Person or Persons Unknown (28 page)

“Good God,” said Mr. Goldsmith. “Disappeared, has he? Perhaps that will be the end of it.”

“One can only hope. But by the bye, here’s a matter you might be interested in as a physician. Do you know a fellow named Carr? Retired Army surgeon, I believe.”

“Heard of him, never met him.”

“He came to me again — the second time, mind you — urging me to examine the eyes of the victim under my microscope. He’s convinced that the image of the murderer is etched upon the pupil.”

“That old wives’ tale — amazing! A physician!”

“I had to tell him that the eyes, too, had been removed and probably burnt in the fireplace. He seemed gready disappointed to hear it.” Mr. Donnelly hesitated, as if debating with himself for a moment what ought be said next. Then:

“I notice signs in him of the onset of the late stages of the pox — the chancre. I fear his mind has been affected, too.”

“No doubt it has. But…” Mr. Goldsmith offered his hand to Mr. Donnelly who grasped it in farewell. “I must be off, for I’ve work to do. Come see me, sir. My door is open to you, though I must tell you that late afternoon and early evening are my best times.”

Then, with a wave, he departed. Mr. Donnelly turned to me and, in turn, offered me his hand.

“Sorry to have kept you here at the door, Jeremy. A goodnight to you, and my thanks to all above for a wonderful evening.”

“But, sir,” said I, “is it true that Sir John counts Mr. Tolliver suspect in these murders?”

“The butcher? I take it you know him? Ah well, I fear Sir John has said as much to me. A sad matter, eh? Well, I must be off.”

And with that he stepped off sharply in the direction of Tavistock Street, swinging his stick and whistling as he went. I watched him to Russell Street, then did I return up the stairs and the mountain of dishes and pans that awaited me in the kitchen.

During the next few days, I carried about with me a slip of paper on which I had printed out in block letters the names of Mr. Bilbo and Jimmie Bunkins and their address on St. James Street. The day following my talk with Annie on the way back from market, I had talked with Bunkins after our lesson with Mr. Perkins. Telling him all, I asked if a place might be found for Mariah in their household, if only temporarily. He brought back word the next day from Mr. Bilbo that she could come ahead, but while she was with them she would have to earn her keep. I thought that fair enough, yet if for any reason she feared the name of Black Jack Bilbo (as some indeed did), I also wrote down Lady Fielding’s name and the address of the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes.

With that slip of paper in my pocket I searched the Cov-ent Garden district for Mariah. I had not seen her the better part of a month. She had disappeared, as had most of those who practiced her trade when news of the death of Libby Tribble spread through Covent Garden. Yet as the days passed without incident, necessity drove them out into the streets again. Some may have taken hope in the fact that for near three weeks there had been no murders and decided that there would be no more. Others were quite fatalistic. Annie told me of meeting an old bawd of her earlier acquaintance out once again on the stroll. When Annie asked her if she were not afraid that she would be the next victim, the woman replied, “Dearie, it’s one or t’other with me. If him that does the hackin’ don’t get me, then the river will. In the meantime, I need money for gin.”

Thus apathy or unfounded hope were the prevailing emotions out on the streets as I searched for Mariah. I looked most often where I had seen her often in the daylight and early evening hours. Yet time after time I came away disappointed from my walks up and down Drury Lane and New Broad Court. I walked the perimeter of Covent Garden at the twilight hour — to no avail. I searched Duke’s Court, Martlet’s Court, even Angel Court, and such places as it might be foolish to go alone and unarmed and in failing light. At last, I put my problem to Bunkins; and he, ever practical, pointed out that it was on Bedford Street we had seen Jackie Carver, and so it was more than likely I would find her somewhere nearby. “The pimps like to move their molls about, try out new patches, like,” said he.

And so it was that on the way back to Bow Street from Mr. Perkins’s place early that evening, I went out of my way a bit and walked Bedford Street up and down. It was on my way back that I glimpsed her and hastened to where she stood, near the entrance to the Dog and Duck.

“Mariah!” I called to her as I came closer — immediately fearful that I might frighten her off — yet it was a cry of joy at having found her at last.

Yet she saw me, recognized me, and did not start away. She seemed to force a smile as she waited my approach.

“Hello! What is your name? I forget.”

“Jeremy,” said I. “Jeremy Proctor.”

She nodded a firm affimiation. “Is good — Jeremy. I remember it now. Did you bring the money? You give it me, and I bring it to him.”

“No, Mariah. I did not bring the money for Jackie. I brought something better — for you.”

“For me?” She turned away. Then, making no effort to disguise her exasperation, threw her hands up into the air and gave vent to her disappointment. “What could be better than I get away from this? He say if you don’ have the money, you can steal it. Why don’ you steal it?”

“I could not, I would not,” said I. And seeking to explain: “Even if I could pay him what he asks, I would have no money to keep you.”

“You could steal more.”

Had the girl no sense of right and wrong? I could only suppose that in her trade it was swiftly lost. Now was the time to explain the plan to her — and quickly, lest Jackie Carver be near. I whipped out the slip of paper I had been carrying in my pocket. I explained that there were two houses that would take her in and feed her. In the first, said I, she would work as part of the household staff. In the second, she would be taught a suitable trade — as cook or seamstress, or some such.

“But the important thing,” said I, “is that you will be off the streets in a place where Jackie Carver cannot get to you.”

“How you know his name?” she asked, downright suspiciously.

“A friend told me.”

“He don’ like people at Bow Street know his name.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said I. “All this will cost you is cab fare — no more than ten pence to the first, and no more than a shilling to the second. You have that much with you now, don’t you?” I reached into my pocket again. “I can give you that.”

“You give me twelve ned for him. That’s all you give me.

“I thought it was ten.”

“The price gone up.” She faced me angrily. “You think I wash floor for people? You think I sew for people? Here, take your paper back.”

With that I left her, her hand outstretched to me, the slip of paf)er in her hand. As I walked swiftly away down Bedford Street, I consoled myself that at least she had the paper with the two addresses in her possession. I prayed she might not cast it aside but keep it and perhaps later make use of it. I had done what I could, had I not?

That very night I sought out Sir John in the little room next his bedroom which served him as a study. As he had in the past when troubled or hatching a plan, he would sit there alone in the dark behind his heavy oaken desk for hours at a time. Lady Fielding had retired early on the night in question. Annie was in the kitchen below, amusing herself as she often did by singing ballads of the day she had picked up on her wanderings through Covent Garden. Thinking back upon my short visit that evening, I recall not only what was said, but also the little wisps of song that floated up from below during the frequent gaps and pauses in our communication.

I knocked upon the open door to the little room.

“Who is there?”

“It is 1, Jeremy.”

“Come in, lad, sit down.”

Entering, I took my place in one of the two chairs opposite him.

“I do not mean to shut myself away so,” said he. “It is only that lately, my thoughts have been so taken up with these fearful murders that I find myself unfit for ordinary human intercourse. Perhaps you can rouse me as you have so often in the past. In any case, let us talk.”

I hesitated. “Perhaps what I have to say will be unwelcome, for it concerns Mr. Tolliver. From Mr. Donnelly I heard that you hold him suspect in those murders.”

“He ought not discuss with you or any other what I have said about them. But — come, so long as what you have to say of him is material to the matter and not another endorsement of his sterling character, which I have had aplenty from Kate, I should be glad to hear what you have to say of him.”

And so I did then tell him of the door to the coal hole which Bunkins had shown to me in that passage wherein Mr. Tolliver had discovered the body of Nell Darby; that there was a way through it to a hall and a door to Henrietta Street that was kept bolted from the inside.

“You are suggesting,” said Sir John, “that the murderer could have made his escape in such a way?”

“Yes, sir,” said I. “And such an escape would account for the footsteps in the direction of Covent Garden that he heard just before discovering the body.”

The magistrate retreated into silence. There was little I could do but respect it, for I was sure he was weighing what I had told him against his suspicions of Mr. Tolliver. At last came the objections that I had foreseen.

“How then,” said he, “do you account for what your man then did say of those footsteps? That he had turned about and looked and saw no one there. And what of the mysterious wagon that was suddenly there when it had not been there before — or perhaps it was, for he could not be sure.”

“Bunkins told me there were places to hide there on Henrietta Street, and I confirmed it — two large beams to the house which would conceal a man; they are spaced along the way. As for the wagon, I cannot account for it any better than Mr. Tolliver did. But I have heard you say. Sir John, that there is always reason to distrust a story that is completely without inconsistencies.”

“So you are suggesting that if his story can be defended in part, then it should be accepted in whole. Surely you can see the fallacy in that. But what about that disgusting homicide in King Street? Admittedly, there is nothing to place him there, but his sudden departure, you must admit, counts greatly against him.”

“You did not specifically instruct him.”

“Do not remind me of what I did or did not say. I am well aware of that.”

He spoke to me as sharply as ever he had. I made ready with an apology before taking my leave. Yet he would hold me.

“I’m aware it was my oversight not to order him specifically to remain. I did tell him there would be an inquest. I did not tell him when it would be.” He paused. Then: “If your Mr. Tolliver is held by me as suspect, it is by default, as it were — his failure to appear. If and when he does appear and can account for his absence, he will no longer be suspect. Then I shall have none.

“I had thought from something said by that silly fellow Ormond Neville that there might be further reason to suspect Thaddeus Millhouse. Do you recall? He said he had brought Mr. Millhouse a clean shirt for his appearance in court. Since I had been assured there were no stains on his shirt when he appeared before me, I thought perhaps there had been something incriminating on that dirty shirt. That did not prove to be so. I was told by Mr. Fuller that the dirty shirt was simply dirty. Nevertheless, I had him in for further questioning, for you and I both thought he was hiding something. There is something quite shifty about the man. You, I believe, were off on an errand, which was just as well. The secret he was hiding, which was easy to guess, was that he had indeed had sexual congress with Polly Tar-kin. He felt greatly shamed by that, as well he should have, and that was the source of his guilt. He knew it was wrong; he knew what she was; yet that, perversely, was what drew him to her. He wept copious tears and wailed his sorrow to me, yet he also convinced me that so weak a man could never have committed these horrible crimes, particularly the last. In any case, he assured me that he has spent every night, but the one on which he was arrested, with his wife, to which I’m sure she would testify.

“In short, I am left without suspects, except for Mr. Tolliver, and wanting others, I must hold fast to him. Yet I am not so convinced of his guilt in this that I have not alerted the Runners to be cautious and watchful to an extraordinary degree. They are, and they shall continue to be. But in following this course I am guarding, merely, against his next attack — whoever he be. I prefer to make a plan whereby we may anticipate his next attack and catch him in the act. I noted that the last two murders occurred on the same night, and that was the night of the full moon — or so Mr. Donnelly has assured me. The full moon seems to affect the demented in perverse ways. I cannot say why this be so, but it is. We have not seen the murderer, whoever he be, strike since then. I suspect he will strike again at the next full moon, which comes again next week on All Hallows Eve. It is an occasion that may have a certain grim appeal to one such as him. It will take planning of details and much preparation, but with the Almighty’s help, it could work.”

He spoke not so much with certitude as with great hope. I waited to hear what more he would say, yet he said nothing. Finally, unable to contain myself, I asked, “What is the plan. Sir John?”

“You’ll know soon enough, Jeremy. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

A reward had been posted for the capture and conviction of the Covent Garden Killer, as he had been dubbed. This had a salutary effect upon Sir John Fielding’s Bow Street constables who went about their searches into the dark comers of the district with renewed vigor. There were no more complaints of carrying cutlasses which rattled about in their scabbards, nor did the burden of lanterns seem to trouble them quite so much as before. Yet the twenty guineas promised by Parliament to him who brought the murderer to justice achieved also a negative result: It brought to Covent Garden a company of independent thief-takers, those rather rough individuals who sometimes operated within the law and more often without to accomplish their ends. I myself had been victim of one when first I came to London, and had little use for them; Sir John had even less; and the Bow Street Runners regarded them, in this instance, as poachers upon their territory. Yet they came and proceeded to thrash through the stews and dives, offering to split the reward with him or her who provided information of the sort that might lead to capture and conviction. The Runners had already sought out every reliable snitch in the district; they knew that whoever the murderer might be, he went about his dark deeds alone, nor did he afterwards boast of them or confide what he had done. What the outsiders lacked was organization and the intimate knowledge of Covent Garden which the Runners possessed. In the event, what they lacked most profoundly was Sir John’s plan.

As the days passed and All Hallows Eve drew near, it became evident that Sir John had been correct in his prognostication that there would be no further attacks until that sinister night when it was believed until only a while ago that witches flew about on their way to meet with the Devil in their frightful Sabbath celebrations. If All Hallows Eve passed without incident, then Sir John would have been proven wrong; the constables would be back to their watchful patrols, and Mr. Tolliver’s absence would weigh even more heavily against him. It was this latter contingency which no doubt stirred me to pray for the success of the plan and eventually to volunteer most insistently to be part of it.

It consisted of two elements. There would be, first of all, a great bonfire lit in the middle of Covent Garden once the stalls were shut, the carts removed, and dark had fallen. It would, said Sir John, attract all the rowdy and lawless, and bring the many prostitutes off the streets in celebration of the night. “They are at bottom simple people,” said he when he announced the plan to his constables the night before its execution, “and will not be able to resist the opportunity to frolic before the flames. The last witch-burning took place early in this century. They have heard tales of such. We shall give them everything but a witch to bum — all, including chestnuts to roast. Mr. Marsden, make a note of that. There must be an abundance of chestnuts. A great many of you will be needed to keep order at this event. I have arranged for a fire brigade to be present to keep the fire properly under control. A windy night, unfortunately, must cancel our plans. But I expect a clear, still night.”

A murmur of approval went round the group which crowded Sir John’s chamber. However, the next part of his plan received no such approbation. It would require certain constables to go out armed, yet dressed as women, and another small force to follow them in stealth so that they may come swiftly should the decoys be attacked. ‘The idea, you see,” said Sir John, “is to take the potential victims off the street, or significantly reduce their number, and put our own men there dressed as women, so that they may meet the murderer and subdue him.”

Sir John was then met by absolute silence. It soon developed that none among them cared to volunteer to dress as women. When he made the call, not one stepped forward.

“Come now, gentlemen. This is no time to play shy. Decoys are called for, and decoys we must have.”

Again, there was only silence. I felt embarrassed by the lack of response — whether for Sir John or on behalf of the constables I was uncertain, yet nevertheless embarrassed.

Mr. Benjamin Bailey, their captain, then spoke up. “Sir John,” said he, “beggin’ your pardon, but I don’t think there’s a one of us would properly deceive your man, no matter you dressed us up in silk and laces. We’re all just too damned big.”

I looked about me. In truth, he was right. The men in the room all seemed to stand six feet or more — with perhaps two exceptions, and I was one of them. I knew it to be true that Mr. Bailey took size into consideration in choosing his constables. Hardly thinking more upon it, I myself stepped out from my place against the wall.

“I will volunteer,” said I, “for I am of the right size.”

“That was you spoke up, Jeremy,” said Sir John.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then step back,” said he. “This is no task for a lad.”

“I will not withdraw, sir. I am as capable of handling myself in an attack as anyone here.”

There was a bit of scoffing laughter at my boast. But one did come forth in my defense.

“Sir,” said Mr. Perkins, “the lad has not been tried as yet, but he’s learned well as any could. Take him, and you’ll have two, for much as I hate the notion of going about in skirts, I would wear them to see that no harm came to him.”

“And you would be Mr. Perkins, would you not?”

“I am, sir, and I am of a height might deceive an attacker. The Irish woman who was the first victim was no shorter than me.”

Sir John sat quiet behind his desk. Then, of a sudden, did he slap the top of it with the flat of his hand.

“By God, I like it not, for I had hoped to put five or six out on separate streets. And most particularly do I not like the idea of using a boy of fourteen in such a way. Yet there are times when necessity forces us to make do with what is given us. I accept Mr. Perkins and Mr. Proctor as my decoys — though against my better judgment.”

At that there were no ringing huzzahs and no applause. The only response from the constables was an uneasy shuffling of feet. Yet I chose that moment to speak forth.

“Sir John?”

“What is it, Jeremy?”

“I wish to correct you, sir. I am not fourteen years old. I am fifteen.”

There comes a time when one may regret one’s impulsive actions — or if not exactly regret, then to question them. That time came for me when, alone in my attic room, I donned the old frayed frock supplied by Lady Fielding from the store collected for the residents of the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes. It fit well enough, except in the shoulders, which had been altered to suit me better; the hem of the skirt had also been let down to cover my ankles and hide my feet. As I moved about the room, testing the shoulders which were still a bit tight, and noticing that the skirt impeded my stride somewhat, I truly had second thoughts about Sir John’s plan and my part in it. Yet I knew such thoughts would change neither. Night was falling; the great bonfire in Covent Garden was about to be lit; the crowd would now be swiftly assembling. There was naught for me but to descend the stairs for the next step in my disguise — that which I dreaded most.

The length of the skirt proved a hazard on the stairs until I remembered the device by which women dealt with them and raised the skirt daintily to my ankles. Thus I arrived in the kitchen where I was met by Lady Fielding, Annie, and Constable Perkins.

I saw in him the fate that awaited me. Not only had his cheeks and lips been rouged, he had also been adorned with a cotton cap of the kind worn by women in that day, now a bit out of fashion. Yet what had been done to him had in no wise softened his strong, emphatic features. He looked, truth to tell, simply like Constable Perkins in rouge and a silly cap.

“Oh, Jeremy, sit down.” said Lady Fielding. ‘T’m told we must hurry. Annie will apply the rouge.”

“You’ll not know yourself when I finish,” said Annie. It sounded to me quite like a threat.

Mr. Perkins said nothing. He averted his face, pretending to look out the window, where there was naught to be seen but the rising orange moon.

As I seated myself uneasily, Annie dipped two fingers in the tinned rouge container and set to her task. After a moment she gave me an annoyed tap on the top of my head.

“Don’t fidget so,” said she. “I’ll never get this on you proper.”

I remained then obediently still. I wanted only to get this done as swift as might be.

“Constable Perkins presented quite a challenge,” said Lady Fielding. “The poor man has hair all the way up to the hollow of his neck. We had to shave it off.”

“And they cut me up proper doin’ it,” he grumbled.

“We couldn’t let him out like he was,” said Annie. “He’d fool no one.”

One way or another, Annie completed her task. She offered me a mirror, but I declined.

“You look a proper bawd,” said she to me. “A bit husky, like a farm girl, but many such are known on the street.”

“Now this,” said Lady Fielding, holding out a cotton cap like the one worn by Mr. Perkins, “should crown you properly.”

She placed it on my head and tied it beneath my chin.

“I think we’ve done all that need be done, don’t you, Annie?” said she.

“Yes, mum,” said Annie, with a glance at Mr. Perkins, “or could be done.”

Then did Mr. Perkins speak up rather gruffly: “All right, Jeremy, let’s get on with it.”

And so, with a nod to the women, I followed the constable down the stairs. There waited Sir John and the team of four Runners who were to follow us at a discreet distance.

Though I saw surprise and amusement in the faces of the four, not one word was said, and not so much as a giggle was heard. Silenced they were utterly by the furious, threatening look given them by Mr. Perkins.

“Are you ready?” asked Sir John.

“Ready as we’ll be,” said Mr. Perkins.

“But you must be armed in some way. Mr. Baker?” Sir John called to the night resident. “Give each a loaded pistol and a club — or you have your own club, do you not, Mr. Perkins?”

“Tucked in my belt under the skirt. Never without it, sir.”

“Well and good,” said the magistrate. “But I had thought it best if you were to carry the pistol in your hand. Constable, since we see your task primarily as guarding Jeremy.”

“I ain’t likely to attract any, not even one who wishes me murder. But I can’t go about with a pistol in m’hand.”

“You can if it is well covered. Constable Cowley? Do you have that shawl your lady friend lent us?”

Young Mr. Cowley came forward and offered an old blue shawl; it was tattered at the edges and raveling, yet large enough for the purpose Sir John had in mind.

“Mr. Baker, you have the pistols? Give one to Mr. Perkins. Now, Mr. Cowley, wrap the shawl around his hand and the pistol and cover as much as you can of the stump of his left arm.”

I watched, fascinated, as the pistol disappeared in a roll of blue wool.

“Tuck in the end securely,” said Sir John to Mr. Cowley. “We cannot have it come undone unless by the constable’s choice. Can you get the pistol loose if necessary, Mr. Perkins?”

“Oh, I’ll manage, sir.”

“I’m sure you will, but, Mr. Perkins — you, too, Jeremy — please bear in mind that when I say if necessary, I mean precisely that. Think of the pistols primarily as signaling devices. We cannot have you shooting down the first drunken sailor who grabs at Jeremy. You men who will follow, when you hear a pistol shot or a shout from either Mr. Perkins or Jeremy, you will come as swiftly as ever you can, for you will know it is in earnest. Stay fifty yards behind — but no more than that. And try as best you can to keep unnoticed — though fitted out as you are, that may prove difficult.”

Indeed they were fitted out in full gear; each wore a brace of pistols and had a cutlass in its scabbard by his side.

As Sir John made his concluding remarks, Mr. Baker gave to me both pistol and club. I hiked up the voluminous skirt and tucked them into the belt I wore round my breeches, then dropped the skirt again. They were well hidden, but I wondered that I would be able to reach them with ease. In any case, I reflected, I had five constables to protect me.

“So go now, all of you,” said Sir John. “The fire is lit in Covent Garden. They will now be streaming in to dance and sing. The streets should be empty to you. May God grant us good fortune in this.”

With that, we filed out to Bow Street.

The stream of humanity into the Garden which Sir John had predicted was more in the nature of a swarm. Turning towards Russell Street, we were buffeted and pushed by those eager to get on to the festivities. They paid us no mind at all. We saw no need to separate while the streets were yet so crowded, and so we moved on together, we six, and waited at Russell Street, one of the main entrances to Covent Garden, for the rushing tide of humanity to abate somewhat.

From our position at the cross street we could see the fire burning. It was a grand fire, but not near as grand as it would soon become. Wood was piled high, whole logs in the stack as yet untouched by the flames. And there was more wood to be tossed on to keep the fire blazing steadily. None that burned on Guy Fawkes Day in the coming week would be likely to surpass it, nor would any be able to attract such a crowd of people. They milled about; they stood staring; a few had begun to dance. How folk do love a fire!