Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

  “It will mean, also, that we must leave the corpus where it lies. Have the room locked, if you will, and see that nothing is disturbed. It will be taken in the morning.”

  “It will be done as you say, Sir John.”

  “And finally, we must take the pistol with us to Bow Street. Mr. Bailey, will you take charge of it?”

  “Oh? Must you? I had thought …”

  Mr. Bailey had already stepped into the room to fetch the weapon.

  “What had you thought, my lord? Surely you did not wish to keep it as a remembrance of this dreadful occasion?”

  “Oh no, nothing of the kind. I had thought merely … oh, that since you would want nothing disturbed, you would want that also where it lies—perhaps for Mr. Trezavant’s viewing.”

  “No, I fear that Mr. Trezavant is totally dependent upon us for his information. So far we seem to have given him more than he wishes.” Then, with a rap of his stick upon the floor, Sir John concluded the interview. “And so, Lord Laningham, we shall depart,” said he. “I wish you a good evening, certainly a more tranquil one than you have so far had.”

  “Let me show you to the door. I do wonder where Poole has got to.”

  He went the few steps to the door and opened it, permitting us to trail out.

  “Goodbye to you, then, Sir John. I look forward to your visit in the morn-ing.

  Then did the great door slam behind us.

  Immediately did Mr. Perkins take Sir John aside and mutter low: “Sir, there’s a poor cod been freezing out here in the cold for the chance to talk to you.”

  “Tale me to him at once, Mr. Perkins.”

  It was Poole, the butler. He popped out from behind a bush that had quite obscured him. He was dressed for the house; he wore neither greatcoat nor cape, but stood chafing his hands and shivering.

  “Sir John,” said he, “I must be swift ere I be missed.”

  “Then quickly, Mr. Poole.”

  “The gentleman who lies dead—well, he was a tradesman, but he conducted himself as a gentleman—you could tell he was expected. He even said as much. He gave his name and offered his card. But before I could announce him proper, Mr. Paltrow, who calls himself Lord Laningham, came out of the study. He greeted the fellow by name rather somber and took him into the study. It was a short time afterward, not much more than five minutes, that I heard the shot, but the ladies of the family were already there when he emerged —smiling. Yet the women immediately set up an awful racket of wailing and crying, like it was all planned among them. He then orders me off to send Sam for you. Now, I know not what was told you, sir, but that’s the truth of it, though you likely heard different from him.”

  “I did indeed. Tell me now, since you did not have the opportunity to announce the caller, do you perhaps still have his card?”

  “Why, as a matter of fact, sir, I do.” Wherewith, Mr. Poole dipped into a pocket of his waistcoat and produced the card in question, which he placed in Sir John’s hand. “As I recall, the caller’s name was Mr. Pugh. But now, I must back into the house.”

  “Just one thing more, Mr. Poole. Did the late Lord Laningham keep a loaded pistol in the study —perhaps in his desk?”

  “He did, sir, in fact two — a boxed set. I know them well, for he called my attention to them and said that if it was ever necessary to drive an unwelcome caller from our door, then here was the means.”

  “Then I have a request. You have the keys to the study. Sometime during the night, when you will not be noticed, I want you to take the boxed set — one will no doubt be missing — and steal it. Sequester it and give it me in the morning.”

  “I will do that, sir. But now I must go.”

  “Go indeed, and may God bless you as a truth teller.”

  Then did Mr. Poole take his leave, departing swiftly down a narrow pathway to the side of the great house to some rear entrance of it.

  Sir John then handed the card to me and asked me to read it him. The light was not good, yet I made out the name, Peter Pugh, chemist, and an address on King Street, Twickenham, all of which I read aloud to Sir John.

  “Gentlemen, are you ready for a long coach ride?” he asked. “We’ve a distance to go this evening, but we must reach Twickenham before murder is again committed.”

  THIRTEEN

  In Which an End of

  Sorts is Put to

  Both Matters

  We three — Constable Bailey, Constable Perkins, and myself—knew as little of the reason for our expedition to Twickenham at our arrival as we had at its beginning. Sir John had kept his silence as we huddled against the cold, bumping and bouncing along the road that followed close along the great river Thames. It seemed to me there were a score of questions that needed answer. Yet who was I to ask them if two of the Bow Street Runners—to my mind, the two finest of their number—were content in their ignorance of Sir John’s plan? What I least understood was the urgency of this journey. Why could it not have been undertaken in the morning when it was a bit warmer?

  Reader, if you are not acquainted with London and its environs, then you should know that Twickenham lies well into the County of Middlesex, beyond Richmond. Because of its location on the river and its handsome natural surroundings, there are a few great houses there, but the town itself is not much more than a village; and as we entered it, though the hour was not truly late, it gave every appearance of being a village asleep. Lucky for us that our destination lay on King Street, for it proved to be the chief street of the town, and the driver of the hackney had no difficulty finding the chemist’s shop of Peter Pugh.

  As we climbed down from the coach, Sir John paused to speak with the driver.

  “We shall need you for the return trip to London,” said he.

  “And I shall need a return fare, for I’ll not find one here.”

  “Well and good,” said Sir John. “Here is an extra two shillings added to what we agreed upon.” He passed the coins to Mr. Bailey, who reached them up to the driver. “Find a tavern or an inn hereabouts and wait there. One should be open at this hour.”

  “Aye, the Coach House Inn, or the Eel Pie House perhaps.”

  “Wherever you choose, but come back sober … oh, in an hour. But I must make it clear that I do not wish you waiting for us here within sight. Is that understood?”

  “Understood and agreed.”

  Then did the driver urge his horses forward, leaving the four of us standing together before the chemist’s shop. What was it, I asked myself, that demanded immediate attention but could be accomplished in an hour? Well, I would soon know.

  “Tell me, gentlemen,” said Sir John, “does a light burn in the floor above the shop?”

  “It does, Sir John,” said Mr. Bailey. “Someone’s up and about.”

  “Are there pebbles about? Perhaps in the roadway?”

  I was nearest the curb. I bent down and, looking closely, found a few near at hand.

  “I have some, sir.”

  “Nothing large enough to break a pane of glass, I hope.”

  “Oh no, mere chips off the cobblestones they are.”

  “Then if you will, Jeremy, throw them one or two at a time up at that lit window. Perhaps we can get attention from up there without raising a rumpus and rousing the neighbors.”

  I threw up two together: one fell short, and the other clicked against a pane. I had the range; the next hit the mark, as did the next after that. I had returned to the road to search for more ammunition when sounds came from above. As I looked up, the window came open and the head of a woman emerged; she peered down in the darkness at us.

  “Who is there? What do you want?”

  “Madam Pugh?” asked Sir John, his voice barely louder than it had been when he had spoken to me a few moments before.

  “That’s who I am, right enough, but who are you?”

  “I am Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court, serving the Cities of Westminster and London. These men are constables. I wish to speak to
you regarding your husband. Come down and open the shop door.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” said she, most fretful. “But … but how do I know you are who you say you are? “

  “I can tell you what you know to be true —that Peter Pugh this day went to London to meet with Lord Laningham.”

  “Oh dear,” she repeated. “What— Well … all right, I’ll be down in a moment.”

  We gathered at the door. And in truth, it seemed little more than a moment until light showed vaguely below as through a frosted glass. Then did she throw a curtain back and proceed into the front of the shop. She bore a lit candle in one hand and a great ring of keys in the other. She had no difficulty finding the proper key to the door. Throwing it open, she bade us enter, and we trooped inside.

  “Close the door,” said she, “for it’s terrible cold out there.”

  I, who was last to enter, pulled it tight shut behind me, noting as I did that she was probably warmest-dressed of any of us. She wore a thick winter robe over a wool nightgown, and a wool scarf tied round her head.

  Mrs. Pugh faced Sir John square on. “What is it, then? Tell me the worst.”

  “Since you put it so,” said Sir John, “I shall be direct. Your husband was shot to death by Arthur Paltrow, Lord Laningham, no more than two hours ago.”

  She seemed at first to take the news stoically, for she said nothing during what seemed a great while. Holding her face still, she kept her jaw so rigid that it seemed to bulge. Then, of a sudden, she lost control, and her face crumpled in an excess of tears.

  “Oh, God,” she wailed, “what is to become of me?”

  “That, madam, is one of the reasons we have come. I have good reason to believe that Lord Laningham is on his way here at this moment with the intention of murdering you.”

  “But… but…” She strove to gain control over the great hiccuping sobs that now racked her. Then at last she mastered them to ask: “Why … should he do … that?”

  “You knew, did you not, of the considerable quantities of arsenic your husband had sold to Arthur Paltrow?”

  Recovering herself, she admitted that she did: “Peter began to suspicion him when he kept coming back for more. ‘No house has that many rats,’ says Peter to me.”

  “Yet your husband continued to supply him, did he not?”

  “Out of curiosity he did and because there was no reason not to. One time he followed him from the shop, that he might know where was this house with all the rats. What he found was that the fellow marched off to the Coach House and took the post coach to London. That struck Peter as passing strange. If the fellow wanted arsenic, why did he not buy it in London, where he could get it in any chemist’s shop?”

  “When did these visits begin? How frequent were they?”

  “He first came six months ago and would visit each month to buy a good half-pound, or more, but he wanted more each visit. On his last, he bought more than a pound.”

  “And when was that?”

  “About a month ago,” said she. “Now, sir, it was always my husband’s dream to escape Twickenham and open a shop in London. He would read the Public Advertiser, so he knew all the news and tittle-tattle just as any who lived there might. One day he read to me the story of the death of old Lord Laningham in the Crown and Anchor, and he says to me, ‘May,’ he says, that sounds to me like arsenic, it does, and I’m going into London next Sunday to the concert to see if this Arthur Paltrow fellow is the one comes each month to buy it of me.’ Well, he went, and he had his look, and it was the same fellow. Then did my husband read of the death of old Lady Laningham, and that made him still more certain to proceed with his plan.”

  “His plan of extortion, you mean?”

  “Is that what you call it? Well, Peter didn’t ask for much—just a hundred pounds each for the lord and lady. He wrote in the letter he would only require thus much, and would not ask later for more. But he said if this amount was not paid, he would bring what he knew to the attention of some magistrate or other. It may even be you he mentioned, sir.”

  “When was it this letter was sent?”

  “Less than a week ago. He got a prompt reply which invited him to call tonight at seven. Oh, I begged him not to go, said it could be a trap. I counseled him against it, I did, but he was determined. He said it would give him enough to move us to London and open a shop in a good district.”

  “Nevertheless, madam, you knew your husband’s unlawful intentions, and you failed to report them. That made you a silent conspirator in the criminal act. Yet I promise you that all will be forgiven you if you take part in my plan to apprehend your husband’s murderer.”

  She thought a moment upon his proposition. “I’ll do it,” said she. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “Very good. You have made a wise decision. We expect this man Arthur Paltrow, who has taken the title of Lord Laningham, to come here soon. I want you to go upstairs and allow him to halloo you down. Be reluctant, but allow yourself finally to be persuaded. Open the door to him, but retire to a place near the entrance to the back of the shop. We will wait there. Get him to talk truthfully of what has happened, and at the first sign of danger to your person, cry out, and we shall be there to rescue you. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear,” she said, yet she wavered: “But … what is this of danger to my person?”

  “Don’t you understand, madam? He’s coming here to murder you, too, lor what you know of this. But never mind that now. Go upstairs, for this villain may come along at any time.”

  Then, somewhat wide-eyed, she turned away and left us. I heard her footsteps on the stairway a moment later.

  “Come along, gentlemen. Take me to the rear of the shop so that we may find a less visible place to wait. Is there a curtain? Ah, good — even better.”

  We had not long to wait. Sir John amended his plan in one particular. At Mr. Perkins’s suggestion, he placed the constable in one corner behind the counter. There he would be invisible unless Arthur Paltrow himself stepped behind the counter, which was not likely. Then, satisfied, we took our place behind and to one side of the curtain, leaving Mrs. Pugh an easy path past us.

  “Now you, Jeremy, I make responsible for Mrs. Pugh’s safety. Should she cry out that she is in danger —or at my command — I wish you to reach round the curtain, or even through it, and grab the woman and pull her back. Pull her down if you must, but get her out of harm’s way. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir,” said I.

  “And you, Mr. Bailey, have your pistol out and cock it soon as she goes by, so that you are ready to step into the gap and shoot, if necessary. Understood?”

  “Aye, Sir John, as you say.”

  We waited, though as I have written, not long. The first sign that our expected visitor had made his appearance came from Sir John: a smile spread across his face. Then came a nod from Constable Bailey, and at about that time my own dull ears picked up the sound of hoofbeats on the cobblestones.

  “From the sound of it,” I whispered, “there is but a single man on horseback.”

  “That’s as I would have expected,” said Sir John. “Had he come in his coach-and-four, he would have had his driver and footman as witnesses to murder. The horse he rides, however, cannot bear witness against him.”

  The hoofbeats stopped before the shop. The conversation that ensued after a minute or two between the rider—the sound of his voice identified him certainly as Lord Laningham—and Mrs. Pugh was rather difficult to follow in that we were unable to hear clearly what was spoken by her. She had shut the door at the top of the stairs, and I at least was only able to make out what was said by him. He lured her with a promise of payment, saying that her husband had fallen ill and had put up with them for the time being, but had insisted that he, Lord Laningham, ride out to Twickenham and inform his wife of this and make payment to her direct so that she might not worry about his absence.

  “I am only conforming with Mr. Pugh’s wishes in this, madam, so ple
ase open the door that I might pay you and be gone. I have had a long, cold ride, and I would be done with this, and done with it as quick as possible.”

  Though I heard not what she responded, she must have allowed that to persuade her, for it was but an instant later that I heard the door open and her footsteps on the stairs. She looked quite apprehensive as she approached us.

  “I hope I ain’t sorry for this,” she muttered.

  “Just stand with your back into the curtain,” whispered Sir John.

  Then she stepped past us, and into the front of the shop. I heard the key rattle in the lock and the door swing open on its dry hinges. She had no need to urge this visitor to shut the door: he closed it sharply behind him.

  “Ah, madam,” said he, “you’ve no idea how good it is to be in out of that chill night Mr. There’s even a bit of wind up. I had a frightful ride here.”

  “And all to deliver a certain sum of cash. Well, tell me, where is it?”

  A frown appeared on Sir John’s face. Was she not rushing things a bit? I asked myself. And why had she not backed up against the curtain, as she’d been told?

  She, too, must have realized that her pace in the matter was somewhat precipitous, for she amended her question: “But tell me first what ails my husband.”

  “You seem quite agitated, madam, if I may say so. And why do you back away so?”

  “I ain’t sure I did right to let you in.”

  “Let me assure you that you have little to fear from me. You will have your cash. I wish only to ascertain a thing or two first. But let me now tell you that Mr. Pugh suffered some pains in the region of his heart. A physician has examined him and prescribed rest merely. At this moment he sleeps peacefully in one of our best rooms.”

  At last the curtain stirred and bulged ever so slightly inward. She was at last where she ought to be.