Jack, Knave and Fool (21 page)

I stood awkwardly, wondering what I was to do. I was hardly in a position to insist, yet thought perhaps he might yet be persuaded were he to know more of the facts.

“You . . -you … should know, sir,” I stammered forth, “that Dr. Diller was in attendance at the time of her death.”

“All the more reason to give the matter close consideration,” said he calmly. “Good day to you, young man. Arthur? Show him out with our good wishes.”

The butler, who on this occasion had not absented himself from the room, opened the door behind me. I had no choice but to bow and wish Mr. Trezavant a good day in return. Even quicker than we had come, the butler and I paced the distance down the hall to the front door. It was opened for me, and through that portal I exited.

“Good wishes to you, young sir!” the butler called after me.

Yet I, sulking a bit, gave him nothing in return, not even a wave. I felt ill used. While on my previous visit I had been treated with excessive courtesy, on this occasion I had received it in the minimum. Much later I discovered that the old man who seemed resentful of my intrusion was Mr. Trezavant’s partner in business. Whenever he was present, I would be treated similarly.

There was naught to do but tell Sir John that I had failed to coax a reply from Mr. Trezavant. Yet he took it lightly and seemed satisfied with the promise that he would have a reply before the day was out. Having nothing more for me to attend to, he bade me go up and study the Instituted of the Law of England, if that were my wish — and indeed it was my wish.

What he had told me was true. The great work was indeed well written. Sir Edward Coke’s sentences marched across the page in stately, though somewhat archaic fashion. Yet the matter with which they dealt was often so complex that it challenged my understanding. I had made it my habit to read through it very slowly, noting passages on a sheet of paper to which I might return for further study. Thus in near a month I had penetrated no more than fifty pages into the first of the four volumes. Yet I was determined that nothing should dissuade me from my task, nor from my ambition, which was the law.

Thus I read and reread through the rest of the morning, a session of study that lasted two hours or near three. It ended with Annie’s arrival from her schooling with Mr. Burnham. It was her habit to offer me an enthusiastic report on all that she had learned that day —and in truth she seemed to be learning quickly and well under his tutelage. And so, as I heard her footsteps upon the stairs I reluctantly marked my place in the book and closed it. She came bursting through the door in her usual manner, her cheeks aglow from the chill January wind, and dropped her books — Shakespeare and a primer — upon the kitchen table.

“Well,” said I to her, “what have you to tell?”

“Oh, much,” said she, “but that can wait. Jimmie B. walked the way here with me. He waits below in the street.”

“In the street? Why did he not come up with you?”

“A good question. I did what I could to persuade him, but he would have none of it.”

“Ah, what does it matter?” said I, grabbing my hat. “I shall see what it is brought him here.”

“He says it’s important.”

Then down the stairs and out the door I went to Bow Street. There Bunk-ins waited, leaning against a streetlamp, hands thrust deep into his pockets, his coat collar turned up about his muffler. In short, he appeared quite uncomfortably cold.

“Hullo, Jimmie B., what have you for me?”

“I’ve a surprise should give you a rise.”

“Indeed I can’t wait till I’m told, but come in, come in, out of the cold.” I beckoned toward the door.

Yet Bunkins shook his head. “Nah,” said he, “let’s take a walk and have our talk.”

Unable to think of proper rhymes to express myself, I burst out in frustrated prose: “Jimmie B., why is it you will seldom come up and visit? What have you against our little home?” Then I added, “Ain’t it grand enough for you? “—which I knew was not true.

“It ain’t that,” said he, “it ain’t where you live. It’s what I have to go through to get there —past the gaoler and the Beak Runners, past that terrible strong room with its iron bars. Something in me left over from when I was a scamp and a proper village hustler, well, it just turns me cold at the thought of shovin’ my trunk by those poor cods behind those iron bars. I must be feared of bein’ grabbed and locked up for my past sins. I got a dream about that comes often in my sleep. Same one over and over again.”

Regarding him closely, I saw that he was most serious about the matter, for it distressed him to tell it. I could do naught but shrug and say, “As you will, then,” as I fell into step with him. I noted that we proceeded in the direction of Bedford Street and George Bradbury’s pawnshop, which did not much surprise me. As was often so with Bunkins when he had some bit of information to impart, he said little along the way, choosing, rather, to pick the time and place to make his revelation. And so we walked in near silence as we cut across Covent Garden, where the wind whipped across the open space. It was colder at that hour than it had been earlier when I made my journey to Mr. Trezavant’s residence on Little Jermyn Street. Perhaps a storm was coming. Perhaps there would be snow by morning. Only once did Bunkins complain against the cold, but that in such curses and obscenity that they need not be quoted here.

“You’ve a cape,” I responded a bit sullenly (for I felt the nasty chill as keenly as he did). “Why don’t you wear it?”

“Aw, I feel a fop when I do. Wouldn’t look right where we’re going.”

When indeed we did turn down Bedford Street, I assumed we were to pay another visit to the pawnshop. Yet as it developed, I assumed wrongly, for he led me to a grogshop directly across the street from it.

“In here,” said he —and only that.

The place was dark and murky with tobacco smoke, as such places are even in the daytime. A single lamp burned over the bar. Greater light issued from the fireplace, where a warm fire blazed. Though I had expected (and hoped) that we would crowd in with those on the benches round the fire, Bunkins led me to a table next to the rattling windows. I thought he could have chosen better. Spitting on his fingers, he wiped more or less clean a panel of glass so that he might better view the pawnshop.

“You do the same,” said he.

I managed as well as I could and was gratified that the place I had smeared clean did not immediately frost over from the cold inside the dive. Oh, indeed it was a proper dive, as ill kept and filthy as any on the street. And the serving girl who approached as plump and ill favored as any of her occupation in London. When she inquired our pleasure, I had difficulty making out her words, as she had lost many of her teeth in the front of her mouth. Yet Bunk-ins understood her and called for grog. I asked for coffee.

“You only get that with a flash of lightning here, dearie.”

“Then I’ll have the gin on the side.”

“That’s two cups to wash,” said she.

“When did you start washin’ them?” Bunkins sneered.

She took offense at that. “You been here every day,” said she to him. “You seen me workin’ away behind the bar.”

“Only in fun, m’sweet.” (Said with a wink.)

Mollified somewhat, she rumbled corpulently back to the bar.

“Been here every day, have you?” I asked Bunkins.

“I have,” said he. Turned to the window, he spoke, his eye fixed upon the patch he had cleaned for viewing. “Been keeping close watch upon Bradbury’s shop across the way. Now, there’s not many come into such a place. So it’s easy to note when one comes in often or stays long. And I noticed two in particular. One’s a tall fellow who comes and goes, not like he belongs exactly, though something tells me he dorses there. He — “

I reached over and touched his arm as the serving girl returned. He glanced over in her direction and nodded to me. He fished fourpence from his pocket and dropped them on the table. She, in turn, lined up the drinks and scooped up the coins. Without a word, she went back to her place by the bar and near the fireplace.

“You going to drink that?” Bunkins asked, pointing at the cup of gin before me.

“No,” said I, “it would only put me in trouble.”

He reached over for the cup and downed the gin in two gulps. Meanwhile did I sip at the coffee. It was vile stuff but strong and hot, welcome on such a day.

Bunkins returned to the window and resumed where he had left off: “Like I said, the tall fellow just comes and goes, and he don’t stay away long. When Mrs. Bradbury goes off by herself to do errands and buying and such, he looks after the shop while she’s gone.”

“I understand,” said I. “Butyou said there were two.”

“Indeed there is, chum, and that other one comes regular as the clock on the wall, just about this time every day.”

“Well, who is he?”

“I’ll not say, not now. Let’s just wait until he comes, and see if you recognize him. You’ll know the cod. Oh yes, indeed you will.”

Bunkins would say no more. We waited, our eyes fixed to the two spaces we had made for watching. Bunkins had said I would know the fellow, implied he was an acquaintance — a friend? Quite baffled, I tried to guess who or what he might be. One of the Bow Street Runners, perhaps? Surely not. I had at least a nodding acquaintance with one and all. And while some had their faults, none would consort with a murderess. None would, according to Bunkins s suspicion, take part in murder.

“Here he is now,” said Bunkins.

I leaned over so as to see better, and my eyes were drawn most immediate to a figure strutting down Bedford Street as if it were his place alone. Did I know him? Yes, I did. You might call him an acquaintance, though never, never a friend. He was none other than him I had fought, his knife against my club, in an alley quite near to this place just off this very street, not much more than two months past.

“Why,” I whispered, amazed, “it’s Carver.”

“So it is, chum, Jackie Carver.”

“He’s made a remarkable recovery.”

“He has for sure certain.”

I watched him walk up to the pawnshop, throw open the door, and enter it —again with that bold sense of proprietorship. He quite disappeared inside. It was my guess he had walked past the curtain into the rear of the shop. I turned to Bunkins.

“He’s the other visitor? The second one?”

“Oh, that one, he’s more than a visitor. You saw how he walked into the place. When he goes inside, he goes to stay. I sat here Sunday, which Mr. Burnham gives me free. I watched him go in about this time that day and he never come out. She slipped down and locked the door, and he stayed I never knew how long —three hours, at least. That’s how long I waited. There’s your murderer, chum.”

I gave that but a moment’s consideration. “I think you’re right, Jimmie B.”

“Course I am. He woulda killed him while the old man was sleepin’.”

“That’s his way,” said I. Then did I add most solemnly, “You must tell Sir John.”

“I ain’t sure I’m ready to do that just yet. I’d like to know more.”

“If you don’t tell him, then I shall.”

Bunkins, his face screwed in torment, slammed his fist down upon the table. “Damn! I was feared you’d say that!”

We were out tramping the streets once again. Bunkins might have been content to pass an hour or more drinking grog in that primitive setting —he liked far too well spending his time so—yet I had reminded him that he must soon return for his afternoon lessons with Mr. Burnham. With a sigh, he had then agreed he must leave. He, warmed by the grog, and I, by the coffee, held out better against the chill than we had on our way to Bedford Street. He was, in any case, capable of more than cursing the cold. We prepared our course of action.

Though he argued that all we had at that moment were suspicions, we agreed that our suspicions were strong. Sir John, I declared, would know just what must be done to turn suspicion to proper evidence. Could he say with certainty that the head in the jar once sat atop the body of George Bradbury? No, he could not —but Bradbury’s absence from his shop was indeed cause tor question. Were we certain that Jackie Carver had dispatched him? No, we were not—yet both Bunkins and I thought him capable of it, specially if it be done in any way for gain. Then did a terrible thought come to me.

“Jimmie B.,” said I, “you must in no wise let a word escape to Sir John of my battle with Carver.”

“But why not?” said he. “You beat him fair and square —better than fair, for he had a knife and you had only the club given you by Mr. Perkins.”

“True enough, yet to hear that of me might prejudice him against the entire matter. He might think that I bore animosity against Carver still.”

“Well, you do, don’t you?”

“Not sufficient to name him a murderer.”

“He would ve done murder to you that partic’lar night. I know it, and you know it, too. And all he’d have got from it was a coat. Who can say what he’s after this time?”

“Even so, you must leave me out of it. If you were to tell the whole story, Mr. Perkins would suffer, as well.”

“What am I supposed to say, then?”

“Say only that you knew his evil reputation from your own days beyond the law. Tell Sir John that he often threatened with his knife and once did so to you. That much is the truth, is it not?”

“It is, right enough.”

“Then tell him that.”

We had by then reached the corner of Bedford and Chandos Streets, which was our usual parting place. We had stopped, each facing the other, glancing round us at the unusually sparse crowd at this junction, no doubt depleted somewhat by the fierce cold. Bunkins hopped on one foot and then the other, his chin buried deep in his muffler. Though he said nothing, it seemed certain that there was something he wished to address. At last he spoke.

“Listen, chum Jeremy, like I said when we started out, I ain’t real pleased to go back there where the Beak keeps his office. The gaoler don’t like me, and I don’t like him. Seems to me he’d like to pop me in his strong room just for a joke.” He paused a moment, then rushed on: “You couldn’t fix it so Sir John could come over and visit Mr. Bilbo, could you? Then I could take him aside before he goes and tell him all about this Bradbury business.”

“I don’t see how I could do that, Jimmie B. He has duties at court.”

“I didn’t really think that would work. Well, maybe you ought to tell him, ‘stead of me.”

“He’d want you there to ask questions of you. I’m sure of that.”

“I s’pose he would.”

Then did a thought occur to me: “If you were to come between half past three and half past four, that’s when Mr. Fuller usually takes the prisoners off to the Fleet. There’s customarily nobody about except Sir John and Mr. Marsden. But I’ll be there to take you right to the Beak, just in case Mr. Fuller happens to be about.” I forced a smile. “Done?”

Reluctantly, he bobbed his chin in the muffler. “Done,” said he.

Then, with not a word more, he turned and hurried off in the direction of the Strand, which would take him on his route home.

On my return to Number 4 Bow Street I was seized upon by Annie, who told me that the potatoes she had saved for the evening dinner had gone rotten on her. She had meat enough, but it might be good to have a few more carrots and turnips for next day’s stew. Since I was bound by Lady Fielding’s contract with her to do all the buying that need be done, I went off dutifully to Covent Garden to purchase all that she required. Annie, of course, remained safe and snug in the kitchen, tending to her studies.

It was something of a problem, of course, keeping a proper store of vegetables in store in the winter. And it was even more of a problem buying wisely, for the sellers would do what they could to pass frozen for fresh to the unwitting purchaser. I had become wise in their ways and went from stall to stall, testing and squeezing beneath the sailcloth blankets they had tossed over their wares. As a result, my visit to the Garden took far longer than usual.

I found, looking at the clock that ticked upon the wall opposite the strong room, that near an hour had elapsed since my departure. Mr. Fuller was then pulling on his greatcoat, making ready to conduct two prisoners off to the Fleet.

“Cold out there, ain’t it, Jeremy?” he inquired.

“A good deal colder than this morning —colder and colder by the minute, it seems.”

“That’s as I s posed. I thought to get these two cods off to their new home before it gets much worse.”

Then did I hear Sir John’s deep rumble from nearby: “Oh, Jeremy, come here, lad, if you will.”

He was, as I suspected, in Mr. Marsden’s alcove. Magistrate and clerk had evidently been in conference for some time, for both were seated in relaxed postures. Mr. Marsden puffed upon his pipe. I eased down the canvas bag full of vegetables which had grown heavy in my hand.

“Yes sir,” said I. Then adding, to account for my absence: “I was off buying in the Garden.”

“Admirable,” said he, “for we must needs eat. I have news in which I believe you will take some interest.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“Mr. Trezavant was as good as his word. His response to that great packet of letters you delivered him this morning came just before I began my court session. Mr. Marsden read it me, and I’m happy to say he has given permission to perform an autopsy on Lady Laningham. The corpus is now in transit to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery.”

“But that is wonderful news, Sir John!”

‘Good news, certainly. To call it wonderful may be a bit much. Remember, Jeremy, one step at a time.”

“Yes sir.”

“The footman who delivered the letter to me inquired the address of Mr. Donnelly. I’d no idea of it. Luckily, Mr. Marsden had it filed away. Otherwise, we should have had to ask him to leave it for you to deliver. Where were you, by the bye? We sought you upstairs, but Annie said you’d gone out.

“With Jimmie Bunkins, sir. He has a matter of importance he would like to discuss with you.”

“Is he in trouble?” asked Sir John.

Just as I opened my mouth to assure him otherwise, the voice of Mr. Fuller bleated forth from around the corner. “You can be sure of it! Once a thief, always a thief!”

“Careful there, Mr. Fuller. That may be traditional wisdom,” said Sir John, “but it lacks something in charity.”

“As you say, Sir John.” He grumbled it like a sullen old man.

“Now, I must ask you again, Jeremy, hoping for no interruption this time, is he in trouble?”

“No sir, quite the contrary. He has been investigating a matter and wishes to put his suspicions before you.”

“They are suspicions only? What matter does he investigate?”

“The matter is murder.”

“Ah, well, murder, is it? Even suspicions of murder are of interest to me.”

“He will visit you this afternoon.”

“I await his report with interest.”

“I’ll bring him to your chambers soon as ever he comes.”

“Fine, if that is where I be. Oh, but one thing more, Jeremy. A fellow from the post letter office dropped by to say there was a letter for me arrived from Lichfield, no doubt something to do with your fellow Roundtree. He, by the bye, has not yet had the grace to take advantage of Kate’s kind offer. He has not surrendered himself after — how many days?”

“It’s been a week, Sir John,” said I, mumbling in embarrassment.

“Why the fellow from the post did not simply drop it off, I don’t quite understand. He said he had all manner of letters and such for Mr. Garrick at the Drury Lane. Couldn’t be bothered with mine. You see how little the law is respected in London, lad? In any case, do go off and get it for me, will you? It may bear information that will help you find the fellow at last.”

Thus it was that after I had delivered my sack of potatoes, carrots, and turnips to Annie on the floor above, I set off in haste for the post letter office, aware that if I did not hurry, I might not be able to keep my promise to Bunkins.

As it happened, I did not. Delayed as I was by an incompetent clerk (no doubt a paid appointment, as are so many today), I did not return until nigh on four o’clock. Bunkins had arrived only a few minutes before me and had been forced to endure Mr. Fuller’s glare of contempt while Mr. Marsden led the way to Sir John’s chambers. Had he been alone, he might have waited for me, yet as it happened, he was not. Mr. Burnham had accompanied him, and was just seating himself beside Bunkins and opposite Sir John as I entered the room.

This, as I later learned from Bunkins, is how he became involved in the matter:

Bunkins was late for his afternoon lessons. Though it had been a near matter a number of times before, he had never previously violated the hour and minute set by Mr. Burnham. This was because, first of all, Mr. Burnham was quite insistent that instruction begin precisely at the appointed hour; he declared it to be “part and parcel of the process of education.” Secondly, Bunk-ins respected the times set by Mr. Burnham because he respected Mr. Burnham; he had learned well from him, while every other tutor he had had made him feel like some dull-headed dolt. Jimmie Bunkins wished, in short, to please him, yet he had indeed been late, and not only that, he had also come back with spirits on his breath. Mr. Burnham demanded an explanation, else he would put the entire matter before Mr. Bilbo.

Having no choice, Bunkins told him the entire story, from our first glimpse of the human head in St. Andrew’s Churchyard to his activities with me that very day. All that was left out, I was gratified to hear, was my own earlier experience with Jackie Carver —Bunkins kept my secret. Mr. Burnham was fascinated. He asked, rather than demanded, to go along with his pupil to Number 4 Bow Street, for he was eager to know just how Sir John Fielding might deal with this information. Under the circumstances, Bunkins felt he could not but give his assent. And so, after hurrying through the matter for study that afternoon, the two set off together and arrived just before me.

Once I had identified myself to Sir John, I, too, took a place before him and listened as my chum began to spin his tale. He told it well. No doubt having recited it once to Mr. Burnham had given him the opportunity to edit and shape it somewhat. However, his prime listener did put to him some questions along the way. The first few of them came not long after Bunkins had begun. He had told of our journey to St. Andrew’s Churchyard to view the head which had been there stuck on a pole. At this point Sir John raised his hand to halt the narrative.

“Pardon me for interrupting,” said he, “but this gruesome object, you say, had attracted quite a crowd. I heard of the matter, of course, and as I understood it, Mr. Saunders Welch, the magistrate, had offered a reward to him who might identify the … well, the owner of the head. Is that correct, Bunkins?”

“It is, sir, yes. That’s why all of them was out there lookin’ at it.”

“And was it not found in the Fleet sewer, near Holbourn Bridge?”

“That’s as I heard it, sir.”

“Then should you not be telling your story to Mr. Welch? He has claimed a good deal of outer London as his territory, more or less. And since I believe it not the business of magistrates to compete, I respect that claim. Now both Holbourn and St. Andrews fall roughly on his side of the line — if indeed there be a line. Thus I repeat, should he not be told what you are telling me?”

Yet Bunkins knew well enough already what Sir John had explained — knew it from his days of thieving — and he had a notion of just how jurisdictional interests might, in some matters, overlap.

“I understand, Sir John, but I think you should hear me out, for there’s part of this comes right close here to Bow Street.”

“Then,” said the Magistrate of the Bow Street Court, “by all means continue.”

And indeed that is what Bunkins did, telling of his visit to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery, that he might have another look at the head; and of how, by means of the surgeon’s advice regarding the depredations of polluted water and putrefaction upon the object, he managed to make out the features of one who might once have been George Bradbury, the owner of a pawnshop in Bedford Street. And there did Sir John stop him again.

“Bedford Street, you say?”

“Yes sir.”

“That is right close to home indeed. How well did you know this man Bradbury? Surely you are not in the habit of carrying off objects from Mr. Bilbo’s residence and pawning them?”