Jack, Knave and Fool (22 page)

In spite of the seriousness of the matter, Bunkins laughed quite heartily at the notion. Yet once he had got himself in control, he responded soberly: “Oh no, sir. I am as well provided for as ever a fellow could be. And besides, that would be thieving, and I have left all that behind me. But it was during my days on the scamp — I mean, when I was a thief—that I saw George Bradbury often. May God forgive me for snitchin’ if the man still lives, but the truth of it is I knew him as a fence for objects I had stole. Now, I gave all that up when Mr. Bilbo took me in, and that’s going on three years past, so I had not seen him all that time except for once I chanced to spy him in the street not so long ago.

“Might you be more exact about when it was you saw him?”

“I’d put it about a month past, sir, p’rhaps a few days more.”

“You said (/the man still lives but a moment ago. I infer from that that your identification of the bodiless head was less than absolute and positive.”

“No sir, I can’t say for sure certain it was old man Bradbury bobbin’ around in that jar. That’s why Jeremy and me went off from the doctor’s to Bradbury’s shop in Bedford Street.”

“Oh you did, did you? Both of you? Well, I should like to hear about that.”

Sir John’s wish was no sooner expressed than it was granted. Bunkins told colorfully of our visit to the pawnshop —a bit too colorfully, it seemed to me. It would have sufficed to say that I accompanied him into the place, but to say, as he did, that I had “come in all shifty and grimy, lookin’ the very picture of a village hustler” seemed to me more than was called for. In fact, it drew laughter from the magistrate.

“Grimy, is it? Is this true, Jeremy? I have been assured by Kate that you always present a good appearance.” (Much mock concern in this.)

In my defense I offered the truth. “I had just done cleaning the kitchen fireplace, Sir John. Bunkins helped. He was none too clean himself.”

“Well and good. Continue, Mr. Bunkins.”

That he did, telling first of Mrs. Bradbury’s hasty accounting for her husband’s absence (“She seemed to be making it up as she went along”), and then of her keen interest in the loot from the putative burglary which we were to cart in some future midnight.

“Was it made clear to her that these would be stolen goods?” asked Sir John.

“Oh, it was, for sure certain.”

“Worth noting,” said he. “Proceed.”

“Well, sir, this woman who says she’s Mrs. Bradbury — he weren’t married when I knew him before — she’s just a small thing, she is. Why, she didn’t near fill out the dress she was wearin’. I didn’t see how such a woman as her could kill a man and cut off his head, and do God only knows what else with the rest of him. She’d need help from a man, now wouldn’t she?”

“In the ordinary course of things, one would expect that, yes.”

“Exactly what I was thinkin’ at the time,” Bunkins declared. “That’s why I decided to set up across from Bradbury’s pawnshop at odd hours of the day and see who came by — and stayed. And that is what I done.”

“And you picked out a candidate?”

“I did —one who is known hereabouts as Jackie Carver. I think it ain’t his real name exactly, more of a name he made up for himself like a threat, for he is right handy with a knife. He’s known for it around the Garden.”

“And has he killed before?”

“There’s talk. And he’s always threatenin’ with his knife. He threatened me once over a ring he took from me and sent me runnin’ for my life.”

“This would have been some time past?”

“Yes sir, when I was a thief.”

“Well, if he be also a thief,” said Sir John, “then he would naturally seek out a fence for his stolen goods. This alone would not make him a murderer.”

“No sir, true enough, but this one is not just a thief but a pimp, as well, and he don’t just visit the shop, he goes to stay —hours at a time —so I discovered.”

“You’re suggesting, Mr. Bunkins, that this fellow Carver, if that be his name, has some hold over this woman, this Mrs. Bradbury?”

“She might be one of his old molls.”

“She might indeed. I see your point.” Sir John remained silent for a good long moment as he considered what he had heard. When he spoke again, it came in the nature of a summing up: “I admire the work you have done in this, Jimmie Bunkins. When Jeremy told me that you wished to present suspicions of murder, I did not, in all truth, expect much. Yet what you’ve given me here are very thoroughly investigated suspicions. I like it especially that you refuse to claim positive identification of the head. All your subsequent actions proceeded quite logically from that, and I respect what you offer as logical suspicions.” Again he paused.

Bunkins, smiling broadly at such praise, gave a heartfelt thank-you to the magistrate, adding, “It makes me happy to hear you say so, sir.”

“However,” said Sir John, taking up where he had left off, “they remain suspicions, no matter how logical, no matter how well investigated. You were correct in supposing I would have an interest in this, for while it is true that Mr. Saunders Welch had an interest in the identification of the head, we have a greater interest here at Bow Street because of the questions that you have raised regarding the whereabouts of George Bradbury. The problem for me now, and indeed it is my problem and no longer yours, is how best to proceed.”

“You could arrest ‘em, sir, the both of them, and make them sweat.”

“I could not, in all truth, do that, for there is not yet sufficient evidence against either of them — certainly not against Carver — to charge them with murder. I could detain them for questioning, however, and I may do that. But if I am to proceed as logically as you have, young sir, then the next step would be to write to the local magistrate and ask for confirmation of her account of her husband’s absence. She said Mr. Bradbury was in Warwick?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, that I fear will mean a bit of waiting. Nevertheless, in the interest of proper procedure, that is what must be done.”

“May I make a suggestion, Sir John?”

It was Mr. Burnham who had spoken up. He had listened intently throughout the dialogue between his pupil and the magistrate, occasionally nodding, chuckling to himself once or twice when appropriate. In no wise had he attempted to draw attention from Bunkins to himself. He had been the very soul of tact.

“Mr. Burnham, is it? Why,” said Sir John, “of course you may. You had been so quiet I had near forgot you were here with us.”

“I came,” said the tutor, “out of pride in my pupil and his activities in your behalf. I wished to be certain that he would tell the story to you in the same detail I had heard it from him.”

“May I interrupt?” Sir John inclined his head in Bunkins’s direction. “Are we four the only ones who know all that you have told me?”

“Just us four,” said Bunkins, “but like I said, the surgeon knew I had a good idea who belonged to that head he had in his cupboard.”

“I’m content with that,” said Sir John, “but let us keep it so—just us four.” Then: “By all means, go on, Mr. Burnham, and pardon my intrusion.”

“Certainly, sir. As I said, I wished him to tell the story in all its detail —and as I recall from its earlier telling, he did that. Only one thing I recall, and that was speculation on his part. He mentioned to me in passing that if George Bradbury were dead —that is, murdered —then his murderers would seek to sell his shop, for they could not forever maintain that he had gone home to comfort his dying father. That made remarkable good sense to me, sir, for it struck me that murderers are not the sort to be content very long as shopkeepers—certainly not the pair he has described.”

“I grant all that,” said the magistrate.

“Hence, my suggestion. What would you say if I were to go direct to the shop and inquire of Mrs. Bradbury if the shop is for sale?”

“In just such a way? If they had not put it about, then they would be suspicious.”

“I would wager they have put it about. I would say to them I heard it mentioned at Mr. Bilbo’s gaming establishment. Such things are discussed there. And if they become suspicious, what of it? It would merely, as Mr. Bunkins puts it, ‘make them sweat.’”

“But come now, Mr. Burnham,” objected Sir John, “would they believe — forgive me for saying so —but would they believe that a black man would have the wherewithal to purchase a pawnshop?”

“Sir,” said he, “I doubt not that I do have sufficient funds to buy such a dingy little place, complete with its store of castoffs. When I claimed my freedom, my father settled upon me a considerable sum of money. Not, however, that I would ever truly consider investing it in such a disrespectable business. No, my thought was this: I shall let them know that I know of their trade in stolen goods, and give them the impression that I am eager to continue it. In this way, my color should help convince them that I am earnest in the matter, for it has been my observation, sir, that Londoners are ever ready to believe that a black man has evil intentions.”

Though said with a smile, Mr. Burnham s last remark was meant in all seriousness and evoked no laughter among us. Bunkins and I exchanged uneasy glances. Sir John coughed, cleared his throat, and gave permission to the tutor to pursue his plan. With that, Mr. Burnham stood and took his leave, promising to return as soon as he was able.

The three of us did take a moment to listen to his footsteps as he made his way down the hall toward the door to Bow Street. Sir John then roused himself from his brief torpor and bade me go to Mr. Marsden and draw Irom his list the name of the magistrate who served the town of Warwick. That I did without delay. I returned to find Bunkins spinning the tale of Mr. Burnham s emancipation. Knowing that it would take a bit of telling, I resumed my seat in the chair beside Bunkins. Sir John gave him his complete attention till it was done, only nodding from time to time to indicate his continued interest and comprehension.

Only then did he venture a comment. “A remarkable story,” said he. “It bespeaks a great yearning for freedom on the part of the son and great generosity on the part of the father. The two must have had a very strong sense of family between them.”

“And still do,” said Bunkins, “for they write letters, one after the other. Mr. Burnham’s great regret is that his mother can’t write him. He misses her, he says, and hopes she knows it.”

“Remarkable,” said Sir John, “though certainly not unique, considering the institution from which Mr. Burnham has emerged. There may be a number of such stories from Jamaica and the North American colonies. I doubt not that we shall all come to regret that slavery was permitted.” Then did he turn to me: “But Jeremy, you’re back, are you?”

“I am,” said I, “with the name of the Warwick magistrate. I would remind you, however, that I have here in my pocket the letter from the Lichfield magistrate. Would you want that read to you?”

“No, one thing at a time, and this matter of George Bradbury must take precedence at the moment. Here is the inkwell and the pen.” He opened the drawer, felt about in it, and brought out a sheaf of clean sheets for writing. “Why do you not bring your chair round to your usual place and we shall indite a letter together to Warwick.”

“Together, sir?” He had never sought my help before in composing such letters.

“I fear I am sometimes a bit too blunt to my fellow magistrates. I shall depend on you in this instance to prevent me from causing undue alarm to the recipient. I recall that once some years ago I put a simple inquiry out as to the whereabouts of a fellow, and the magistrate, misinterpreting the urgency of the situation, immediately put the poor fellow under arrest. If George Bradbury lives, I do not wish to have him locked up.”

And so we began the task. As I suspected, Sir John needed no help from me in putting together this letter or any other. Yet after each paragraph he questioned me as to the appropriateness of its wording, and once did defer to me on the construction of a sentence. As I look back upon this, reader, it seems to me that his intention in this exercise was to elevate me in the eyes of my friend. Bunkins, for his part, looked on and listened in great fascination.

As completed, there was little to be read into this communication. It was a simple request for information on George Bradbury. Had he lately returned to Warwick to attend his ailing father? Was he still there? If not, when did he leave? And so on. There was naught to cause so much as a raised eyebrow. The letter was read back to him and approved. With my help, he affixed his signature. His seal was applied, and Bunkins offered to post it on his return to St. James Street. There was then little to be done but await Mr. Burnham’s return — and that was but minutes away.

We heard his hurrying footsteps —all but running he was —ere he presented himself at the open door to Sir John’s chambers. Bunkins and I were there to greet him, yet he burst past us, beckoning us to follow, and made straight for Sir John.

“A most astonishing development,” he announced loudly. “I was greeted at the shop on Bedford Street by one who claimed to be George Bradbury!”

Naturally, because of all he had heard, Mr. Burnham was dubious. He had entered with his story prepared, expecting to be greeted by Mrs. Bradbury, but through the curtain came a man who he knew, from Bunkins s description, could not be my old adversary, Jackie Carver. “He was a tall, thin man,” said the tutor, “of about thirty years, nothing at all remarkable about him, except that he wore beneath his coat a waistcoat of a plaid of the kind one sees on Scotsmen —quite colorful—yet he was no Scotsman. In most respects he seemed to talk as any Londoner of the working class.”

“That weren’t George Bradbury!” crowed Bunkins. “He’s an old fella, twice that age. He may be thin but he ain’t tall, no bigger than me. He — ” And then did he fall silent of a sudden, as if a thought had just occurred to him.

“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Burnham, “that is how he identified himself to me. I said to him, ‘I should like to talk to the owner of this shop.’ He responded: ‘You can talk to me.’ ‘Are you George Bradbury?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I am,’ said he.

“Now, doubtful though I may have been,” continued Mr. Burnham, “I decided to proceed with my plan and informed him that I had heard that his shop was up for sale. ‘It might be,’ said he, ‘but that would depend upon the offer.’ I then told him that the offer would depend upon how much queer trade was done out the back door and how many such suppliers he had. He took this in, considered it a moment, and said, ‘I must talk about it to Mrs. Bradbury.’ Note he did not say ‘to my wife,’ as one might commonly say. In any case, he asked that I come by next day in the morning. I bade him good day and opened the door to go, then did he call after me, asking where it was that I had heard the shop was up for sale. I had my answer ready, of course, and told him I had heard the matter discussed at Mr. Bilbo’s gaming establishment. ‘Do you frequent such places?’ he asked, all surprised. ‘I do when it pleases me,’ said I, and with that I left him.”