Person or Persons Unknown (2 page)

At that he rumbled forth a deep laugh. “He was not ill. not unless old age itself be a disease. No, he was eighty-seven years old — fourscore years and seven — long past the time most may hope for. I should applaud him for his long life had he the good grace to retire five years ago or more.

He was, though neither you nor others may have known. Coroner for the City of Westminster. Indeed, there was no reason why you should have known. He had not convened a jury and held an inquest during the last five years, yet he was loath to resign his commission and what it paid him. And so he went from year to year promising to resume his official duties as soon as he was able.”

“And he was never again able,” said I. “Who then performed those duties?”

“Officially, no one. In effect, I did.” His fingers drummed lightly upon the letter beneath his hand. “Coroner, you see, is a very old office which was created to ease man’s ignorance of death. The coroner was empowered to convene a jury; he then served as a sort of judge. Together they were to return a finding on the cause of any suspicious death — accident or murder, natural causes or poisoning, and so on. Well, in any practical manner, an experienced magistrate, or even a constable, can determine that. If we find an entire household chopped to pieces — as we did not all that long ago in Grub Street — then we know, by God, that murder has been committed. The only inquiry in recent memory where some effort was made to disguise the nature of the crime was the Goodhope affair. And the exact cause of death became a matter for which medical advice was needful.”

“And which Mr. Gabriel Donnelly provided.”

“Precisely. And that brings me to this letter here before me. I received notification this morning of Sir Thomas’s death from the Lord Chief Justice. He acknowledged that in any true sense the position of Coroner of the City of Westminster had been vacant for five years but requested me to reinstitute formal coroner’s proceedings, with jury and all, until such time as a new and permanent coroner might be appointed. He means me, in other words, to perform both as coroner and as magistrate for an unspecified length of time.”

“Can you do so much. Sir John?” I asked.

“Oh, I expect I can,” said he. “I’ve had Mr. Marsden look up the procedures and read them to me, and they are simple enough. Nevertheless, I know how the Lord Chief Justice and his kith handle such appointments, and so long as a matter has been given temporary attention, they are pleased to let it run on indefinitely just so. I have no intention of allowing them to do that in this case. And so, I have set forth conditions. No need to go into them now. What you must know, however, is that these conditions are set out in this letter. Therefore I ask you, Jeremy, to put it directly into the hand of the Lord Chief Justice; if he is not there, then you must wait for him. My letter requires an immediate response — to wit, that he agrees or does not agree to my conditions. Let him write so on my letter — Mr. Marsden informs me that he left room aplenty for just such a brief reply. The point is, you must wait for that, as well. Be insistent. Be a pest, if you must. But bring back a reply.”

“I shall. Sir John.”

“Good lad.” He held the sealed letter out to me.

And yet I hesitated as I took it. “There is but one thing,” said L

“Oh?”

“I have been scrubbing stairs up above and am not dressed proper for a visit to the Lord Chief Justice — that is, since I may have to wait for him.”

“I do not quite understand.”

“The Lord Chief Justice’s butler will not admit me unless I am dressed in my best.”

“Oh, he will not, will he? Well …” In this, he sounded an aggressive note. Then, after a pause, he ended in a more conciliatory manner. “Indeed, hmmm, perhaps then you had better change your clothes. Though, I confess I do not like the idea of butlers dictating dress. I do not like the idea of butlers at all. But do be quick about it. I should like this settled as swiftly as possible.”

With the best of intentions, I set out a short time later for the residence of William Murray, Earl of Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench in Bloomsbury Square.

To my own mind, I looked quite the young gentleman as I turned down New Broad Court. A sudden spurt of growth in the spring had made necessary a new suit of clothes. My Lady Fielding bought quite as wisely and generously for me as she had for her son, Tom, mixing ready-made with cast-offs of good quality — even more generous, indeed, for she had purchased two pairs of ready-made breeches for me, the second of darker and more durable stuff that I might have them for quotidian wear. But as with Tom before me, my great prize was my coat — bottle-green it was, with white trim, and as the seller declared, “Barely worn by him for who it was bespoke.” Who would not feel a proper London gallant in such a coat?

I had chosen this route in particular, intending to see one on whom I had lately come to dote. I knew her by her Christian name only, and that, she said, was Mariah. I doubt she knew my name at all, though I had given it her. Yet she met so many men each day, talked with them all, had more intimate congress with some — how could she be expected to remember one who would offer her neither money nor clever chit-chat in the mode of the day, but only dumb adulation and tongue-tied fascination?

It was no more than two weeks ago that I first noticed her. I had stared across a narrow street at her, quite taken by her dark beauty — yet not by that alone, for I was struck direct by the notion that I had seen her before. Oh, I might have done, of course. London was then near as large as it is today, a city of a million or so inhabitants. I knew her to be a girl of the streets, from the way she stood and sought to capture the attention of men passing by. It seemed such as she were without number on this side of the Thames, and most of them right here in and around Covent Garden. Yet the sense of recognition I felt came not, I was sure, from some passing glimpse. No, I felt as if I knew her, in a manner of speaking, from a time much earlier. What was it? When was it?

She was often in New Broad Court, and sometimes nearby in Drury Lane. I had ventured to speak to her once or twice — no, indeed it was thrice. The first time I asked her name, and she gave it readily enough. Yet when I thanked her and walked on, unable to think of another word to say, she called after me, not so much in anger as in annoyance. Hearing her name had done nothing to stir my memory. On the second occasion, I addressed her by name, told her my own, and asked in a great stammer if, perchance, I had known her from some earlier occasion. She answered right saucy that she was aware of no such occasion but that she was easily known and that such would cost me a shilling only. That stopped me short. I blurted that I had not so much, which was a lie, wished her a good day, and all but ran away.

The third occasion had been only a day past. I sought her out because I had at last had some clue of that earlier meeting, hardly more than the passing glimpse I had previously dismissed. It had come to me as in a dream, a reverie of entertainments past in Covent Garden. I would ask her but one question, and then I could be certain. Yet when I sought the opportunity and approached her at her usual place, she recognized me at a distance from my earlier attempts to converse and turned away most petulant. She walked swiftly up Drury Lane as I followed in pursuit. Then she came to a fellow of about my size, though a bit my senior in years. Whispering to him, she turned back and pointed in my direction, and then she hurried on. He, however, came straight at me, blocking my way on the walk. He accused me of “bovvering the young lady” and advised me to “shove my trunk” in the opposite direction. In order to assist me, he grabbed at my shoulders and would have pushed me back, had I allowed it. But with a swift movement of my own, I broke his hold on my shoulders with my forearms, and in the bargain, threw him off balance. He staggered back a few paces. We stood there so, each taking the measure of the other, and I looking beyond him in vain for Mariah; she had disappeared in the crowd of pedestrians on Drury Lane, or perhaps ducked into a shop along the way. Passers-by had halted, sensing the sort of acrimony in the air that might lead to pugilistic diversion. We left them unsatisfied. I must have relaxed perceptibly in disappointment when I found that Mariah was no longer in sight, because for whatever reason he turned round of a sudden and walked away. I did the same, ignoring the groans of the bystanders at their lost entertainment. Sir John had laid upon me a strict injunction against tussling in the streets, and quite right was he to do so. It would not be proper for one under his protection to disturb the peace in so blatant a manner.

And so, as I left Bow Street for Bloomsbury Square late in the afternoon in question, it is true I chose a path that might lead me near Mariah. But I had determined only to look upon her as I passed and had accordingly chosen the side of the street opposite the one on which it was her custom to take her place. She had offended me with her pettishness — running away, as she had, then siccing that bully-boy on to me. Who was he? What was he to her? If Mariah had no desire to speak to me, then I certainly had none to speak with her. Yet one last look might confirm the memory I had of a Sunday afternoon two years past, of a troupe of tumblers, a girl younger than myself, more agile and graceful than all the rest. Was it she? How was I to know if I could not view her one more time? Mariah was nowhere to be seen.

But indeed she saw me.

As I walked down one side the street scanning the other I felt a hand at my sleeve and a sudden tug. I looked round sharp, ready to defend myself and found her half hidden in a doorway.

“Mariah!” said I.

“You!” said she, quite simultaneous.

Then nothing for a moment as we regarded one another in surprise.

“You look ver’ gran’ today,” said she.

She spoke with uncertainty, in such a way as to suggest that she spoke another language better than English. That, too, agreed with my memory.

“These are my good clothes,” said I, “indeed they are my best.” Then I added, hoping basely to impress her: “I am on my way to Bloomsbury Square to deliver a letter to the Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench/’

“You work for him?”

“No, Sir John Fielding is my master. He is Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

“Ah, I have heard of him. He is a big man, yes? He send everyone to Newgate.”

“No, he sends them to the Old Bailey for trial. Then they are sent to Newgate — or to Tyburn.” Would she understand such a distinction?

“Mmmm. Tyburn!” She grabbed her throat, closed her eyes, and stuck out her tongue. “I go there once to watch them hang. Never again! It’s ‘orrible.”

“I’m sure it is. I’ve never been.”

Then an awkward moment. My mind went utterly blank as I looked upon her. Her hair shone lustrous black in the afternoon sun. Her eyes were near as dark. They seemed to narrow a bit. Was it suspicion, or was she merely reassessing?

“I was mean to you before. I am sorry.”

She did seem sorry, it was true, though she offered no explanation for her conduct. I wanted to ask the identity of the fellow she had sent to block my way. I wanted to ask why she had done so. But I asked neither. I simply nodded, as if to say that I accepted her apology.

“There is something I wished to ask you.”

She smiled most pretty. “And what you wish to ask?”

“I’ve had the feeling since first I set eyes upon you that I had met you before — and in a sense I believe I did. Tell me, when you were younger, did you work with a trouf>e of tumblers … acrobats?”

”Saltimbancos? Acrobati? Si! — yes, they were my brothers and my father. They… they go back to Italy.”

“And they left you here?” The very idea seemed quite monstrous to me. They had, in effect, orphaned the girl, one of their own blood.

Yet as I thought these dark thoughts, her face underwent a sad and remarkable change. It seemed to crumple before my very eyes. She turned away, but I saw that she was weeping. It quite broke my heart to see her so. I dug into my pocket and found the kerchief Annie had washed for me. I pressed it into Mariah’s hand. It took a minute or two of dabbing and blowing, but she managed at last to gain control of herself.

“No, not so,” she said. “I was to blame. I was ver’ foolish. I said I would not go to Italy. I would stay in England. They said I must do what they say — but the night before they left I ran away and hid with those I thought were my friends.” Then she added most bitteriy, “They prove’ to be false friend.”

“When was this?” I asked. “When did all this happen?”

“A month pas’.”

“And you have been on the streets ever since?”

“No, first I was in a house — you understand? I escape’. Even this is better.” Then, of a sudden, she pulled away and forced a smile. “But we talk about this after, yes?”

“After?”

“What a beautiful coat this is!” She fingered the material tenderly. “That Sir John, he mus’ pay you well for you to have such a coat. But I tell you, because I like you and because you remember me from before, I give you a good price — two shillings only. Come. I have a place near. We go, eh?”

“No,” said I firmly. “As I told you, I have a letter to deliver lo the Lord Chief Justice.”

“Ah, yes, the famous letter.” Which was said a bit ironic. “You do that after, eh?”

“No, I must go.” But, reaching deep into one of the capacious pockets of the coat, I pulled out a shilling and put it in her palm. “Take this for your time. Perhaps we can talk again?”

She took the shilling greedily and tucked it in her bodice between her dainty bubs. Ah, how I envied that shilling!

“For a shilling we talk anytime — no, I make a joke, eh? Yes, we talk. I like you. And next time you come with me, yes?”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, and thank you. Grazia! Molte grazieT’

Difficult as it was to pull myself from her, I hastened away, joining the multitude on Drury Lane, swimming against the tide of humanity, pressing on to Hart Street, which would lead me straight into Bloomsbury Square. It was not far. I had not dallied long. And I was sure I had made up for some minutes lost by my great hurry to get there.