Person or Persons Unknown (26 page)

So did Robert Bumham come into Black Jack Bilbo’s employ as Jimmie Bunkins’s schoolmaster. I shall not pretend, reader, that all that I have revealed above I gleaned from Bunkins’s first telling of the tale, which was at best patchy. Yet I would come to know the young gentleman from Jamaica better and learn far more about him than I have given here.

Let it be said merely of Bunkins’s recital that it ended very nearly as it had begun — with Bunkins proclaiming his tutor “a rum joe” and adding that Mr. Bumham was the only teacher from whom he had ever learned a thing.

“Oh?” said I, “what about that French lady who taught you in her language? You learned nothing from her?”

“Madame Bertrand? What I learnt from her in Frenchy-talk was just to parrot what she said — though she taught me a few other things worth keepin’ in me napper. She was a rum blowen, she was, but she wasn’t no real teacher, wasn’t meant to be such.”

“How is Mr. Bumham different from the rest of them?”

“Well, first of all, he talks to you like you was a joe and not some eejit. And I remember one time, he takes me out for a walk, and he shows me there’s writing all round London — names of streets, shops and such, adverts and bills posted on walls, things I’d never bothered with. He showed me what I’d been missin’, he did. And he showed me, too, I could read some of them right off. It wasn’t just what was in the book. So I been practicin’ — like each time I goes out on tasks for Mr. Bilbo.”

By that time, Bunkins having told the long story of Mr. Bumham’s arrival in London, we had reached Chandos Street, where shops abounded of all purposes and descriptions. I thought to put him to the test and asked him to demonstrate his new-found skill. He quailed not at my challenge but stopped at the next shop and gave thoughtful study to the sign hung in front.

“Well,” said he, “from lookin’ inside, I know what sort of shop it be, but that ain’t what the sign says. It says ‘a-po-the-ca-ry’ “ — sounding it out carefully just so — “which, putting it all together, would be apothecary. And that must be some fancy name for a chemist’s shop, for that is what it is. There now, ain’t I right, chum?”

I was indeed most favorably impressed. “Right as can be. Mister Jimmie B.,” said I, saluting him in rhyme.

At which he stuck his tongue out at me. “Me tollibon’s out to you,” said he, seeking to match me in rhyme, “for daring to doubt me so.”

“That’s no proper rhyme,” said I.

“Tis,” said he.

“‘Tisn’t,” said I.

And, laughing, we repeated our claims for near half the length of the street. Then, thinking to play a trick upon him, I stopped quite sudden before the dressmaker shop of Mary Deemey.

“There,” said I, “read me that.” And I pointed at the daintily printed sign in Mary Deemey’s window.

He had no difficulty with her name and only a bit with “dressmaker,” yet the phrase below it, ”modes elegantes,” confused him. He read them out right enough, but they did not seem right to him.

“Should be t’other way round — ‘elegant modes,’ fancy fashions, like. Ain’t that right?” Then I saw kindle in his eyes the fire of suspicion. “You bugger,” said he. “That’s Frenchy-talk! You thought to addle me with French!”

Then did I run from him, laughing, and then did he chase me, shouting that low epithet so loudly that heads turned — “Bugger! Bugger!” — as we ran through the crowd. Sour disapproval registered on every face. He caught me up in Half Moon Passage and we wrestled a bit in jest. Then, quickly satisfied, we walked on together arm in arm. Two lads out on the town. We went so into Bedford Street where I did see something — or rather, someone — that brought me to a halt, and perforce Bunkins, as well.

“What is it?” said he. “Why’d you stop?”

“That fellow on the other side of the way — the one loitering at the door of that dive talking to the other that has his back to us. Who is he?”

I had pointed out the one I called the bully-boy. As Bun-kins looked, my eyes swept the street, but I saw no sign of Mariah.

“That one? You want nicks to do with him. He’s a queer cull, if ever there was one, right nasty with a knife.”

“Has he taken a stab at anyone? Who has he cut?”

“I ain’t all that certain he’s cut anyone. Still and all, he does dearly love to whip it out and scare people with it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as? Whores mostly, and me once when I was a kid. I’d napped a ring he wanted. I tried to sell it to him. Out came the knife, and he made a lunge at me, prob’ly just as a scare. Well, it worked. I took to me heaters, and he kept the ring.”

I was reminded of Yossel, whose way it was to threaten to cut off a nose or an ear and thus rob women of the streets of their earnings. He swore his were only threats; that he had never cut a one. Perhaps the bully-boy was just such a one — but f)erhaps not.

“Is he what you’d call a high-ripper?” I asked Bunkins.

“You can call him what you like, but he’s a nasty cull. That much I’ll give you.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jack something.” Bunkins gave it a moment’s thought. “Jackie Carver, he calls himself. But I think it’s a made-up name, like ‘Jack-the-carver’ — he’ll carve you up, see?”

As we discussed him, Jackie Carver concluded his conversation at the door of the dive, left his chum with a wave, and walked through it — lost from sight.

“Why’d you want to know about such as him?” asked Bunkins.

“We’ve had some dealings,” I said, not wishing to tell him more just then.

The reason we went roundabout — from St. James Street to Little Russell Street by way of Covent Garden — was that Jimmie Bunkins was most eager to view the sites of the past two murders; the first two he had already seen. It was not mere morbid curiosity that prompted him, for I daresay, his years on the surrounding streets had given him a knowledge of the secret byways of the district superior to any other. He wished to be helpful, and as it happened, he was.

When I led him to the passage on Henrietta Street where the body of Nell Darby was discovered, he remarked that he knew the place well.

“On cold nights, or rainy ones, I used to dorse here,” said he.

“Right here? Out in the open?”

“Do I look like an eejit? No, chum, there’s a spot down here a bit. Let me show you.”

He took me several steps down the way to a spot on the building which provided the east wall of the passage. It was a once-grand structure, built in the old style of wood and stucco. The lower portion was all of wood.

“See here?” said Bunkins. “There’s a door here in the wood.” He traced its outline, about three feet square, which was nearly invisible to the eye, even in daylight, so tightly fitted was it. “You got to know where to hit it.”

He pounded thrice at different spots before hitting the right one. The door popped open no more than two inches. He swung it open to reveal the black space beneath.

“It’s an old coal hole, see? The — what do you call them? — the hinges is on the inside so’s you can’t take it for a door from the outside. This was one of them big houses once where somebody rich lived. Now there’s prob’ly a couple score living where four or five once did. And all who live here now must find their own coal, and there’s no need for such as this. They store furniture and the like here.”

“Where does this lead?” I asked. “Is there another door out?”

“Course there is. It leads to a hall and another door to Henrietta Street, which is kept bolted from the inside.”

“That explains it then.”

“Explains what?”

“How Mr. Tolliver heard footsteps behind him just before he found the corpus of that girl, Nell Deirby. But he looked back and saw nothing.”

“There’s spots between here and the Garden where a body could step in and hide.”

“I must tell Sir John of this.”

We arrived at the stables at the foot of Little Russell Street to find Mr. Perkins “keepin’ fit,” taking great whacks and kicks at the sailcloth bag, sending it swinging this way and that. He was naked to the waist, and in a good lather on this cool autumn day. From the look of him, I estimated he’d been working so for near an hour.

Standing to one side, we looked on till such time as he chose to notice us.

Jimmie Bunkins was much impressed. He watched the constable’s every forceful move and seemed most particularly impressed by the swiftness of his feet — the kicks, of course, but his feet seemed perpetually in motion, moving back and forth, in and out in an endless dance.

“I never seen such,” Bunkins whispered to me. “And him with only one arm. He could take any man who’s got two.”

“He could indeed,” said I.

The stump of the constable’s left arm, just below the elbow, seemed florid by contrast to his pale trunk. Yet I noted that what there was of the arm above it had not withered. He must work it hard in some special manner to keep his strength up in that arm as well. The man quite amazed me.

At last his feet came to rest. He stood quite still for a long moment, breathing deeply. Then he stepped over to a low-hanging branch of that same tree from which the sailcloth bag was suspended and pulled from it a woolen undergarment. He threw it over him in a few swift movements and walked over to us.

“Right on time for your lesson, Jeremy, like the good scholar you are,” said he. “And this must be the chum you said you’d bring by when the chance came.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Perkins. This is my friend, Jimmie Bunkins.”

They shook hands quite solemnly.

“Well, if he’s your friend, that’s right enough for me, but it does seem to me I know him from many a chase in the Garden. If he turned round I might know him even better. It was always his back he showed me.”

“And ain’t I glad you never caught me!” cackled Bun-kins. “I seen what you was doin’ to that big bag.”

“I hear you’re a reformed individual now. Sir John himself gives you a good character. And you’ve grown a bit since your thievin’ days, as well, it seems to me.”

“And thank God for it. I feared I’d be tyke-sized all my life.”

The two stood grinning at each other. I, for my part, sighed in relief. They would get on, as I had hoped they would.

Indeed, Bunkins and Mr. Perkins got on quite famously. After he had put me through my quarter-hour on the bag, which was then about my limit, the constable asked if he would have a go at it. Bunkins shed his coat and went eagerly to take my place. Perhaps a bit too eagerly, for Mr. Perkins thought it necessary to advise him in the proper method of delivering blows with his fists, just as he had done with me near a month before. Bunkins was eager to kick, yet Mr. Perkins kept him beating away with his fists upon the bag, urging him to put his body behind it, to keep moving about, et cetera. It was good for me to watch, for I realized I’d come some distance in my lessons.

It took only about five minutes to tire Bunkins, then was I brought back for another go at the bag. When I had done, Mr. Perkins brought us together for a bit of special instruction.

“Let us imagine a situation, Jeremy, of a sort that might happen to one on a dark street.”

“What is that, sir?”

“Start walkin’ at an ordinary pace, and I shall show you.”

I did as he said, moving away from him until — having heard no sound behind me — I was stopped of a sudden by a vise thrown about my throat, and that vise proved to be Mr. Perkins’s mutilated left arm. There was in it more strength than I could ever have imagined. The stump held me precisely at my throat. I could neither move, nor cry out.

“Now what can you do in such a situation as that?” asked Mr. Perkins, releasing me.

“Not much,” I gasped.

“Ah, but something,” said he. “You can always do something. Let us change places, and examine the possibilities.

And, with Bunkins looking on quite fascinated, that is what we did. The constable and I were near enough in height that I was able to throw my arm over his shoulder and give him a proper squeeze — but not upon his throat, for he had dropped his chin to protect it. Then he surprised me with a nip on the arm.

“Ow!” said I, more in surprise than hurt.

“Didn’t really cause you pain, did I? Sorry if I did.”

“No, sir, it was just that I didn’t expect it.”

“Well, neither will he. If you hear a sound behind you, or get any sort of hint that you may be attacked from the rear, then the first thing you do is cover your throat with your chin. Bite as hard as you can. If he puts his hand over your face, so much the better. Try to take his finger off — it can be done — or rip the skin right off his hand. He’ll let go of you then. You can be sure of it. Then you’ll be free to face him proper.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, throw your arm round me again, but leave it loose enough so’s I can talk.”

I did as he had directed.

“Now, let us say he has caught you by surprise — before you could get your chin down. He’s got his arm round your throat, or p’rhaps his hand, and he’s squeezing. You’ve still got weapons left. You’ve got your elbows — ”

And with that he rubbed his left elbow into my ribs.

“He will then shift his position if he can, and you hit him hard with the other elbow. And when I say hard, I mean snap it back with your whole shoulder. Practice it at night. You can make it so you don’t have to think about it. It’ll just come, so it will.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll practice it.”

“Good lad. Now, if that don’t get you loose, you’ve got your heels. Try for his shins, and that can be very damagin’, it can, but you’ve a better shot at his feet. Bring down your heel with all the force you can — not on his toes, for that gives less pain, but on the flat part of his foot. Try to break all them little bones in there, and if you do, he’ll not be able to put weight on that foot. He’ll be off balance, and you should be able to twist loose. You can let go now, Jeremy.”

And so I did, glancing by chance at Bunkins. He was staring in awed concentration.

”Don’t think because I’ve told you about these one at a time, that’s how you should go at it. You must do them all at once — bite, elbows in the ribs, heel down on his foot. You must make him think he’s got hold of the very devil hisself.”

“Mr. Perkins, sir?”