The Price of Murder Read online

  It is well known and often said that Seven Dials is one of those parts of London that never close. Day or night are all the same to its denizens. Probably because most of them are so blindly drunk that they cannot tell the difference between sunshine and moonshine.

  I knew I was getting closer to Cucumber Alley when I began to descry bottles in the gutter. Soon I spied the fellows who had dropped them there; slack-faced types they were, but sharp-eyed in spite of all. They looked to be the sort who, at night, would follow you into the alley or the rookery and knock you down for any valuables you might happen to have upon your person. My respect for Mr. Patley, who moved through these dark precincts quite fearlessly, grew greater with each step I took.

  As I turned into the rookery, I held back before ever I stepped into the courtyard, lest I become the victim of some fellow awaiting me at the other end with a club in his hand. I stood for well over a minute in the short tunnel, listening for sounds of breathing, or the shifting of feet. There was nothing, and so I moved ahead. Coming out in the courtyard, I took a moment to count the doors behind which I must seek Alice Plummer who had, less than a month before, reported her daughter missing. A dozen, there was. There were neither names nor numbers upon the doors. It was evident that if I were to find the woman, it might be necessary to knock on each one.

  ’Twas a bootless task. Of the first half dozen I knocked upon, only two were answered. I wondered, would there be any point in knocking upon the rest? Well, putting my doubts behind me, I stepped up to door number seven and beat a harsh tattoo upon it. At first, I heard nothing at all, but then there were faint sounds stirring beyond the door, and a moment later, footsteps and a challenging shout.

  “What do you want?”

  It was a woman’s voice, gruff and harsh, but, nonetheless, it was unmistakably that of a woman.

  “I am come from the Bow Street Court in search of Alice Plummer,” I shouted in return.

  “Well, I ain’t her.”

  “All right,” said I, “but perhaps you could point out her door to me.”

  “Maybe I could do that.”

  “Well?”

  There was a long moment’s hesitation as the woman behind the door considered my proposal. Then did I hear her begin to throw off locks. Yet before she threw the last, she shouted at me once again.

  “Now, you hear me now,” said she, “before I throws this last lock, I want you to know I’ve a pistol here in my right hand. And if you’re come to rob me, I’ll shoot you down. I swear to God I will.”

  I knew not quite how to respond to that, and so I offered her the most pacific response I could imagine.

  “If I misrepresented myself, you have my permission to shoot me.”

  At that the woman laughed—or rather, cackled—quite merrily. She pulled the last bolt, then opened the door a crack—just wide enough so that she might shove the barrel of the pistol through. Though I could not spy it, her eye must have been there, too; for, continuing to laugh, she threw the door open wide and we looked each the other up and down. She was plump and shy of forty, though not by much. Her hair was dyed a deep red, though what substance had been used to dye it I’ve no idea; it was, in any case, no natural color.

  “Well,” said she, “you look like a likely lad. Like to have your ashes hauled?”

  I had no idea of what, exactly, was meant by that. Nevertheless, the look on her face made her general meaning clear.

  “Uh, no,” said I. “I am searching for Alice Plummer, as I said. She is the mother of the child who vanished near a month ago, a girl named Margaret, as I understand.”

  “She lived right next door of me, she and little Maggie. Alice ain’t there anymore, though. She moved away just after Maggie disappeared, like.”

  That struck me as odd. “Moved away, you say? How would we know to make contact with her if the girl were found?”

  “That ain’t my problem, is it?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  This was most odd. Perhaps she had told Constable Patley of her intention to move and of her new location—and he had simply neglected to pass it on to Mr. Marsden. Yes, perhaps—but all the same, it was odd. I stood, pondering the matter there on the woman’s doorstep, until I happened to note that she had become a bit restless: she wanted me gone.

  “Just a question or two more,” said I, hoping to hold her.

  “Well, make it fast. I’ve not got all day.”

  “Fair enough. Who’s living in her place now?”

  “That’s the peculiarest part,” said she. “Ain’t nobody living there, as near as I can judge. I’ve had my ear to the wall for near a month now, but I’ve not heard nothin’ from next door. I saw her leave and gave her a wave goodbye. Last thing she said to me was, ‘Katy, I’m goin’ on a holiday, and I just might not ever come back.’”

  “But then again, she might,” I suggested.

  “Might what?”

  “Might come back.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe, I suppose. It’s just, if I had all the money she’s got, I wouldn’t come back, and you can be sure of it.”

  All the money she’s got? This was something new, wasn’t it?

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Well, it was the day after little Maggie disappeared. She didn’t exactly show me all this money she had. She showed me her purse, though, and rattled it for me. I was just sure I heard guineas in there, along with bulls, neds, and bobsticks—all manner of His Majesty’s coinage.”

  “Didn’t that make you just a little suspicious?”

  “Suspicious at what?”

  “Suspicious that she may have . . . well, that she may have sold her daughter?”

  “And what if she did? say I. Maggie was hers to sell, wasn’t she?”

  “That’s not what the law says.”

  “Ah, well, the law,” she sneered. “The law is for nobs and such.”

  “Well, you should know then, Mistress . . . Mistress . . . What is your name, anyway?”

  She raised her chin and gave me a sharp look. “Katy Tiddle, if you will! Now, you tell me, what is this that I should know?”

  And having made her demand, she raised the pistol she had pointed at me through the crack in the door and pointed it at me once again. And she did so most threateningly. Nevertheless, I noted that she had not pulled back the hammer on the pistol. I wondered if she could manage it; I wondered further if the pistol were loaded; and, finally, did I wonder if she had ever before fired such a weapon. If you judge from this that I was in no wise intimidated, then you judge the matter correctly.

  “You should know,” said I, “that young Maggie is dead. At least we think it’s Maggie. I’d come here that I might collect Alice Plummer and bring her to the medico to identify the body there as Maggie’s.”

  “Can’t do that now, though,” said she with a smirk, “can you?”

  I noted that she had allowed the pistol barrel to droop, and she had not yet thought to draw back the hammer. And so, in one swift movement, I grasped the pistol and wrested it from her resisting hand.

  “But you know her as a neighbor,” said I, “so you’ll do just as well. Come along.”

  Then did she not howl and yelp! She sounded as would a lowly cur in pain.

  Indeed, she did carry on in this manner all the way to Drury Lane and Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Halfway to our destination, she did calm down sufficient to allow me to unhand her wrist and take her properly by the elbow. I would not release her completely, for I feared, with good cause, that she would dart into some dark warren at the earliest opportunity, and I might thus lose her altogether. Nevertheless, guiding her with a firm hand, I set a swift pace, and we were quickly cross the distance.

  Somewhere along the way, it became evident that her objection had little to do with a loss of time, or some missed appointment. No, it was her mad fear of death—which is to say, her quite unreasoning revulsion from corpses in any condition. I assured her that Maggie Plummer’s body and face h
ad in no wise been ruined by her overnight sojourn in the Thames—all to no avail. It developed that it was not the condition of the body that disturbed her so mightily, but rather the mere fact of death. To be thus reminded of the fate that awaits us all was for her an experience utterly intolerable—or so she convinced me. Yet, tolerable or intolerable, she would nevertheless experience it when we did reach our destination, Mr. Donnelly’s surgery.

  When we did, we found the waiting room relatively empty. Only one, a woman of thirty or so, waited. Clearly a lady of quality, she sat high in her chair and attempted to take no notice of Katy Tiddle when we two came storming in from the hall. Yet she, on whom I kept my tight hold, was impossible to ignore. As near as I could tell, ’twas the peculiar red of Katy’s hair that so fascinated the lady with whom we shared Mr. Donnelly’s waiting room. Sitting across from her, it was quite impossible to miss the darting glances that she threw in our direction. Each one, it seemed, was aimed at the tangled mop of vermilion atop Katy’s head. How had she managed such a color?

  Without notice, the door to Mr. Donnelly’s examination room opened, and out came a man of advanced age, wherewith the lady bounced quickly to her feet and stepped smartly to the hall door. Mr. Donnelly followed him out, murmuring something about the chemist’s shop below. As the ill-matched couple left, the wife could not resist throwing one last look across the room. Katy Tiddle was waiting for her. She stuck out her tongue most impudently, surprising us all and propelling the gentleman and his lady out the door. Once they were safely gone, Mr. Donnelly could not withhold a chuckle or two.

  “Who is she?” said he to me.

  “Katy Tiddle is the name,” said she before I could respond. “And if it was up to me, I’d be anywhere but here.”

  “She’s come to identify the body,” said I.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Donnelly, clearly a bit confused. “Not the mother, surely.”

  “The neighbor next door.”

  “Well, come along then.”

  He led the way back to the little apartment of rooms he kept behind the examination room. What we presumed to be the body of Maggie Plummer lay upon a table in the first of the two. A sheet covered her from head to toe. I glanced over at Katy Tiddle and saw that she had her eyes tight shut.

  “What will you, Katy?” said I, chastising. “You must open your eyes for this.”

  “I’ve no wish to do it.”

  “Well, you must, my girl,” said Mr. Donnelly. “And there’ll be no foolishness about it.”

  So saying, he threw back the sheet, exposing the face and shoulders of the child.

  “There, Katy,” said I, “open your eyes and take a look. Tell us if the body upon the table is that of Maggie Plummer.”

  Still she held her eyes shut. Mr. Donnelly watched her with increasing exasperation. Knowing that it could not continue thus for much longer, I simply did what had to be done: I picked the plumpest part of her upper arm, grasped near an inch of skin, and pinched for all I was worth.

  “OW!” said she, a loud cry that must have resounded through every room. But her eyes popped open in surprise, and because she had held her head down in an unconscious gesture of rejection, her eyes fell quite immediately upon that which she had so diligently refused, till that moment, to see.

  “Oh, my God, Maggie, it is you, ain’t it? Forgive me!” She screamed it, eyes wide open, wailing out great moans of sorrow. For minutes, it seemed, she could not be quietened. Who would have guessed that this was the sly creature who had declared that a mother had the right to sell her child? Only after Mr. Donnelly had covered over the face of the child did she at last begin to master her emotions. Then did I lead her forth from the room. Gabriel Donnelly followed, closing doors after us.

  “Well,” said he, “I daresay we can now consider Margaret Plummer properly identified.”

  “It was her, all right,” said Katy Tiddle. “But one thing I want you to know, both of you.” We stopped to listen to her in the empty waiting room, just at the door to the hall.

  “And what is that, Miss Tiddle?”

  “Alice thought she was doing Maggie a good turn, sending her off with that man. She may have sold her, right enough, but the way he told it to her, Maggie would be ever so much better off with these rich folks who couldn’t have childrens of their own. But—”

  “But what?” I asked.

  “But I guess he lied.”

  It was not until into the evening that I recalled that I had been carrying about a pistol in my pocket for most of the afternoon. What was I to do with it? True, I’d taken it from Katy Tiddle; nevertheless, she’d doubtless stolen it from someone. I’d bring it to Mr. Baker, I decided, for he was the proper armorer for the Bow Street Runners. He could check the stolen property list and tell me what ought to be done with it. I’d abide by his decision.

  Whilst attending to these matters, Constable Patley happened by, and we talked at some length of Alice Plummer, and little Maggie, as well as Katy Tiddle. I gave to Mr. Patley essentially the same report I had given earlier to Sir John.

  “Well, I ain’t surprised to hear it, any of it. There’s a lot of kidnapping and child-buying goes on in this town of London,” said he. “And it ain’t for any good purpose.”

  “You said, didn’t you, that you were suspicious of that woman Plummer right from the start.”

  “Something didn’t seem right.”

  “Sir John’s told me to bring in that Tiddle person. He thinks he might be able to get a bit more out of her.”

  “If anyone can, it’s him.”

  ’Twas just about then that Mr. Baker came over, and in a teasing way, he said to me, “Jeremy, you ought to tell a fellow when you’re handing over a loaded pistol. You handle them a little different, you know.”

  “Why, I didn’t think for a moment that it was loaded,” said I, much embarrassed. “Sorry, Mr. Baker.”

  “I’ve not found it on the stolen property list, but I can tell you this—it’s a fine and expensive piece of gunsmithing you lifted off that woman. Could be one of a set of two. It looks French to me.”

  That left me with something to think about, so it did. As I drifted away and up the stairs, I considered the matter further, wondering as I did, how and from whom Katy Tiddle had acquired that remarkable pistol.

  And—let me see—just to bring things to a proper conclusion, I shall add one final note to this first chapter. The dinner of pot roast, which Clarissa prepared for the family that evening, was as good as any ever done for us by Molly—or, for that matter, by Annie, who preceded her. Clarissa would make a fine cook. There could be no question of it.

  TWO

  In which a startling discovery is made by none but me

  My arrival at Katy Tiddle’s door was delayed until the middle of the next morning. Saturday it was, and the darkest day in the church’s calendar. Yet one would not know it from the crowds upon the street. They were boisterous and jolly, most of them women out to buy for the great holiday next day. Mr. Tolliver’s warning to Clarissa, that she had best do her buying early, was well given and taken to heart by her; she was out to Covent Garden and back, begging me to look upon the prizes she had made off with. True enough, she had done well for herself. Yet by that time, spurred to action by Sir John, I was pulling on my coat and making ready to go.

  “Duty calls,” said I, heading for the door.

  “Can you not stay long enough to look upon this fine Easter ham?”

  “I cannot,” said I, “for I must fetch a witness that Sir John would interrogate.”

  “That proves it.”

  “Proves what?”

  “That you would rather do Sir John’s bidding than that of your very own stomach.”

  “Clarissa, you have but to cook that ham and I shall do it justice. You may count upon it.”

  With that, I was out the door, moving as swift as I was able through the many who seemed ever to move in the direction counter to mine. ’Twas only as I reached the Seven Dials
and Cucumber Alley that I noted that it was no longer such a struggle to move ahead. The denizens of Seven Dials had little interest in the ecclesiastical calendar, nor in any other sort, for that matter. They kept their places at the bars and in the dives, sipping their gin and their rum.

  I knew that it would be no easy matter persuading Katy Tiddle to open the door to me after her last experience; nevertheless, I had a plan. Having brought with me the pistol I had taken from her the day before, I had decided to use it as bait. She would certainly welcome me if it meant getting back the pistol. I had paid it little attention before handing it over to Mr. Baker. But when he gave it back and told me that he had not found it on the stolen property list, I took considerably more interest than before. It was indeed a beautiful piece, was it not? Engraved decoratively, perfectly balanced, it seemed more in the nature of a work of art than a lethal weapon. Mr. Baker had suggested there might be a twin of it somewhere about.

  Still, how had Katy Tiddle come to own it? Such a pistol was not readily given away as a gift. Whether or not it had found its way onto the stolen property list, Katy had surely stolen it. Yet, until I knew that for certain, I had no choice but to return it to her. And now was the time to do just that.

  I knocked politely upon her door. As it had been at my last visit, there was no immediate response—simply silence. I knocked again and waited. More silence. I listened, wondering if she might simply have gone out for food or an early gin. Perhaps I should walk around a bit and come back to try again. But no, I may have been a bit too timid in my first attempts. I would give her one last try and make it a good one. Having thus resolved, I beat hard upon the door, pounding upon it with my clenched fist and calling out her name. But then something quite remarkable happened: the door opened. Not only did it open, it flew open, banging against the wall behind from the force of my blows.