Person or Persons Unknown (34 page)

“Coffee, sir, if you have it.”

“We have it. You want that with or without?”

I was puzzled. “With or without what?”

“With or without a flash of lightning — in the cup or on the side.”

“Oh, by all means without.”

He returned with a steaming cup which cost but tuppence. Indeed it was strong but potable — yet would it be so with gin, as the barman had offered it? How could one drink the two together? It seemed a confusion of purpose.

Once settled I played a game that many play in such situations — looking about at the travelers and attempting to discern who and what they are and where they might be going. All the while I kept a sharp eye upon the door, looking close at those who entered, lest I miss Ben Calverton.

When he did enter, there was no mistaking him. A great wide man was he, though not so tall. He swaggered a bit as he walked and carried a long whip taller than himself, such as all coach drivers use to urge their horses on. Two steps in the door he planted his feet and looked around. Then did he bellow forth, ”Oliver Tolliver/’ and roared a laugh so great it near shook the timbers of the place.

Heads turned, talk halted, and in embarrassment I waved him over to me. There, as if by magic, a tall glass of ale had appeared before he arrived at the bar. Alas, when he did, there was disappointment written upon his round face. I, it seemed, was the cause of it.

“You ain’t him,” said he. It came from him near in the nature of an accusation.

“No, sir, I’m not,” said I, speaking hastily. “It was about Mr. Tolliver I wished to talk to you. You see, I — ”

He held up his hand, silencing me in the instant. Then, propping his whip against the bar, he took up the glass of ale and drained it in a single draught. He held it up to the barman and another was immediately forthcoming. He seemed about to speak — but no. Again he held up his hand for a long moment, then did he belch magnificently.

“Now,” said he, “you wishes to talk to me about him. What is it you wishes to say?”

“First of all, do you remember him?”

“Course I remembers him. Great big strapping sort he is, taller than me by half. He rode up on the coach box all the way to Bristol one night about a month back. Oliver Tolliver! Who could forget a fellow with such a name?” He punctuated that with another laugh of a volume not quite so great. Then did his eyes narrow as he remembered: “That silly nit who sells tickets said it was a court matter. Is he in trouble?”

“Well, he could be, Mr. Calverton — that is, if he cannot prove he took the night coach to Bristol on a particular night and not on the next day.”

“Which night? Which day?”

“That’s as I hoped you could tell me. When did he ride with you?”

“Oh, now I must give that a bit of thought. I makes so many trips, I do.” Then did he glance down at my cup and saw it near empty. “Barman,” he called, “gives this lad another cup of what he’s drinkin’ — coffee, I s’pose it is.”

“With or without?” called back the barman.

“With, of course,” answered Ben Calverton, ignoring me as he stared off into space. “Now when was that?” he asked himself aloud.

The barman slammed down a full cup and pulled away my empty. I sipped it out of curiosity and found it seemed not so much different in taste as it did hotter in essence. It burned a bit — all the way down to my stomach. It wasn’t near as bad as I expected it to be. I took another sip.

“I remembers,” said Mr. Calverton, “he was traveling to Bristol to meet up with a lady he hoped to marry. You wouldn’t happen to know how that come out, would you?”

“Oh, he married her, sir,” I said. “Indeed he did.”

“You don’t say so! Have you seen her?”

“I have, yes. She seems … well, quite nice. She certainly pleases Mr. Tolliver.”

“Well, that’s the important thing, ain’t it?”

He took a deep draught of his ale, this time emptying no more than a quarter of the tall glass.

“What’s her name? Olivia?” He laughed again, something in the nature of a cackle. “But that wouldn’t rhyme so good, would it? Maybe call her Olivia Tollivia.” Again he cackled.

“Her name is Maude,” said I, wishing we might be past this.

“That name of his,” he persisted. “I teased him about it, I did. After he told me a little about hisself, I made up a little verse about him. I do often makes up verses in my head to pass the time on the road. I think I can call most of it to mind. Want to hear it?”

“Well, I…”

He took another gulp of ale, cleared his throat, and in a loud voice he began to recite:

“Oliver Tolliver

Rides on his way to Bristol,

And by his side he has him a pistol. Oliver Tolliver

By the light of the moon,

Off to Bristol to win him a boon. Oliver Tolliver

A butcher by trade.

He travels west to find him a maid. Oliver Tolliver

He don’t give a damn

For — ”

Then, of a sudden, he stopped and brought his fist down upon the bar.

“By God, that’s it — ‘By the light of the moon’ “Sir?” He had me confused. “I don’t quite understand.” “Why, I remembers it now like it was just the night past. There was a great big full moon that night. Oh, I remembers it well — what you call a ‘highwayman’s moon.’ That’s why I was right glad to have that big fellow Tolliver and his pistols up there beside me, with my coachman gone sick with the shits. Those out on the scamp do love a full moon, as you may know.”

“So it was the night of the full moon? You’re sure of that?”

“As sure as I can be. Not the last night of the full moon, mind. That was All Hallows Eve, as any fool knows. I don’t know the number of the month. You could get it in any almanac, but it was the night of the full moon a little more than a month past.”

“Would you be willing to swear to that in court?”

“Why not? It’s so, ain’t it?”

Finding an odd piece of paper in my pocket, I wrote on the back of it his name and the number of his dwelling place, which he gave me with directions to his room. Then, forgetting its potency, I took a great swig of coffee and made ready to leave.

“When you see Oliver Tolliver next,” said Ben Calverton, “tell him I wishes him good fortune. He may ride beside me any time he likes, and I’ll not tease him more about his name.”

I thanked him. He clapped me hard upon my back and sent me on my way.

It was not until I stepped out into the coach yard that I felt the full impact of the gin I had imbibed so freely. I felt perspiration upon my brow at a time when the rest of me felt the nip of the November morning. My head was all at once both sluggish and light. It was indeed the strangest set of sensations ever I had felt — nothing at all like the time or two I had drunk a glass of wine too many. I set off for Bow Street, knowing the way perfectly well, only to discover, after walking half the length of a street, that I had set off in the wrong direction. I stood there befuddled, seeking my bearings, buffeted by the crowd which flowed round me, forward and back.

This would never do, of course! Giving some thought to the matter, I turned about and retraced my steps. I found the way back by the way I had come, though giving a wide berth to Mr. Tolliver’s comer of the Garden. To my mind I’d spent enough time talking to him that morning and far too much with Ben Calverton — though with both it was time well spent. Sir John would have expected me back in minutes, and I was aware I had been gone well over an hour. Not only that, but I was returning in a state of less than complete sobriety. My feet were working better and took me where I wished to go. My brains had cleared sufficiently so that I realized that I had now testimony that would satisfy Sir John.

When I presented it to him, however, he seemed less than happy with it. I explained to him that I had gone to the butcher’s stall and smelled nothing of rot or stink. But thinking to help things along, I took it upon myself to go to the coach house and inquire when the night drivers might be available for questioning — omitting my conversation with Mr. Tolliver, of course. By chance, said I, one Ben Calverton was available, and he did confirm that Mr. Tolliver had been beside him on the coach box all the way to Bristol on the night of the full moon in early October.

“Did you prompt him?” asked the magistrate.

“I did not, sir. No matter how I may have wished to do so, I did not.”

“Ben Calverton, is it? I take it you got from him how he may be reached?”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“Well,” he said, “though you have exceeded your brief, you brought back information of some importance. For that I commend you.” (It was said, reader, in a manner most half-hearted.) “That you return, however, smelling of gin I find less commendable.”

“I can explain that, sir. When I — ”

He raised his hand, silencing me. “Another time, perhaps. For now I think it best you go upstairs and ask Lady Fielding what needs be done there.”

I learned that later in the day Sir John had sent Mr. Fuller to bring in Mr. Tolliver that he might be interrogated again. I, at the time, was occupied scrubbing up my attic room. Lady Fielding had noted on her nursing visits to me that conscientious as I might be in cleaning and scrubbing the rest of the house, I had let my own little dwelling place fall into a fearful state of neglect. And it was true enough: dust had collected in curls in the comers; there was a fine coat of it covering those books stacked against the wall which I had read; cobwebs had collected against the ceiling. I had never noticed until she called it to my attention. Thus my day was filled. I had no knowledge of Mr. Tolliver’s visit until Sir John mentioned it at dinner.

As he chewed on a morsel of meat from Annie’s well-spiced stew, he said without preamble: “Mr. Tollivercame in again today to be questioned.”

Lady Fielding and I were suddenly frozen, spoons halted in midpassage to our mouths.

“He was more forthcoming this time and not near so disputatious. In short, he was more cooperative.”

We two looked one at the other.

Sir John continued chewing until, satisfied, he swallowed. “He is no longer suspect,” said he, then dipped his spoon again.

As the days went by, tension mounted once again. The capture and swift trial of the Raker had provided a temporary release. Yet word got out on the streets that there were two homicides, and them the bloodiest, to which he had refused to admit. One by one, the whores took the shelter of the gin mills and dives and began again to be more careful about those whom they accepted as customers. Lady Fielding reported that even after a spate of defections, the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes was once more filled to its capacity.

The Bow Street Runners, too, had returned to the routine required earlier by Sir John. They carried lanterns about with which they were to look in all the dark corners. In addition to his club, each carried a brace of pistols. Only one accommodation was made: Mr. Bailey, speaking for the men, had registered a complaint to the magistrate that wearing a cutlass in its heavy scabbard impeded them so that they would be unable to run should they be forced to give chase; Sir John, giving due weight to the argument, allowed that the wearing of a cutlass might be considered optional. To a man they opted to turn them in to Mr. Baker.

Towards the end of the week, I was visited by Mr. Donnelly. I had glimpsed him below on his way to sec Sir John sometime earlier, and so I knew that the two had had quite a lengthy conversation. With me. he had no need to spend so much time. He found me polishing silver with Annie — or. more accurately, polishing silver under her direction; indeed she could be as exacting as her mistress in matters pertaining to her kitchen. She greeted him right pertly with a curtsey and a smile. I. who was better acquainted with him. was a little less effusive in my greeting and certainly less flirtatious.

‘“I thought. Jeremy.” said he. “that I might take another look at that cut at the back of your head. Perhaps we can make it the last.”

“It would please me greatly to be rid of this great bandage.” said I. “Should we go to my bedroom?”

“No. here in the kitchen should do well — that is. if you’ve no objection. Mistress Annie?”

Unused to being deferred to. she could only mumble something in the negative. She stepped back, blushing.

Carefully he unwound the great turban I had worn on my head for the last several days. Then just as carefully he examined the cut.

“Does it cause you pain. Jeremy?”

“Oh no, nothing at all.”

“And what about the effects of the concussion? Any giddiness?”

“No. none. Well … there was gin poured into my coffee unbeknownst to me. That left me giddy for a bit.”

“At your age? I daresay it would. You may tell me that story on some other occasion.” Then did he add. “Soon.”

Mr. Donnelly questioned me on all the other possible ill-effects I might feel following a concussion. And I truthfully answered in the negative to each one. Then, after washing the cut with gin. he asked for scissors, cut off a bit of my hair, and made a plaster which he applied to the cut. Through it all. Annie had watched, quite fascinated.

“There.” said he, “that should do you. In no time at all, the plaster can be removed.”

Packing up his bag. he frowned as if a moment in thought.

“Jeremy,” said he, “I wonder if you might be my guest at dinner evening after next — I thought perhaps at the Cheshire Cheese where once we dined before. I’ve asked Sir John, and he has no objections. There are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

“With me? Why, yes, certainly, Mr. Donnelly.”

“Good. I shall be by for you at about seven.”

With that and no more he bade us both goodbye in taking his leave.

“Well,” said Annie, quite consumed with envy, “dinner with the doctor. Ain’t that a grand thing?”

“Yes, quite an astonishment,” said I.

“What might he have to discuss with you?”

‘I’ve no idea, none at all.”

Although, because of the sordid nature of the Raker’s crimes, every effort had been made by Sir John and the Lord Chief Justice to shield him from the public eye. the law called for his execution by hanging, and custom demanded that it be done publicly at Tyburn. They feared riot. He was. at least in legend, so well known and was so loathed by the populace, that when hanging day came (which followed the next after Mr. Donnelly’s visit) all precautions were taken that he be given safe passage from Newgate to the triangular gallows. If the crowd were large and unmanageable, he could be pulled down from the can and trampled to death or his body torn asunder. Therefore, in addition to the usual ca\airy escort, who made their way with sabres drawn, there was a squad of foot immediately surrounding the cart, and they marched with muskets at port arms and bayonets fixed.