoriented-dazed, by her own admission-so that she can hardly walk. Would you not challenge them? Would you not raise the hue and cry?”

  He had hit home. He had upset her. He had penetrated the bravado that had heretofore supported her so well. Her lower lip began to tremble as her eyes began to tear. She was about to lose that edge of containment that had sustained her and made it possible to resist him thus far. Yet she found it in her to strike back.

  “How should I know why no one stopped those two and challenged them?” she cried out, holding back the tears. “Ask them, all those people who paraded by me and did nothing to help.”

  “But of course you ask the impossi-”

  “Wait! Wait!” She shouted it out, interrupting, insisting, attempting to regain control. “Now I remember. There was a man who stopped us and asked to know what was wrong with me. I didn’t get much of a look at him, for I was in that half-conscious way, but I had the idea that he was a watchman or a constable.”

  “Oh? And do you recall how your condition was explained?”

  “Certainly I do. They said I was drunk.” At that she forced a laugh.

  Her mother came to her defense: “Ne’er a drop of the devil’s drink has ever touched Elizabeth’s lips,” said she.

  “And never will!” her daughter declared.

  “Admirable,” said Sir John. “But let us get back to that constable, or whatever he might have been. Did he give his name?”

  “No, he did not.”

  Then did a loud, insistent knocking come upon the door. Who could that be? I hurried to open it, and I had barely accomplished that when the door flew out of my hand, and, for a moment, I found myself pushed against the wall.

  That moment was just enough to admit three men I recognized from the silversmith’s shop in Chandos Street. They were Mr. Turbott, the proprietor; Mr. Tarkington, the journeyman; and the apprentice who was in his last year, named Joe; these were the three I saw pouring silver at the back of Turbott’s shop. They rushed forward as if to rescue Elizabeth.

  “Who is here?” shouted Sir John as he jumped to his feet, ready to do battle, if need be.

  Mr. Turbott gave him little attention but rushed to Elizabeth’s side that he might comfort her. It should not be necessary to quote him here, for the words he used were not particularly well chosen. I will say, however, that watching them together gave me a good idea of just who the father of the child growing within her might be. Nevertheless, he managed, after some moments, to tear himself away and identified himself to Sir John as “Elizabeth’s employer.”

  “And, I assume,” said Sir John, “that having just heard of her return, you rushed here from your shop to learn as much as you can of all this. Is that correct?”

  “Quite right,” said he.

  “Well, I, sir, am Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, and I am conducting this investigation. I have no intention of going back over what we have heard from her already. It wo
uld be unnecessary for me, and, no doubt, quite painful for her.”

  “Oh, no doubt you’re right.”

  “I will, however, briefly summarize what has already been established.”

  And this he proceeded to do in his impressive and inimitable fashion. None but Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice himself, could even begin to approach Sir John’s powers of summary. His, I do honestly believe, was the more logical mind. When he had concluded with that, he made an offer to Mr. Turbott.

  “Sir,” said he, “I shall allow you and those who have come with you to remain and hear the rest of this sad tale. But I do so only on the condition that all three of you will keep silent and allow me and only me to conduct the interrogation. There will be no additions, interruptions, or comments. Do you agree to this?”

  “Oh, certainly! And without reservation. I speak for myself and my employees,” said the silversmith.

  “All right then, I believe that Mistress Hooker was about to tell us that she was taken to a house in. . Would you say Holborn or Clerkenwell?”

  “I think that Clerkenwell is the more likely,” said she.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I’ve visited there once or twice on errands for Mr. Turbott.” She turned to him and offered him a smile. “And I was less dazed than before. I took note of my surroundings, you see, and it was all quite familiar-the fields and that.”

  “I understand,” said Sir John.

  “But there was a house at a crossroads-I can’t say where any better than that-and that turned out to be the place we were headed.”

  “And what did it look like? What was its appearance?”

  “Its appearance was ordinary. It was just a house.”

  “Come now. You can do better than that, surely. Was it a house of one story or two? Had it been painted? What color had it? What of the yard-large or small? Please, Elizabeth, you must make a blind man see that house.”

  Quite inappropriately, she giggled at that last request of his. Yet she soon brought herself under control and gave a fair description of the place. It was, she said, a house of two stories and a garret. (“How well I remember that garret!”) One would not call it a house in good condition, for it was unpainted-or if indeed the house had once been painted, any trace of color had long ago disappeared from it. There were trees in the yard, though none of them of any real size, and a great pile of leaves, left over from last autumn. And one final detail: As she had declared earlier, it was a house at a crossroads; there was another, a proper farm house, at the opposite corner. It was well built and well maintained-all that the house she described was not.