The Price of Murder Page 12

  ’Twixt running, jog-trotting, and fast walking, I must have made it back to Bow Street in half the time it had taken me to travel on to Green Dragon Alley. Even so, when I went to tell Sir John of my discovery, I found that he had left with Clarissa for the residence of Richard Turbott, the silversmith. My informant, Mr. Fuller, said that both had been gone for over an hour.

  “Did they leave an address?” I asked him. “I’ve no idea where to go.”

  “Oh, now, just wait,” said he. “That girl of yours did pass something on to me for you. Now, what did I do with it?”

  He began patting his pockets, searching through his clothes. He emptied one pocket, examined its contents, and then dug into another. He found nothing.

  “Perhaps you laid it down somewhere? Where were you when they left?” said I, trying to be helpful.

  “Well, I don’t see how that could . . .” He wandered over to Mr. Marsden’s area behind the strongroom. The files were there, as well as the paperwork in which the clerk had been engaged when the coughing fit came upon him. “Well, what do you know? Here it is.” Mr. Fuller reached out and plucked a much-folded note from the top of the clerk’s writing table. “Here’s your billy-doo, Master Proctor.”

  (That last bit he delivered in a fluting falsetto. He was ever making sport of my relations with Clarissa—in fact, long before there were truly any relations to be made sport of.)

  On it was written an address in Chandos Street—that and nothing more. She well knew that it was likely that I should wish to follow them to the silversmith’s—and follow them I would. Was I not told that Kathleen was “the girl she works with at the silversmith’s”? Indeed I was. She would have something to tell—if Sir John had not got it all out of her by now.

  “Well, I thank you, Mr. Fuller. This was indeed what I had hoped for from her.”

  “Lots of exes and hearts, I’ll bet.”

  “It would be dishonorable for me to tell.” And, at that, he laughed a dirty laugh indeed.

  The sound of it followed me all the way to the street.

  Though I was tempted, it would not do for me to have run the short distance to Chandos Street, for I knew I must keep an eye upon the far side of the street for Sir John and Clarissa.

  The street was crowded, for Chandos is at the very heart of London. Its shops and stores—dressmakers, drapers, et cetera—are among the finest in the city. And all are just a single street distant from the clamor and indecency of Bedford Street. Whilst on my way, I stole a glance at the note in my hand left by Clarissa, just to make certain that the address matched the one in my head. It did. Simple enough, yet it made me marvel somewhat: I must have passed the silversmith’s shop a hundred times—no, more, far more than that—and yet I had never noticed that there was such an establishment in Chandos Street. Which proved, I suppose, that I had little interest in silver and those things made from it. Sir John was right: I must improve my powers of observation. He “sees” more with his blind eyes when he enters a room, I told myself, than I or any ordinary man could ever do. As I entered the shop, I took a quick look in the window and reassured myself that it did, at least, look familiar. I took some comfort in that.

  “Yes sir, how may I serve you, sir?”

  He who had spoken those words to me I took to be no older than myself—indeed, he proved to be somewhat younger. Quite rightly I supposed him to be an apprentice; he was one of three in the shop.

  “If I am correct,” said I to him, “Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, is here in an investigation into the disappearance of one Elizabeth Hooker, an employee of Mr. Turbott.”

  “Oh, right you are,” said he, “and with a rather nice-looking young lady, is he not?”

  “Well . . . yes . . . I expect he would be.”

  I may have grumbled a bit at that. Though I thought it instructive to learn how the rest of the world viewed her, I didn’t like it in the least to hear her described in such a manner.

  “You’d like to see him then, of course.”

  “I would, yes.”

  “Just a moment then, till I get someone to take over the shop. I believe I know just where he is.”

  He went to a corner, away from the showcase, and tugged upon a line, and far back in the shop I heard a bell jingle. It was not long till, through the curtained doorway, another lad emerged of about the same age and general description.

  “Harry,” said my young fellow. “Will you keep an eye on things in front whilst I show this gentleman to Sir John? I take it that he’s still downstairs?”

  “Last time I looked,” said Harry.

  The first fellow then said to me: “Right this way, if you’ll just follow me.”

  The moment I stepped behind the curtain I found myself in quite another world. It was the one in which the pretty little items in the window were manufactured. It was a large area, of about the size and shape of the rear of one of the booksellers and publishers’ shops—though not near so crowded with bits and pieces of the process. Against the walls on either side were candelabra and bowls and such. In the far rear, there was a kind of miniature blacksmith’s forge, round which three men had gathered and at which they concentrated with remarkable intensity. My first impulse was to rush forward to discover the object of their concentration, yet my guide through Vulcan’s domain held me back with a discreet pressure upon my arm. We stood and waited. It was not long till, at a signal from one of the three, another picked up a long-handled ladle, and a third positioned himself behind him, checking the bolts on a mold. What followed was like steps in an intricately conceived ballet. At a second signal, the movement began: the man with the ladle backed away from the forge and, holding tight to the long handle, he turned round and poured the ladle’s hot metal into the mold; the other two fell back as the ladle was replaced, and then came forward to inspect the mold. I had, without quite willing it so, been holding my breath for I know not how long. It was only then, when the action had ceased, that I resumed.

  “That was silver they were pouring, was it not?” I asked my guide.

  “It was,” said he, “and it’s a specially difficult metal to work with, for it must be poured steady and even, not too fast and not too slow.”

  “The fellow who did the pouring—he’s not an apprentice, surely.” He seemed older and more experienced.

  “Oh no, that’s Mr. Tarkington. He’s a journeyman. But Joe, who handled the mold, he’s an apprentice in his last year.”

  “I see,” said I, “and the third man is Mr. Turbott?”

  “Just so,” said he, “and his part is as important as any, for it is he who must decide just when the silver is ready to be poured.”

  “This, then, is all there is to it?”

  “Oh no. It’s just the first step in the process. Those things you see in the wall shelves are, most of them, waiting to be taken through the next steps. But—”

  “Yes?”

  “Sir John awaits. Down these stairs, if you please, to our kitchen.”

  There, where I was left by my guide, did I find Sir John and Clarissa engaged in an interrogation of an older woman, obviously the cook. He asked the questions, and Clarissa watched her answers (a bit obtrusively, it seemed to me) for evidence of prevarication and subterfuge. She gave a curt nod to me; Sir John gave no sign of recognition, yet I was sure he was aware of my arrival.

  “And you say that the last you saw of her was Easter Sunday?” Sir John was saying.

  “That was the last of it,” said she. “Easter morning it was. And Lizzie was all dressed up for church, or Easter dinner, or whatever it was. I don’t know which for I did not ask her.”

  “And she was not expected back until . . .”

  “Well, maybe that night or next morning. Monday noon at the latest.”

  “And that was because . . .”

  “That was because the master and the mistress would be back by one, and they said to me they didn’t care how we came and went just so there was someone
in the house at all times and when they got back the place was clean.”

  “Those sound like reasonable requirements,” said Sir John. “But tell me, you have rather a small household staff here, do you not?”

  “Just kitchen help—me and the two girls. Now just one.”

  “How does that work—I mean normally. For instance, who does the cleaning?”

  “The ’prentices.”

  “And makes the beds and so on?”

  “The two girls.”

  “And you all eat down here?”

  “Well no, not quite,” said she. “The master and mistress take their meals on the first floor. The girls serve them there.”

  “And the apprentices?”

  “They eat with us down here.”

  “And they sleep . . . where?”

  “Up on the top floor.”

  “Including the journeyman?”

  “No, he lives off somewhere. You’ll have to ask him where.”

  “With so many doing extra work, it makes things busier for the staff, doesn’t it? Is this a happy staff?”

  “Well,” said she, “Mr. Turbott, he sets a good table, and he treats everyone pretty well, so I’d say yes, on the whole, and on the average, day in and day out, it’s a happy staff.”

  “What about Elizabeth Hooker?”

  “What about her?”

  “Was she happy?”

  She hesitated at that, leaning back, stroking her jowls as she considered the matter.

  “Well now, that’s pretty hard to say, ain’t it?” said she. If you mean really happy it’s hard, anyways—not like Kathleen over there. She just whistles her way through the day here in the kitchen. Ain’t that so, Kathleen?”

  The girl, not much older than sixteen, smiled shyly and nodded in response.

  “But Lizzie—that’s as we called her—she was something different. Half the time she had her mind somewhere else, so that more often than not you had to tell her things two or three times before they’d get done. Not lazy, you understand, just sort of dreamy. But she’s a great favorite with the Turbotts—specially the master. He’s forever teasing her and carrying on.”

  That was where the cook (whose name I later learned was Aggie Liston) ended her description of Elizabeth Hooker. What surprised me was that Sir John allowed her to end it there. In truth, she had said very little. I was sure that he could have gotten more out of her. “I should like to have a moment to talk with my young assistant, Jeremy Proctor, who has just arrived. Then perhaps you might take me to where Miss Hooker sleeps. Has she a room of her own?”

  “No, no she ain’t. She shares one with Kathleen.”

  “I thought so. Well, perhaps you might take Clarissa and show her the room—that is, if Kathleen has no objection.”

  “No, I’ve none,” said the girl.

  “Good,” said Sir John. “Now, if there is somewhere he and I might talk with some degree of privacy?”

  “What about the pantry?” said Aggie.

  “Sounds ideal. If you would not mind waiting, Kathleen?”

  “I’ll be right here,” said she.

  “Very good.”

  With that, we were shown into the pantry, where a single candle burned. Sir John waited till the door was shut, then turned in my direction with a scowl upon his face.

  “Now, what is it, lad? You must have something grand to tell me, for ever since you came down the stairs you’ve been hopping from one foot to the other in your eagerness to tell me this great something.”

  “But—but—how did you know?” said I, flummoxed and flabbergasted “How could you tell?”

  “Why, for the very reason I’ve said. You smell of sweat. You must have run a good part of the distance from Wapping. Everything about you bespeaks a bursting desire to have my attention. Well, now you have it. Speak your piece, if you must.”

  And so, quick as ever I could, I gave my report to Sir John on what I had learned from Hetty Duncan, the neighbor next door, as well as a few of the supporting details from George Chesley. It was a pleasure to see that scowl of annoyance turn to an expression of keen interest as my tale unfolded. By the time I had done, he was all but rubbing his hands in delighted anticipation of the next development.

  “This is very interesting indeed,” said he. “Mrs. Chesley, the very sister of Jenny Hooker, was so reluctant to let her know that another had attended the dinner in her place that she failed to mention it to her. You’ll notice, too, Jeremy, that we are beginning to get a much different picture of Elizabeth as we learn more about her—as we probe deeper—a girl who indeed has dreams of her own.”

  “Yes, the cook had some very interesting observations, did she not? I can hardly wait till Kathleen has her say. You realize, don’t you sir, that she and not Elizabeth’s uncle and aunt was the last to see her.”

  “Hmm. Yes. Quite.” Sir John seemed to be far ahead of me. “Let me make you an offer, Jeremy,” said he at last “Since it was you came up with this interesting bit of information, you may interrogate Kathleen, if you like.”

  “I welcome the chance, sir,” said I.

  “Very well, the burden is upon you then. But do keep in mind that even though she has not stepped forward with this information, she need not have done so. Do not accuse her. Simply draw her out and let her tell her story.”

  “Yes sir.”

  And so saying, I opened the door, and we two stepped out into the kitchen. Kathleen stood where she had when we entered the pantry. I pulled out a chair for Sir John, and I invited her to sit down there at the large kitchen table. She accepted, smiled, and dropped into a chair nearby. I sat down opposite her.

  “Kathleen is your name?” I asked.

  “It is, sir.”

  “What is your surname, Kathleen?”

  “Surname, sir?” She did not know the word. Could she read, I wondered.

  “Yes, surname—your family name.”

  “Ah!” said she. “Kathleen Quigley is my full name, sir.”

  “What sort of name is that? North of England, perhaps Scottish?”

  “Irish, sir.”

  Kathleen Quigley was a pretty girl who, had she been asked, might have agreed that she was pretty but would have argued that it meant little in London in such times. Which is to say, she was a realist—as Clarissa perhaps was not.

  “I want you to know, Miss Quigley, that you made a great success on Sunday.”

  “Sir?”

  “With the Chesleys—Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle.”

  “Ah, you saw them, did you?”

  “Why yes, and their neighbor, too—Hetty Duncan.”

  “Oh that funny old woman who lives next door? I saw her peeking out her window at us. What did she have to say?”

  “She thought you and Elizabeth looked enough alike to be sisters.”

  “And what did you think of that?”

  “Well,” said I, “when she said that, I didn’t know what to think, for I hadn’t met you then, had I?”

  “All right, now what do you think?”

  She raised her chin and looked away slightly, as if she were posing for a portrait.

  “Oh, there’s no question in my mind. You’re much the prettier.”

  “Kind of you to say so. We was wearing frocks that was similar. I ain’t sure how well she could see us at that distance, though.”

  “Obviously not too well.” I let that hang between us for a long moment. Then: “Why did you not tell us? Or tell Mrs. Hooker when she was about asking after her daughter? Or tell Mr. Turbott?”

  “Well ...”

  I saw that she was reluctant to answer. Why? But then did I notice that the cook had reentered with Clarissa close behind—and I understood.

  “What was the difficulty? What was the problem?” I asked. “Surely it’s quite a commonplace sort of thing—Mrs. Hooker is unable to go, and so Elizabeth invites you to come along in her mother’s place. What could be more natural? You were her workmate in the day and her bed-mate at
night, were you not? And after all, that walk to Wapping is a terribly long one—much too long to take alone, surely.”

  “Well . . . yes . . .” She hesitated, then, after fighting a brief skirmish with herself, she plunged on: “What you just said was the way I thought about it when Lizzie put it up to me—especially that part about the long walk to Wapping. But it wasn’t the walk to Wapping frightened me, ’twas the walk back.”

  I could tell that she was truly disturbed by something—the memory of that evening, no doubt—and I must now do or say something that would assure her that all was well, that she had only to tell her story and all would be well. I reached across the table and patted her hand.

  “Whatever you are holding back,” said I, “can only help bring her back.”

  She nodded, sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes with a dirty kerchief.

  “All right,” said she, “I’m sure you’re right.” Then, lowering her voice, she told her tale.

  Just as Mrs. Chesley had told her sister, she had warned Elizabeth against leaving so late, and had gone so far as to invite the two girls to spend the night in the spare room. Otherwise, she said, they would find themselves on central London’s wildest and most dangerous streets toward the end of their journey.

  But Elizabeth was adamant: “Not if we leave now and hurry along. We shall run if we have to, won’t we, Kathleen?”

  And that is just what they did—though their running was more in the manner of skipping. (I may say that with some authority, reader, for Kathleen arose from her chair and demonstrated their step.) They skipped and giggled their way across London until at last, when they came upon Drury Lane, that wicked thoroughfare that cuts so close to Bow Street, it was fair dark.

  Now, Drury Lane is an exceptional street in a number of ways, yet foremost is this: at no other place in the city do those who have plenty and those who have naught, move in such proximity. There is, of course, Mr. Garrick’s Drury Lane Theatre, as there is also the Theatre Royal, popularly known as the Covent Garden Theatre, just off that thoroughfare and touching the north corner of Covent Garden; these, as well as an eating place or two, provided the attraction for the rich, and the rich attracted the poor. There is a good deal of pickpocketry and petty thieving along the way, but, most of all, prostitution and pimpery do there abound. Elizabeth and Kathleen were quite uncomfortable walking there.