Watery Grave

by Bruce Alexander

  Little more than halfway to the rear of the house I heard a small explosion, a loud report —a shot! I started to run down the path, unable to see much beyond my hand before my Face. I bumped into I knew not what on my left, careened into the wall of the lodging house on my right, just as I heard the clatter of footsteps above. I had near lost my balance completely as I came at last to the rear of the house. Thus stumbling awkwardly about in the dark, I was ill prepared when, with no more warning than a grunt from above, a man dropped down, not quite on top of me but against me in such a way that I was knocked off my feet. I rolled so as to take me away from him. Yet in doing it, I lost my pistol. I began groping the ground most frantically for it, feeling this way and that.

  For his part, my assailant paid no attention to me, nor to my searches. I sensed rather than saw (so dark was it) that he had recovered his feet and was thrashing forward —that is, away from the lodging house.

  Just as I found my pistol, I heard a voice cry out from that rear:

  “This way, sir!”

  Still down on the ground, I had the presence of mind to pull back the hammer. I raised to my knees, peered hopefully into the darkness, and by some faint glow, perhaps radiated from distant streetlamps, I caught the movement of a dark-clad figure some thirty yards away.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  “Shoot away, lad!” came Mr. Perkins’s call from above.

  Aiming low at the ill-defmed target, I pulled the trigger. There was a great flash. The weapon jumped mightily in my hand. This one was no dueling pistol but a serious firearm from Black Jack Bilbo’s dark past.

  Mr. Perkins discharged his weapon at nearly the same moment.

  Yet great was the disappointment we shared when we heard the footsteps resume farther and continue yet farther away.

  “Step away, ” called the constable. “I’m jumpin’ down.”

  Light on his feet he was, and he landed easy just to my right.

  “Go up and secure the room —up above, last on the left, ” he yelled to me.” I’m off to give chase.”

  But he was already on his way —and I on mine. I went to the front of the house and through the door. The curious had popped their heads out their doors.

  “Back inside,” I yelled at them, then hopped up the stairs two at a time. They were out and milling about on the upper floor. I still held the pistol in my hand, and though it was empty, I knew it to look quite formidable. I waved it about in a threatening way.

  “One side, ” said I, putting a growl in my unsettled tenor.” Back into your rooms. This is a matter for the Beak-runners.”

  They fell away, men and women, dressed and undressed, giving me an easy passage down the hall. Had I counterfeited authorit) so well, or were they simply fearful of a pistol that went this way and that in the inexperienced hand of a lad so young? Whatever the reason, I must have enjoyed the moment of strutting command that I was given, for at the end of my long walk I was emboldened to shout rather roughly at those who had crowded about the open door of the last room on the left, push my way through them, and brandish the empty pistol one last time.

  “Away, all of you!” I yelled.” Back to your rooms! Begone!”

  Then I slammed the door in their wantonly curious faces and returned the weapon to its place in my pocket. As I turned to survey the room, any pleasure I may have taken in my performance immediately vanished, for my eyes went swift to the bed whereon the body of a man rested, half covered by a dirty sheet. Though his face was besooted with gunpowder and a bloody hole had been crushed into the skull between and above the eyes, I recognized him to be Tobias Trindle.

  He was dead. Of that I was sure. I stood staring, unwilling to touch him for fear of disturbing something materially evidential. And staring, I pondered the fate of Lieutenant William Landon. Could he now be saved? Could anyone, even Sir John Fielding, help him?

  I know not how long I stood so, but gradually, I became aware of a certain small sound, irregular but continual. I looked about the room. It was near bare but for the bed. There were two chairs and a chest; upon the latter were the leavings of a meal. What was that sound? What did I remember it to be?

  Taking the pistol from my pocket, I moved quietly to the only place from which that half-familiar noise could have issued. There was an antechamber to the room, no doubt a closet, separated not by a door but by a thick curtain.

  I threw back that curtain and exposed a sobbing woman dressed only in a shift. Though far from black in hue, she was of a darker color than any I had seen, save for the Lascars on the H.M.S. Adventure.

  This was surely Black Emma.

  TEN

  In which Lieutenant

  Landon Tells his story

  to Sir John

  Being as incapable as any other male in dealing with a weeping woman, I pocketed my pistol and persuaded her forward with soothing words to one of the room’s two chairs; I had the foresight to turn it in such a way that once seated, she was facing in a direction away from the bed. She wanted not to look upon the body of Tobias Trindle, and I saw no reason why she should be made to do so.

  Seated as she was, it was not long until the small hiccuping sobs ceased. She raised her eyes to me. Though tearful still, they shone with rage.

  “Bloody hell,” said she in plain London speech, “I saw the bastid put him down. If I’d been there, he’d a done the same to me.”

  “But where were you?”

  “In there,” said she, jerking her head toward the closet from which she had emerged, “on the pisspot. I peeped through the cloth when I heard him and held my water. He had his other pistola pointin’ my way, so I knowed he musta heard me. He woulda come for me were it not there was someone bangin’ up the stairs.”

  “Would you know the man? The room has but a candle for light. How well did you see him?”

  She looked at me with sudden suspicion.” Who’re you?” she demanded.

  “I’m with the Beak-runners.” Was that an outright lie? I hoped not.

  “No you ain’t. You’re just a kid.”

  She had quite a deep voice for a woman and a most commanding manner. She seemed much less intimidating when she was weeping. What was I to say to her now? Yet I was saved from attempting to explain my relation to the Bow Street Runners, or fabricating some-

  thing on the spot, as it were, for after a moment she resumed, apparently indifferent to any response I might give.

  “Toby was a rum joe,” said she.” He shoulda had better. I knowed him from years back, I did. He come to me, and he says, ‘Em, you be my moll slavy for a week, and I’ll give you a quid a day.’ So I made the bargain, bought us bub and grub and kep’ the rest. He set up here with me just like we jumped the broom together. But he told me the Runners was after him. He gets put down in his sleep, then you comes and says you’re with one of the Blind Beak’s. What’m I supposed to think?”

  “Think what is reasonable, ‘ said I, at last stung to protest.” He was wanted alive, not dead. We wanted him as a witness. Dead men can give no testimony.”

  “Soyou say.”

  “There was one who did want him dead, however.”

  She nodded wisely at that.” There was one he feared more than the hornies.”

  “And who was that?”

  “He did not say his name, but ‘twas someone on his ship. Of that I’m right sure.”

  I should have liked to pursue this further with her. Yet at that moment came a pounding at the door. I jumped up, the pistol in my hand, ready to turn back any intruder, but then in walked Constable Perkins. We met at the door. Sweat stood upon his brow.

  “Ah, you did well,” said he.” The halls were clear, and — ” He hesitated but the briefest moment as he spied her in the chair.” This would be Black Emma, would it not?”

  “It would, sir.”

  “Well, I shall talk to her about our friend there on the bed.”

  “She saw it done,” said I.

  “Did she now? Perhaps s
he had a hand in it herself. It does make you wonder, don’t it? Her surviving the assassination in such good health?”

  “She tells a good story.”

  “She’ll have a chance to tell it to me now. Butyou —your name’s Jeremy, ain’t it? I’ve seen you about, of course, but we were never properly met. You did a man’s work tonight, lad, but now you must do a bit more. As you have no doubt concluded, I failed to catch the visitor. There was two of them, as it happened.’

  “Yes, I heard one call out to the other,” said I.” The voice was familiar to me.”

  “Well, tell that to Sir John. There was two ways they could’ve gone.

  The one would have taken them through Goodman’s Wharf, then up Butcher Row, which I thought most likely and Followed in pursuit. The other would have taken them through St. Catherine’s Churchyard and on to St. Catherine’s Street, yet the only place to go from there is to the Tower. Could the two of them have gone to the Tower —or, say, to the Tower Wharf?”

  “They could have, yes.” Indeed they could!

  “Well, tell that to Sir John too. What I’m saying, lad, is that you must go fetch him now. Remember this here location — the only proper house on a street of magazines —Pillory Lane.”

  “Right, sir.”

  He pointed down at the pistol, still in my hand.

  “Haveyou reloaded that blunderbuss?”

  “No sir. I lack the necessary.”

  “It is not your own then?”

  “No sir, it was loaned to me.”

  “By…?”

  “Someone.”

  “Almmm. Well, may I examine it?”

  I handed it over to him, pleased at his interest. He took it, weighed it in his hand, and sighted down the short barrel at the floor.

  “Well, I can’t help you. It takes a bigger ball than mine do, but it’s got a frame that will handle a good-sized charge. I saw the visitor by the muzzle flash from this pistol. He was set to return fire when I shot at him. I doubt either one of us hit our man. That’s why you must always move away fast when you shoot a weapon in the dark. They shoot back at the flash.”

  “I’ll remember that, sir.”

  He handed it back to me.

  “It’s a grand weapon for close-in fighting,” he said.” I never saw the like. Pull it out and wave it if anyone accosts you on the trip back to Bow Street. That ought to be enough to frighten anyone. Have you enough for a hackney, should you be lucky enough to find one at this late hour?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, on your way then. Don’t leave by the back, though. There’s a porch, but the stairs rotted away long ago. Hence, all this jumpin’ about.”

  He gave me a pat on the back to send me on my way, then turned toward Black Emma.” Now then, my good woman,” said he as I departed, “I wonder would you tell me what you told that fine young lad?”

  My return to Bow Street was blessedly uneventful. Somewhere along the way on those deserted streets a hackney carriage came plodding along behind me. I heard it on the cobblestones long before I saw it, and prayed that it was for hire. Though the driver was near as sleepy as his horses, he seemed glad for the fare, and glad also to wait at Bow Street when we arrived, for I assured him I would be returning to Pillory Lane with a party of some number.

  But that was not to be. I sought Sir John and found him in hushed conversation in the alcove with Mr. Bailey, Mr. Baker, and Tom Durham. I liked not the tone of it. There was defeat in the air —and thus far all they would know was that Tobias Trindle was not to be found. It now fell to me to announce that he had been found and was dead, murdered in his bed by an assailant as yet unidentified.

  I was greeted soberly by the four, made my announcement in brief, and promised the details on our way to the house on Pillory Lane in the hackney which now waited at the door. Sir John showed little emotion as he rose heavily from the court clerk’s chair. The others, who had been standing about, made ready to go.

  “Mr. Bailey will go with me,” said Sir John.” Tom, Jeremy, go to your bed. You’ve had a long day, both of you.” Then he added quietly, giving expression to his deepest feelings: “And the day ends bitterly for us, does It not?”

  “But sir, ” said I, “you will need me to show you the place, surely.”

  “I think not. Mr. Bailey, do you know Pillory Lane?”

  “Quite well do I know it, sir,” said he.” I know the ver) house Jeremy has described, for wedged as it is between those great storehouses, it seems not to belong.”

  “Then let us be off and through this ordeal as quick as ever we can.”

  “But sir— ” I had in mind to make one last bid to accompany them.

  Yet he would not hear of it: “No, Jeremy, ‘ said he, interrupting me most firm.” This is something Mr. Bailey and I will attend to. Constable Perkins awaits us there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then he will provide the information you promised. You’ve done a good job, and I thank you. But now you must go to bed.”

  He stepped out into the long corridor as we gave space tor his exit.

  “Mr. Bailey?”

  And the two made their way swiftly to the street door and the waiting hackney.

  Tom, who had spoken not a word, gestured me toward the stairs leading up to the kitchen. I said my goodnight to Mr. Baker. He nodded and gave me a wink of encouragement.

  “Sir John is right, lad. This is man’s work that may take the rest of the night. Be grateful you have someone to look after your interest. You, too, Tom Durham.”

  “Yes sir.” In chorus.

  And so, without another word, I followed Tom up the stairs and into the kitchen. A candle burned on the table. Annie had put out beside it what was left of a mutton roast and a near-full loaf of bread, each wrapped in cloth.

  “Hungry?” asked Tom.

  “Famished,” said I.

  And so we set to. On thick slices of bread we laid over generous portions of mutton and slathered all with hot mustard. Water was needed to wash it do”wn and extinguish the mustard-fire. Ah, but we did enjoy it. What a feast it did seem to two hungry boys.

  Once we had satisfied our first ravenings, we settled down to serious, steady chewing, content to savor our food a bit before we swallowed it.

  “Good of Annie to leave this out for us,” said Tom.

  “For Sir John, too,” said I.” We’d best leave some for him.”

  “Oh, aye. He likes his mutton — and his beef.”

  “And his veal and his lamb and his pork and his cod and his —”

  Then did we two burst out laughing, for indeed Sir John was a great and enthusiastic eater and a man of considerable girth. It may seem odd to you, reader, that Tom, who had just lost a shipmate, and I, who had seen that shipmate dead in his bed, might carry on so lightheartedly, but so is it with boys of the age we were then. They have a great love of silliness, and it does find expression, sometimes at the most inappropriate moments. Yet having had our laugh together, we seemed somehow to have purged ourselves and were now able and willing to talk of the subject that had brooded over us since we entered the kitchen.

  “Who did it? ” asked Tom of a sudden; there was no need for him to be more specific.

  “Hartsell and Boone,” said I.

  “You’re sure of it?”

  “I heard a voice, and I recognized it fair sure as Boone.”

  “Boone could not pull the trigger. He is a coward —a bully and a coward.”

  “No, it could have been Hartsell —or one he had hired. Whoever it was did the deed near jumped on top of me, knocked me over he did, he was that close. Yet it was so dark I could not see well enough to be sure certain ‘twas him. Constable Perkins had a glimpse of the assassin when I fired a shot as he ran. Mr. Perkins took a shot then too.”

  “Didyou hit him?”

  “Mr. Perkins thinks I did not, nor did he. He gave chase and lost them. It seemed to him they must have made for the Tower.”

  “Or the
Tower Wharf,” Tom suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  We remained silent for a bit, ruminating the consequences and circumstances of Tobias Trindle’s death. When we had finished our midnight supper, we took care to wrap the meat and bread in order to leave it as we had found it.

  “Should we keep the candle burning?” asked Tom.” It’s gone fair short.”

  “No need, I suppose. Whether it would be ten candles or none, it would make no matter to Sir John when he enters, for none is what he would see. Can you find your way in the dark?”

  “I’ll stay close to you.”

  So saying, he bent and blew out the flame. The room was flooded in darkness that was not quite complete, for a thin crescent of moon had risen sometime in the past hour. It gave a ghostly light to the familiar objects in the room, one that made them seem somehow less substantial than they were.

  “Jeremy? ” Tom’s voice stopped me near the stairs.

  “Yes?”

  “Someone sold him.”

  “Trindle?”

  “Of course, ” said he a bit snappishly.” Who else would I be speaking of?”

  “Well, the innkeeper at the Green Man admitted he took money and sent some unknown person to Black Emma’s just before Mr. Perkins squeezed the same information from him. And that had to be the assassin.”

  “But someone had to have given her name to the assassin —to Hartsell—just as Old Isaac gave it to you.”

  “You’re right, certainly, and perhaps sent him direct to the Green Man, as well.”

  “I think it was Isaac sold him twice —once to you for a bit of tobacco and once to the captain for an easy berth.”

  “You do him an injustice,” said I.” He gave forth to me because Boone had come around asking exactly the sort of questions we had asked. He said it were better that Sir John got him than Hartsell. I told you that, and it was what decided you to put aside your scruples and rejoin the search for Trindle. You said so yourself.”

  “Aye,” said Tom, “and perhaps I did wrong to be any part of it.”

  “You make no sense at all.” It was a very harsh thing to say, but I felt harshly toward him at that moment.