by Avi
“Is that you, Tuckum?” he said in a voice heavy with authority, made even more powerful by the fact that he did not turn about when we entered. He seemed to assume.
“It is, sir,” replied the bailiff, “with company.”
The inspector turned. “Ah, Master ’Uffam,” he said with a quick nod. Then he looked toward my friend. “And Sary the Sneak,” he added dryly. “Always ’appy to see you.”
Astonished that he knew her, I turned. She was grinning.
It was for Mr. Tuckum to say, “Do you know the girl, then, sir?”
“I know ’er very well indeed,” returned the chief inspector. “A clever young lady, if I do say so myself. Smart ’ead with smart eyes and ears. Though at times too smart a mouth.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew the inspector?” I demanded of her.
“You never eggsactly asked me, now did you?” she said. “’Sides, I’ve got me own business to consider. Sneakin’ don’t want to be too public.”
“Then you’ve worked with him?” I asked, not knowing if I should be angry.
“It’s what I told you—when we first talked. Peelers are some of me best customers.”
“The only thing wrong with this girl is ’er father,” Ratchet interjected. “Transported to Australia … for felonious assault upon ’is employer.”
“Get off that!” cried Sary, throwing her hat down, her smile replaced with a look of such absolute ferocity, it startled me. “The man insulted Pa. Called ’im lazy when ’is back was ’urtin’ that bad. So me pa bopped ’im one in the nose, an’ what did you do? You sent ’im off—for what? Seven years—to the other side o’ the world. God blin’ me,” she cried, “if that’s yer justice, there it sits!” That said, Sary spat upon the floor and stamped the spot with her foot.
“Now, now, Sary,” Ratchet said, “I only arrested ’im. Wasn’t me that sent ’im off. Magistrate did that.”
“Call yerself ’uman, but you don’t care one speck what ’appens to them you arrest, do you?”
I had never seen her so angry before.
“My dear girl,” began Tuckum, “the majesty of the law—”
Ratchet cut the bailiff off by saying: “Sary, you are adept at changin’ the subject, aren’t you? But I should like to hear: Are you caught up in this business?”
“Don’t act all innocent! You knows right well I am. Wasn’t it me who brought you to it all in the first place? But I’m not so sure if I should be in it—you sayin’like you did.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have spoken that way. I beg your pardon. I’m prepared to apologize.”
“Right, then,” said Sary, and she picked up her hat and pulled it down over her head.
“But,” added Ratchet, “I gather you have somethin’ to say to me.”
“Somethin’?” she said, her face erupting into a laugh as quick as it had turned to fury. “I suspect my friend an’ I”—she indicated me—“knows a lot more than you do.”
“Don’t doubt it for a moment,” said the inspector.
I had listened to this exchange with considerable amazement, as had Mr. Tuckum. “I beg your pardon, sir,” I felt compelled to say to Ratchet. “Do you mean to say you have been working on this matter for a … long time?” I turned to Sary. “And you began it?”
“’Deed I did,” she said, all grins. “What was it, Ratchet? Some time last summer?”
“Last summer!” I cried.
“Late July,” said Ratchet.
Sary put a hand over her mouth to restrain her laughter.
“But—”
“’Ere now,” said the inspector. “Debatin’ who and when it began is a waste of time. I propose we sit down and share what we’ve all come up with. As it is, I’m gettin’ considerable pressure from my superiors to conclude this matter.”
“If you please, sir,” I said to him, “I had thought Sary and I knew a great deal that was new. But now”—I shot an unfriendly glance at her—“I am not so certain.”
“Come, come, Master John,” said Ratchet. “We’re all friends ’ere. I’ve no doubt Sary the Sneak knows more about the business than all of us together. Well then, we need to ear it. But first, Mr. Tuckum, sir, you must play the publican and provide warmin’ food and drink all round. From the looks of these ’ere infants, that wouldn’t be amiss. Make no mistake, it’s a foul night beyond, but in ’ere we should make best cheer.”
“Now you’re talkin’!” said Sary.
“My pleasure,” said Mr. Tuckum, who was apparently only a little less bewildered by the previous conversation than I was myself. “My great pleasure.” And off he went.
It was not long before the four of us were sitting round the fire, stomachs full of bread and toasted cheese and a glass of something warm in hand. The talk, while we ate, had all come from Ratchet, who entertained us with facts relating to the dreadful Manning case and how the police force had tracked down the killers—Mrs. Manning in particular—with the use of an amazing device called the “telegraph.” It was as horrible as it was enthralling.
But at length Ratchet—for it was he, clearly, who was in charge of things—said, “All right, then, let’s get to the singular matter of Wesley John Louis ’Uffam.”
“My father,” I said.
“The wery one. And with all due respect, Master John, ’owever amiable the man is—”
“He truly is, sir,” put in Mr. Tuckum.
“—’e ’as acted,” continued Ratchet, “the part of a fool. Mind, I’m aware ’e fancies ’imself the actor, but the Lord Chamberlain never offered ’im a license to put what ’e’s done on any legitimate stage. The illegitimate one, per’aps, but surely not the legal one.
“All right,” he went on without allowing me a rejoinder, “sometime last summer Sary ’ere comes to me and says—what did you say, Sary?”
“‘There’s somethin’ goin’ round the gamblin’ dens that you might want to know.’ ‘What’s that?’ you says. An’. I told you, ‘Someone’s talkin’ ’bout sellin’ navy secrets.’”
“Well, of course I thank ’er wery kindly,” Ratchet picked back up, “give ’er the usual shilling reward for useful information, and tells the major inspector. Major inspector tells the ’ome secretary, who consults the First Lord of the Admiralty. Quick as blazes, word comes tumblin’ down the other way, and the meaning is: ‘Urgent! Ratchet, you are ordered to see what can be uncovered!’”
“And what you discovered,” I put in, “is that my father was offering to sell a secret to cover a very large gambling debt.”
“Can’t take credit for discoverin’ that fact, either,” said Ratchet. “Sary was the one.”
Astonished, I looked at the girl in wonder. She was grinning so hard, I thought her dirty face would break in two.
“The world is always sayin,” Ratchet went on, “that women talk too much. That’s as may be. An old saw will cut. All I can say is that it’s my experience it’s men who do most of the loose talkin’, while the women do the best listenin’. Like Sary ’ere.
“Never mind,” he continued. “We decided—and by ‘we’ I’m sayin’ the government—that we’d use yer father as a gate, if you will, to see who might be spying out secrets. That’s to say, the thing about spies is that they prowl aimlessly about, but if there’s a useful gate open to them, they’ll pass on through. Fact is, I even ’elped one of them—that O’Doul fellow, who’s with the Irish rebels—by sending ’im to Mr. ’Uffam. Lord ’elp me, I even spoke to ’im one night in the middle of the river.”
“Not even knowin’,” said Sary to me, “’e ’ad a sister workin’ for yer father.”
“I admit to that,” said Ratchet with a shake of his head.
“God works in His old-fashioned ways,” suggested Mr. Tuckum.
“He does indeed,” agreed Ratchet. “Anyway, after a while I inform your father we know what he’s up to. In fact, we threaten him. He don’t have much choice but to help us.”
“Then M
r. Farquatt comes along,” I said, “to court my sister.”
“Right, the Frenchman,” said Ratchet. “Doesn’t matter they’ve changed their governments. They’re always changin’ governments, but they’re still our old enemy. Very good, then, Farquatt’s a spy. O’Doul’s a spy. But we believe there’s someone lurkin’ behind. And why? Because someone bought up all your father’s debts. That took pots o’money. O’Doul may be a gambler, but he don’t have that much. His sister surely don’t ’ave it either, bein’ on servant’s wages, and I’d wager she don’t get paid too often.”
I said, “But Mr. Farquatt offered to pay the debt.”
“But if he owned the debt,” said Ratchet, “why would Mr. O’Doul’s name be on the writ that sent yer father to prison? Yes, Farquatt wants the secret. And to get it, he’s willing to pay down the debt. But we don’t believe he has the money either. Someone is backing him, too. So then, where is the money coming from?”
The inspector turned to Mr. Tuckum. “Mr. Tuckum ’as been my deputy of late. Anyone else come visit Mr. ’Uffam in prison?”
“No one.”
“So I repeat,” the inspector continued, “who’s the bloke—what’s the nation—who ’as money enough to buy up the debt? Who’s puttin’ O’Doul (brother and sister) and Farquatt forward? That’s why I’d like to know what you’ve got, Sary.”
But she said, “Let John tell you. ’E’s got the best idea.”
Gratified by her remark, I sat up.
“All right, then, lad,” Ratchet said to me, “what have you found?”
I felt fairly self-satisfied saying, “I think Sary and I have found the person you’re looking for, the one behind it all.”
CHAPTER 40
I Decide Upon a Plan of Action
“Have you now?” cried Inspector Ratchet.
“We think so,” I said.
“All right, then. Begin,” he commanded. “I’m nothin but ears.”
“I’m not sure,” I said, “how much you know of my family affairs. How my father directed me to his great-aunt Euphemia—”
“Lady Euphemia ’Uffam,” Ratchet interjected.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“Quite well.”
“Does she have anything to do with the matter of the secret?” I suddenly asked.
“Not in the slightest,” Ratchet said with finality.
“As I say,” I continued, “I went to my great-great-aunt to get help with Father’s debt. While she rejected his plea, she did arrange for me to find employment at All Hallows Church—”
“On Tower Hill,” Ratchet interjected again, making me wonder if he was the kind of man who insisted he knew everything. Seeing me pause, he said, “Forgive me,” he said. “Please go on.”
“My employment,” I said, “began today. Mid-afternoon I was working in the loft when I chanced to look down and saw Mr. Farquatt talking to a man I know.”
“Who was that?”
“Sergeant Anthony Muldspoon.”
“An army man?”
“Retired. He owns Muldspoon’s Militantly Motivated Academy. It’s the school I’ve been attending.”
Ratchet thought for a moment. “That’s a man I don’t know. What’s ’is connection to all this?”
I turned to Sary. “Go on, tell him what you saw when you followed after Brigit.”
“Brigit O’Doul?”
Sary nodded, and then she related—word for word—what she had told me about Brigit’s doings that day, including her meeting with her brother and Sergeant Muldspoon.
When she was finished, Mr. Tuckum asked: “But how and why should this Sergeant Muldspoon be connected to all of this?”
“My question exactly,” said Inspector Ratchet.
“I’ll tell you, sir,” I said. Then I described my teacher’s artillery background, his constant lectures about guns and cannons. I mentioned his animosity toward my father and toward me. But I did not neglect his oft-spoken love of England and his patriotic fervor.
“As for that,” said Mr. Tuckum, “it’s perhaps old-fashioned to mention Samuel Johnson—‘Dictionary Johnson,’ we used to call him—who was born almost one hundred and fifty years ago. To him is attributed the memorable phrase ‘Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.’”
Our eyes shifted back to Chief Inspector Ratchet. Chin tucked down, he was deep in thought.
“There may well be a connection ere,” he said. “And it seems to be one I missed.’ Ate to admit to it, but there it is.” He turned to Mr. Tuckum. “Well, sir, you said the boy was bright. You appear to be on the mark.”
The bailiff beamed at me, his Piccadilly weepers almost radiant.
“All right,” said Sary, pushing the conversation forward, “what ’bout doin’ what you said? You said, speakin of spies, if there be an open gate, a spy will pass on through. Why don’t we open a gate to this ’ere sergeant an see what ’e does?”
“Excellent idea!” cried Mr. Tuckum.
Ratchet fell into private musings again. But at last he turned to Mr. Tuckum and said, “One problem. Can you guess what it is, sir?”
The bailiff nodded. “Evidence. Habeas corpus.”
“Exactly,” said Ratchet.
“What’s hocus-pocus?” asked Sary.
“Habeas corpus,” said Ratchet. “Let’s say that this ’ere Sergeant Muldspoon passes—as Sary says—through the gate. That’ll prove to us that it’s e who’s workin to get the secret. But unless we arrest ’im with the secret in ’is ’and, no court will convict ’im. The same for the others. No evidence, no conviction.”
“It’s England’s old-fashioned way,” agreed Mr. Tuckum.
“So what we need,” said Ratchet, “is to get ’im to pass through our wery own traitors’ gate with proof that e’s a traitor.”
Silence came upon us all until I said, “Please, sir, I could manage it.”
“How so?”
“I could put the secret in his hand.”
They stared at me.
“What do you mean?” asked the chief inspector.
I said, “I have a copy of it. My father drew it and gave it to me. For safekeeping.”
“Did he?” cried Ratchet. “Where is it?”
I was certain I could feel the plans in my pocket. But all I said was, “I hid it…. But I can get it.”
I felt Sary’s eyes on me. She was clearly enjoying this.
But the chief inspector frowned. “Are you aware, boy, that you should not ’ave it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That just havin’ it makes you a traitor?”
“I’m not, sir.”
“Then exactly what are you suggestin’?”
“You gentlemen don’t know Sergeant Muldspoon. If you were to approach him, he might become suspicious. Particularly you, sir,” I said to Ratchet. “If Sary tried, I’m sure he would be dismissive and pay no heed.”
Sary nodded.
“But,” I continued, “what if I approached him tomorrow and said my father was willing to sell him the secret? What if I tell him I’ll give him the secret plan—tell him my father drew it out—and that for three hundred pounds he can have it. He’ll need to come to All Hallows Church.”
“Why there?” asked Ratchet.
“As I said, I’m employed there. I must report to work tomorrow morning by eight o’clock. I’ll be there all day. I don’t wish to threaten my arrangement with my great-great-aunt. There’s a good deal at stake. But I should be able to take time from my lunch to see the sergeant. I’ll offer to meet with him there. Later. It seems to be empty then.”
“Right!” said Sary. “Tell ’im to be there at the strikin of the bells at eight o’clock tomorrow night.”
“If Sergeant Muldspoon doesn’t walk through the gate,” I said, “nothing’s lost. But if he is the man, I’m certain he won’t think my father or I can do him any harm. He has mocked us—both of us—often.”
Ratchet took all this in silently.
It was Mr. Tuckum who said, “You described him as a stern ex-military man. Is he … hmm … violent?”
Remembering how Old Moldy used his cane, I could only say, “Yes, sir, to some degree.”
“So what you’re proposing may be dangerous,” said Mr. Tuckum.
“I can be there to protect ’im,” Sary offered.
Again Ratchet pondered. At last he said, “And if yer man comes through the gate and you ’and ’im the plan, then you need only give a rattle and we’ll be there to nab ’im.”
“A rattle, sir?”
He held up a policeman’s rattle—the kind they used to call their comrades for help. It was L-shaped, the handle being the longer leg, the rattle itself a rectangle with a wooden tongue, so that when one twirled the handle, it gave off a loud clacking sound audible for some four hundred yards.
“Use it,” said Ratchet, “and we’ll come quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ratchet gazed hard at me. “Master John, are you truly prepared to risk takin’ that plan to the church and, if this man asks for it, givin’ it to ’im?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because if you are, and ’e ’as that plan in ’is ’and, we can arrest ’im—for treason.”
“And the charge would stick,” Mr. Tuckum added.
“And ’e would ’ang,” said Ratchet.
“In the Tower?” I asked.
“Per’aps,” said Ratchet.
All looked at me as I made up my mind. But it took little effort. “I’m willing,” I said.
At which point Mr. Tuckum sat up and clapped his hands with glee. “‘Barkis is willin’!’” he cried. “‘Barkis is willin’!’”
Ratchet swung around. “What are you talkin’ ’bout?”
“It’s something that’s said in David Copperfield.”
“Ah, yes.” Ratchet nodded. “The serial story so many are readin.”
Which put me in mind to ask, “Sir, is there an Inspector Copperfield on your force?”
