The Price of Murder

by Bruce Alexander

  “What others?”

  “Those with the numbers scrawled upon them. They were all together in a pile in the table next her bed.”

  “You know what those are, don’t you? I certainly do.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “As near as I can tell,” said Clarissa, “these stubs, tickets, et cetera, are all from various pawn shops. Some of them are marked in just such a way on the back. Come here and I’ll show you, shall I?”

  “No, Sir John has asked for me. Perhaps later.”

  With that, I left her and jog-trotted up the stairs and down the hall to the little room he called his study. It was there that he went to consider and suppose. Dark and light were one to him, and so he sat most often in the dark as he thought. That, in any case, is how I found him on the evening in question.

  “Is that you, Jeremy? Come, sit down. Light a candle, if you like.”

  “No, I’ve no need,” said I, as I took a chair across the desk from him.

  “I wanted to explain my dismissal of you earlier today.”

  “I understood it, Sir John.”

  “I hope you did. It was naught but my wish to get our friend Deuteronomy alone and get him talking that moved me to send you so roughly on your way.”

  “Well,” said I, “you got him alone right enough. Did you get him talking?”

  “Yes, and I did not like the sound of all I heard from him. I truly believe he would murder his sister if he were to come across her in his present state. I gave him a stern warning, yet, in truth, I’m not even sure he heard me, so overwhelmed was he by the news I had given him. He was certainly attached to that niece of his, wasn’t he?”

  “He was indeed.”

  “He’s claimed her body for burial at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. I’d like you to attend the funeral service in case anything should turn up there. Find out when it will be held from those at the church, will you? Probably not until the day after tomorrow—tomorrow being Easter.”

  “I will, Sir John.”

  “You might even take Clarissa along to the funeral—with Lady Fielding’s approval, of course. Women seem to know how to behave on such occasions.” He sighed. “Let me see,” said he, “what else? I’d also like you to find out from Mr. Baker if Mr. Plummer is riding tomorrow. Baker often attends these meets, I believe. If Deuteronomy Plummer rides, I’d like you to attend and let yourself be seen by him. I want him to know that we are watching him, so that he does nothing foolish, nothing violent. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed I do, sir.”

  “And what, if anything, did you turn up in your search of that woman’s place—the one who got herself murdered? Katy Tiddle? Was that her name?”

  “I found odds and ends. There are labels of one kind or another—nothing of interest there. But more promising is a pile of tickets and stubs, each one numbered—that is, they would be promising if I could figure out just what they are and what the numbers are for. Clarissa believes them to be pawn tickets.”

  “Oh? Then no doubt she’s correct,” said he, pleasing me little. “When handling a case like this, Jeremy, it is important to keep at it diligently. Do something on it each day. It is only thus that we shall ever manage to solve it. And I assure you, lad, that indeed we shall solve it.” He hesitated, then added: “Why not proceed on the assumption that Clarissa is correct and see where that leads you?”

  THREE

  In which I view my first horse race, and the investigation begins

  And so it came about that I went next day to Shepherd’s Bush in the company of Mr. Baker—or have I said that quite right? No, the way of it was that Mr. Baker—night jailer, armorer, and general keeper of quarters for the Bow Street Runners—told me the way there, even drew a rough map for me, and agreed to meet me there in midafternoon. Thus might he have the opportunity to take a few hours sleep before the first heat of the first race. He told me he had often done it so, for as I learned, he was quite passionately devoted to what was even then called by some “the sport of kings.” In all truth, I know not how George III, nor the late Louis of France, felt about the racing of horses round a specified course. I do know, however, that any man who gave to it the dedication and enthusiasm that Mr. Baker offered would surely have felt in his heart that he was king, if only for a day. Which day? Why, racing day, of course.

  Because it was Easter, I felt obliged to renew my acquaintance with the faith in which I had been baptized. That done—the Easter anthems heard and the cries of “He is risen!” raised on high—I set forth on the long journey from Bow Street to Uxbridge Road, Shepherd’s Bush, with naught to sustain me but two of Molly’s hot cross buns.

  When first I broached the matter of the race meet to our Mr. Baker, he was curious as to why I, having shown no previous interest in the sport, should of a sudden wish to give it my full interest. But then, I told him of Mr. Plummer and his relation to the mother of the girl who had been pulled from the Thames the day before.

  “So Deuteronomy Plummer is her brother,” said he. “Is that the way it is?”

  “That’s indeed the way it is. Will he be racing at any of the courses Sunday?”

  “At Shepherd’s Bush Common, as I’ve heard. I was intending to go myself. I’d invited Mr. Patley to accompany me.”

  “Could I come along?” I asked.

  And that, reader, is when we worked it out so that I might meet him there. When we had done, I put another question to him.

  “Do such race meets always start so late of a Sunday?”

  “Naw,” said he, “it’s ’cause it’s Easter. I believe Shepherd’s Bush is the only one going, and that’s ’cause it’s pretty far outside London.”

  “How far?”

  “Well, you’ll be afoot, so it’s going to take you the better part of the morning to get there, probably.”

  And it did. In general, taking Mr. Baker’s advice, I followed the river. Though, in its way westward, it took bends and twists, it was nevertheless the safest route. To go off roaming through Tothill Fields might save some time if the right way were known, yet if you were as ignorant of this piece of territory as I certainly was, you would no doubt become hopelessly lost. And so I went my way, curious at the volume and nature of the river traffic, and seeing that most of it was vegetables for Covent Garden and pleasure boats for those rich enough to have them. ’Twas not till I approached near to Hammersmith that, following Mr. Baker’s directions, I turned north for Shepherd’s Bush. From that point on, it was naught but a matter of holding to the map he had sketched for me.

  The town of Shepherd’s Bush was a bit disappointing. What there was of it was stretched out along Uxbridge Road. Why had such a place been chosen for race meets? Ah, but then, as I advanced a bit, I spied a bit more of the town far over on the other side of what I had taken to be green fields. Yet I saw the gathering crowd at the most distant part of the field and noted horses that had been unloaded from specially built carts of a kind seldom seen in London. Having seen thus much, I realized that this large open field was nothing more or less than Shepherd’s Bush Common: I had come to my destination.

  From mixing with the men and the few women who had thus far arrived, I soon came to the conclusion that their number did not include either Mr. Baker or Deuteronomy Plummer. I cannot say that I was surprised by this. Though I knew not the exact time, I had the feeling that it was still quite early. Looking round, I noticed a man who, like me, was simply standing about, observing the work of the rest. He also appeared prosperous enough to be the possessor of a timepiece. I approached him diffidently and made to him a polite inquiry.

  “I wonder, sir,” said I. “Have you the correct time?”

  “I do,” said he. “I most certainly do.”

  Yet he made no move to produce the timepiece, neither did he inform me of the hour and minute. He simply turned away from me and stared off rather pointedly in another direction. Had he misunderstood me? Was this his notion of a joke?

  S
till most politely I put the question to him in a manner which could not be misunderstood.

  “Would you tell me the time, sir, if you please?”

  He continued to look away as he said, “No, boy, I do not please, and I shall not tell you the time.” Then did he add: “Go away.”

  I looked upon that face of his—arrogant, fat, cold, and utterly unsympathetic—and willed myself ever to remember it. And, indeed, I did remember it always. It became for me the face of all that I knew to be wrong with England.

  Then, my face quite burning with embarrassment and unexpressed anger, I turned away from him. I left them all to their preparations for the race meet and walked cross Uxbridge Road to an inn, the Elephant and Castle. They, I was sure, would have a clock ticking away upon the wall; and there I might quench the thirst that had come upon me in the course of my long walk.

  True enough, they had both. I took a place at the long bar where most had gathered, ordered a tankard of bitter, and found a clock just above me that told me that there was just over an hour to the start of the first heat of the first race. It should not be long, I assured myself, till Mr. Baker arrived.

  Thus it was that I sat sipping my ale, listening to the talk swirl round me. And all the talk was of horses and jockeys, of which might last through all four heats to the final race, and who might then be in the saddle. Numbers were quoted back and forth. At first, I was near certain that these would be the numbers worn by the horses, and then I thought that perhaps those would be the jockeys’ numbers. Then I understood at last that these were odds that they were reciting. Who were these men at the bar? The odds-makers? the touts? I’d no idea, really.

  One of them looked familiar to me. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? It was recently, and of that I was sure. I remembered that round face, smiling. The curious thing was that he seemed to know me, too. That more or less confirmed that we had met recently, did it not? He seemed even more certain of it than I, for as I kept an eye upon him—not staring, you understand—he separated himself from the group at the end of the bar and came straight over to me.

  “Beg pardon, young sir,” said he, “but though we an’t personal acquaint, I reco’nized you right off.”

  “Then you have the advantage on me, sir,” said I, “for though you appeared most familiar to me, I have not, for the life of me, been able to settle upon the specific occasion of our meeting.”

  “’Twas but yesterday. I was in Covent Garden on a matter of little importance, and here you come, arm-in-arm, so to speak, with Mr. Deuteronomy. That’s what they call him, you know.”

  “Of course,” said I. “I remember very well now. You removed your hat to him, did you not?”

  “I did and will again when the opportunity arises. Have you seen him ride?”

  “I must confess that I—”

  “That’s as I s’posed,” said he, interrupting, “for I an’t seen you at none of his other races.”

  Speaking thus, he altered his manner ever so slightly, allowing it to become a bit heavier. There was perhaps an element of accusation in his observation of my absence at Deuteronomy Plummer’s earlier meets. I attempted, perhaps a little too hard, to justify myself to this stranger.

  “Ah well,” said I, “’tis no easy matter for a young fellow such as myself to travel so far out of town to attend a race such as this. And what’s more,” I added, “being a humble apprentice, I’ve no money of my own to wager.”

  “Ah, but I meant no offense,” said he, all smiles once again. “Here, let’s have us another ale, shall we? Innkeeper!”

  He called out and waved to him behind the bar. Then, over my protests, he ordered two more ales. By the time they arrived, he had introduced himself to me as Walter Hogg and fetched from me my own name. We talked idly of one thing and another. I recall having told him that Mr. Plummer commented upon his presence, and said that he believed Mr. Hogg attended all his races.”

  “He recognized me then, did he?” said Walter Hogg. He seemed as pleased as could be to hear it. “Let me tell you, I’ve won a good bit, putting my money on him.”

  At that I could not but laugh. When asked why, I told him that indeed, Mr. Plummer had also said something of the sort.

  Mr. Hogg let out a whoop of delight and then cackled. “He said that, did he? Imagine it, would you!” Then, rather inappropriately, he asked, “You said you was an apprentice. What line of work you apprenticing to?”

  I thought it an odd question, coming from him, but I saw no reason to lie or evade. “I’m for the law,” said I.

  He seemed to be quite impressed by that. “The law, is it? A young fella like you?”

  “I won’t always be so young,” said I, quite reasonably.

  “Well, that’s true. Who’re you ’prenticing to?”

  “I’m reading law with Sir John Fielding.”

  “The Beak? The Blind Beak in Bow Street?”

  “The very same.”

  “Well, what did he want with Mr. Deuteronomy? He ain’t committed no crime, has he?”

  It was then, or perhaps just a little earlier, that it occurred to me that this man Hogg was asking too many questions. “I really couldn’t say,” said I to him. “He must have some interest in a case of Sir John’s, but I couldn’t suppose what it was.”

  He nodded and fell silent for a moment—which gave me time enough to glance up at the clock and let out a yelp of dismay.

  “Dear God,” said I, “Just look at that clock, will you?”

  “Look at it? What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s the time. Why, I was to meet my chums ten minutes ago. They’ll be quite angry with me, I fear. Sorry, Mr. Hogg, but I fear I must be going.” I slid off the stool and began backing off toward the door.

  “Oh, oh yes. I understand. I’ll be looking for you when the races begin.”

  “Awfully good talking to you, but I must go find them now.”

  Calling to me that he understood, he waved a goodbye to me as I escaped through the door. And there I was, ready to rush cross Uxbridge whether Mr. Baker be there or not.

  Preparations for the race were much farther along. Riders were on their mounts, circling them about as they warmed them for the first heat. Those horses scheduled for later heats were walked round by their grooms. There were horses, touts, jockeys, oddsmen, bettors, and watchers quite everywhere. The level of shouting and talking had risen to a level I would not earlier have supposed to be possible. The number congregating in this corner of the Common had tripled, perhaps quadrupled, in the hour or so during which I had been inside the Elephant and Castle. How was I to find Mr. Baker in such a crowd of people? or, for that matter, Deuteronomy Plummer?

  I plunged into this great, milling mob of people and crisscrossed it a couple of times, looking for a familiar face, hoping to find one before more strangers came and added to my difficulty. Yet, as it happened, ’twas not I who was the finder, but another who found me. I recall discovering myself trapped in an unyielding knot of bettors surrounding an oddsman who shouted his numbers louder than all the rest. Since I could not move, I remained in place, listening to him chant in the manner of an auctioneer as he went down the listings on his slate. In this sense, I was reminded by him of the arcane activities of the patrons of Lloyd’s Coffee Shop in the City of London.

  I felt a hand upon my shoulder and a squeeze, at which I turned to find—not Mr. Baker, as I half-expected, but rather Constable Patley.

  “If you’re thinkin’ of putting down a wager, Jeremy,” said he to me in a voice strong enough to be heard by one and all, “you’d do well to do it with another who gives better odds. This fella just shouts the loudest.”

  There was a round of laughter at that. I joined in, but the oddsman certainly did not. As his audience fell away and began drifting off in every direction, he looked darkly at Mr. Patley and snarled some quite incomprehensible malediction at him.

  “And right back at you, sir,” responded Mr. Patley to him. And then, to me, h
e said: “Come along, Jeremy. We’ve got us a good place to watch from.”

  And he then guided me along the course to one of the horse carts placed there as a marker on the way. He was right. The cart provided an excellent view of the race course, and the two Bow Street Runners, my companions, were incomparably well-informed guides to the sport. Nor was I surprised by their knowledge, for Mr. Baker was well known in Bow Street for his love of the turf; and it did but stand to reason that Mr. Patley, who had done army service in the King’s Carabineers, a mounted regiment, would bring with him his equine interests into civilian life. The two men carried on long-running debates on the virtues of this horse or that, or one jockey or another. In sum, I could not have found two better teachers in all of London.

  My education began with a question.

  “Tell me, Jeremy,” said Mr. Baker, “is this your first time out to a race?”

  I admitted that it was so, and, in my defense, offered about the same excuses I’d given to Mr. Hogg when he asked me if I had ever seen Deuteronomy Plummer race. All that I had said was true, of course, yet what was also true was that I simply had not had the right sort of occasion to do so.

  “Well, you come to the right place to start,” said Mr. Patley.

  “Why? Is this one expected to be a specially good one?”

  “Oh, it’ll be good enough,” he assured me. “There’s a lot of good horses and a lot of good riders. But that ain’t really what I had in mind.”

  “What then?”

  “Well, this right here—the Shepherd’s Bush Common—is about the best, and cert’ny the longest course round London.”

  “Just look at it,” put in Mr. Baker as he gestured toward the large expanse before us. “There’s a full eight acres here the way it’s laid out. And when horses make it four times round carrying their riders, that’s quite a stretch for them.”

  “I can see that,” I assured him.

  “Only thing wrong with it,” said Patley, “is that it’s laid out kind of peculiar.”

  “Peculiar in what way?”