Murder in Grub Street (16 page)

“A charitable enterprise.”

“Oh, another one, eh? Something on the order of that fund to send young criminals out to sea, as you promoted a few years past?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Well, that won you a knighthood, did it not?”

“I had thought my service as a magistrate had brought me that.”

“And your Runners. Don’t forget your Runners. They have made you famous. I’ve heard grumbles that indeed they have made you too famous. But what is it this time?”

“I am preparing a subscription for a house for penitent prostitutes. I am particularly interested in getting young girls off the street.”

“A house for young bawds, is it? Well, you’ll fill that up fast enough.”

“My wish is that they be taught trades and skills, then go out into the world and support themselves.”

“Not likely.” Lord Mansfield laughed. “Indeed not likely. They choose the life because they like it, nine times out of ten.”

“Let us help the tenth,” said Sir John.

Again a sigh. “Why not? How much did I give to your subscription for boy criminals? Is the one who sits beside you now one of them, by the by?”

“Emphatically not,” said Sir John.

Inwardly I thanked him for that. How much then?” A hundred pounds?”

Surely not so much. Why not, oh, fifty?” Something between. I’m sure we’ll work it out.”

“Will my contribution bring me John Clayton a bit faster?”

“Not one minute.”

“I thought not.”

The coach had come to a stop. The rain had ended. We were at Bow Street. I threw open the door and hopped down to the street, wanting no assistance from the footman.

Some time before leaving for Bedlam, Sir John had made a particular request of Benjamin Bailey, captain of the Bow Street Runners. Though he had worked the long night through, he had been asked to end his watch with a visit to the Brethren of the Spirit at their meeting hall and shelter in Half Moon Passage. There he was to present the contempt-of-court citation to Brothers Isaac and James, then collect Moll Caulfield and send her on to Bow Street to receive the ten guineas appropriated in her behalf from Black Jack Bilbo.

Sir John had expected to see her at Bow Street before our departure. Thus it was that immediately upon our return he went searching for her. He sought out Mr. Marsden and inquired after her.

“I have seen nor hide nor hair of her,” said the court clerk.

“That seems passing strange,” said the magistrate.

“Mr. Bailey is here, however.”

“The poor fellow must be exhausted. It is nigh on noon.”

“So he seemed. I gave him my alcove that he might nap there.”

And there we found him, seated at Mr. Marsden’s desk, sleeping deeply.

“Shake him awake, Jeremy. He would not have returned had he not something to impart.”

It was not easy. So deep was his slumber that it took many shakes and gentle pummelings to bring him out of it. When at last he sat erect in Mr. Marsden s chair, alternately squinting and opening his eyes, Sir John judged him fit to be addressed.

“Mr. Bailey,” said he, “your return here tells me you have something to report. Gather your wits and give it me.”

With his eyes fully open, he took a couple of deep breaths and rose to his feet, stretching his mighty frame to his full height, moving this way and that.

“Indeed I do, Sir John,” said he in a sort of gasp. “It’s, as you might suppose, about my visit to that queer lot on Half Moon. They’ve taken over the Key, have they not? Place shouldVe been torn down long ago, I vow.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Bailey, but go on, please.”

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.” He continued, now speaking in more orderly fashion: “I banged on their door, demanding entry, showing them the contempt citations Mr. Marsden had writ out, insisting that I serve it to Brother Isaac and Brother James personal. They was ill, says him I spoke to. And I’ve no doubt of that, having heard from Constable Cowley what old Black Jack done to them. But I insisted, as I said to you, and they conveyed me upstairs to the old hostelry rooms, where I presented them one each to the brothers in question. They was in poor shape, no question, but on the mend, as you might say, and I informed them of the consequences if they failed to report today to the Bow Street Court. They agreed to be here, reluctantly like.”

“Tell me, Mr. Bailey,” put in Sir John, “on what floor were these two men recuperating?”

“At the top, sir.”

“We were not brought up there,” said Sir John, half to himself, half to me. “But go on, Mr. Bailey.”

“That done, I announced to them that I had also been charged to take Moll Caulfield off their hands and send her to Bow Street. This, for some reason, caused a great to-do amongst them, and they went off and fetched another of their number from morning devotions. Though they claim to have no leader, this one they fetched is, in my opinion, in charge.”

“And his name was Brother Abraham.”

“Exactly so, sir. So I put it to this Brother Abraham that I wanted old Moll—and since I was growing tired of their company, I put it to him as a demand, so I did. But he says to me as easy as you please that she ain’t there no more, that she left of her own will the night before. I insisted to be shown where she slept, and I was taken to the cellar and shown an empty pallet. It could have been that of any of the poor souls I glimpsed at their devotions. When I asked why she had left, he said quite simple, ‘She liked not our company.’ Well, in all truth, I liked not his, for something there was that annoyed me, whether his certain manner, or his telling of the circumstances of her departure, I cannot say.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“He — this Brother Abraham — said that she was a contentious woman and had disrupted the harmony of their group. ‘Well, then,’ says I, you expelled her.’ ‘No,’ says he, ‘we gave her a choice. She could go or stay, as she chose, but if she stayed she would have to hold her tongue and talk no more heresy.’ And so, he said, she chose to go — quite indignant, she was.”

“Did he say what manner of heresy she espoused that had offended them so?”

“No, he did not, nor did I ask him, for I have little understanding of these points of doctrine over which the preachers broil so.”

“And for which wars have been fought.”

“As you say, Sir John.”

“So the result is that Moll Caulfield is no longer with them. Since … when?”

“About nine o’clock yesterday eve.”

“Well, we shall tell the Runners to be alert for her in their rounds tonight. Go home, Mr. Bailey, you must sleep. It was good of you to stay to make your report in person.”

Mr. Bailey began his departure, then turned back, putting a troubled face to us.

“There’s no doubt old Moll is a willful woman, as you might say,” said he, “and could cause a bit of trouble when she put her mind to it, but it don’t seem right the way she was treated by them. I mean, after all, this bunch in the old Key, they’re supposed to be Christian, ain’t they?”

With that, he started, as if struck of a sudden by a thought: “Oh, and another thing, sir. These brothers, them I talked to anyways, they ain’t true-born Englishmen. They’re all from the American colonies. I’d know that queer manner of speech anywheres.”

“So Brother Abraham informed me,” said Sir John. “He named a place with a fantastical name, Monongahela.”

“Monongahela, is it? Near Fort Pitt, as I recall it. Let me think on that a bit.”

“Nay, dream upon it. Go now. Sleep. You’ve done well.”

With that, Mr. Bailey made his departure and left Sir John stroking his chin, deep in thought — and me beside him, trying to read those thoughts. I waited until the magistrate himself had given up his pondering and made to depart Mr. Marsden’s alcove bureau. Only then did I speak up.

“Sir John?”

“Yes, Jeremy?”

“I should like to go out and search for Moll Caulfield.”

“Well …”

“You’ve only two men on duty now — the keeper of the strong room and the day-runner. She should be sought — and the sooner the better, or so it seems to me. And besides …”

“Yes, boy, what is it?”

“I feel responsible for her situation. If I had not led her to those brothers, she might — “

“She might be precisely where she is today,” Sir John interrupted me, “out on the street. Mr. Bailey was correct in saying that Moll Caulfield is a rather willful woman. She has had her share of scrapes before. She herself must be held partly responsible.”

“But, sir,” said I, “she may not be in the streets. She has a friend, an old party named Dotty — though I know not her surname — who guided me to her that day of the windstorm when her place collapsed. Moll might be with her.”

“Well and good,” said he. “Look for her then, and if you do not find Dotty, take a good close look in the Garden, corner to corner. You may find Moll about, reduced to begging.”

“That I shall do. Thank you, Sir John.”

“And by the by, I should judge it a favor if, in your searches, you looked in on Mrs. Durham to see how she is getting on. You might tell her, too, that I floated her plan to Lord Mansfield and got a good response.”

If Moll Caulfield seemed to have disappeared, so also had her cum Dotty. I looked high and low for both of them in the streets surrounding Covent Garden, Then went beyond, continuing to look and ask for them both — all to no avail. In my wanderings, I passed three women pushing vegetable carts, each one a piece from the other. To each I made inquiries frist about Moll and then about Dotty. All said they knew them. None said they had seen either of them on that day.

When I had come full circle around the Garden, I found myself only a few streets from Mrs. Durham’s quarters at Number 3 Berry Lane. And so, remembering Sir John’s request, I sought to honor it and made direct for that address. Arriving, I climbed those stairs which had been the scene of my disgrace the day before (wondering what punishment Sir John had in store for me, hoping he might forget the matter altogether); then I knocked upon her door. She, calling through it, asked me to identify myself. When I did so, she threw open the door and greeted me most happily.

“Jeremy, this is indeed a pleasure,” said she. Then, lowering her voice, not daring to look, she asked, “Does Sir John wait below?”

“Oh no,” said I. “He’s having his court at this hour.”

“Of course,” said she, obviously disappointed yet doing her best to disguise it. “Right stupid of me not to realize it. But do come in, won’t you? Give me all the news you have.”

“I do have a bit,” said I, as she showed me inside to a chair.

“But first, I was instructed by Sir John to inquire after your condition.”

(I had noticed in her short passage from door to couch that she hobbled still.)

“I do well enough,” said she. “I fear I rushed things a bit today, going off to do my buying in the Garden. I returned with my ankle a bit worse than when I left. I must own, too, that trying to hold that young wildcat with whom you fought yesterday put some strain on it. Whatever was the cause of that?—that is, if you don’t mind telling?”

And indeed I told her, giving her also Sir John’s objections to my actions, admitting their wisdom. She listened to my tale, nodding, encouraging me to continue. It was only when I had concluded with my description of my interview in the magistrate’s chambers that she ventured to speak.

“He is wise, you know, as few men are and few women. I wonder that he has not been raised to a higher court. Perhaps they value him more for his Bow Street Runners than for his work day to day handling that mob of thieves and pickpockets who come before him.” She paused then, hesitating, as if assessing what might be told and what might not. Then she said to me: “He showed great wisdom with me.”

“And how was that, Mrs. Durham?” Clearly, she wished to be asked.

She proceeded carefully: “I put before him an idea of mine, a modest notion, really. And he, being the man that he is, listened charitably, saw the sense of it, and made of it a practical plan — on the spot, so to say. He took it all with the utmost seriousness.”

“Ah well,” said I, “then the news I have for you should please you.”

“Quick then, give it me!”

“Sir John asked me to tell you” — and I paused, seeking to quote him exact — “that he had floated your plan to Lord Mansfield and got a good response.”

But, Jeremy, that is truly wonderful, the best news you could have brought!” She clapped her hands at that. “Imagine, Lord Mansfield! Why, he is an earl, if I’m not mistook. I wonder what was said between them.”

“Perhaps I might be of some help there,” said I, puffing a bit.

“Were you present? Oh, Jeremy, tell me.”

Swearing her to secrecy, I imparted what had passed between the two in the coach on the drive back from Bedlam — the begging letter, the subscription, the negotiations, all of it, except the specific nature of the charity. Mrs. Durham was much impressed.

“A hundred pounds?” said she in a voice expressing amazement. “Truly, he asked for so much from one man alone?”

“Lord Mansfield offered fifty.”

“That is a great sum.”

“Sir John suggested they would settle eventually for a figure somewhere between.”

“Oh, Jeremy, this is indeed thrilling. You’ve made me so happy.”

“But please,” said I, “no mention of this to Sir John. I doubt he would like me repeating his conversations with the Lord High Judge.”

“On that you have my word,” said she.

“Only that he floated the plan, and it got a good reception.”

“Agreed.”

With that, I rose to take my leave, aware that I had already spent far more time with her than I had intended. Though I urged her to keep her seat on the couch, she followed me up, and with a sore step showed me to the door.

“I hope your foot mends soon,” said I. “Perhaps I could do your buying for you, if you wrote me a list.”

“Perhaps you could — on Monday. I enjoy your visits, in any case, Jeremy. As for my foot mending, I have no wish to return to my daily life. I have a bit of money put aside. I shall use that and hope for the best.”

And so we said our goodbyes, and I swiftly departed for Covent Garden, where Sir John had advised me I might find Moll Caulfield a — begging. As I made my way through the crowded streets to the even more crowded piazza, my mind turned back to my visit with Mrs. Durham and to my pleasure in her company. I wondered at that and reassured myself that she, as Mr. Donnelly, the surgeon who had been most helpful to Sir John in the Goodhope inquiry, spoke to me simply as a person — not as a child. With the death of my mother, my brother, and late of my father, I had quite had my fill of childhood and wished to be a man. Sir John spoke to me as both child and man, which was probably more fitting, for I seemed to act often as both, faltering toward manhood and falling back toward childishness. This was indeed a difficult time for me, as I believe it is for all boys, and I found the generous attention of such as Mrs. Durham most encouraging.

I had a stratagem in mind for Covent Garden. While keeping on the watch for Moll, I would circulate through it entire and ask each and every greengrocer if he knew Dotty, perchance served as her supplier. And should I find the proper man, I would sure find her, for a supplier must know where his pushcart sellers reside. It may not have been a very grand plan, as I was well aware, but at least it offered an alternative to a face-by-face search through that great crowd which seemed always to inhabit the place.

I found out early in my attempt to canvass the greengrocers that these gentlemen and their female assistants are far more helpful when you appear to them a potential buyer than when you attempt to solicit information from them. Had I worn the red waistcoat and carried the club of a Bow Street Runner, they would have been helpful enough, you may be sure. But appearing as I was, a mere boy asking questions, most I approached were indifferent to me at best and some were downright rude.

“Never heard of her.” This was the response most frequently heard.

Some simply waved me off and turned away. I kept mental note of these and vowed never to return to them again as a buyer.

I had become quite discouraged toward the end of my circuit and knew I must soon make just such a corner-to-corner search of the great square as Sir John had described. It was then, just as I approached the last greengrocer but one there in the Garden, that I felt a tap upon my shoulder, looked round me quickly, and, to my dismay, saw there none other than my opponent from yestermorn. There was no mistaking him, decked out as he was in his oversized coat and tricorn. I knew not whether to pounce upon him, to get back my own from the day before; or to turn and bolt from him, quite literally putting temptation behind me. Thus riven by contrary impulses, I stood frozen before him.

“Now, don’t you dast lay your daddies on me,” said he, as I stood in this state, “and don’t tip a mizzle. I’ve something for the Beak.”

That damnable queer talk again! All I gained from what he had said was that he had something for Sir John. Yet he talked in a placating manner and seemed to have peaceable intentions.

“The Beak,” he insisted, “he’s the cove of your ken, ain’t he?”

“I … I don’t understand.”

“You know nicks of flash, ain’t it? Can’t patter the gammon? Well, chum, I’ll put it real plain.” Then slowly, as if speaking to a child or some dimwitted foreigner, he proceeded: “I” — pointing to himself—“have a letter” — producing it from his voluminous pocket— “for your master, Sir John whatsisname.”

“Fielding.”

“So it is,” he agreed.

I reached for the letter, yet right quick he pulled it out of reach and behind his back; then he danced nimbly a step or two backward.

“Give it me,” said I, “so I may deliver it.”

“Nah, nah, nah, I ain’t daft. I can deliver it me own self.”

“Then why do you trouble me? Why not simply take it to Bow Street?”

He hesitated, then said with reluctance, “I could do with a bit ol help from you.”

“Oh? How is that, pray?”

“See, I’m a known prig, a proper scamp — a thief to you, chum,” said he proudly. “You was right when you put the name to me and we had our tussle — and a rum tussle it was, to my mind. I’ve won many a race from a constable, made them eat the dust from my hockey-dockeys. But many’s the one got a good look at me, too. I fear if I show me face at Number four, then I’m quick bound for Newgate. But that’s where you play a part.”

“What sort of part?” I was most skeptical.

“A rum one, to be sure. I ain’t askin’ nothin’ queer of you. Just you come along, see, and tell them this is like in war with a white flag.”

“A surrender?”

“Nah, nah, Jimmie Bunkins gives up to no man.”

“A truce?”

“You got it, chum—a truce — that be the word. Like time taken out from the usual, ain’t it?”

“I suppose so, yes. But I still don’t understand why you don’t just give me the letter and let me deliver it.”

“Clink, chum, clink. It may be worth a ned or a bob — who knows? It all adds up.” He immediately saw the incomprehension writ plain upon my face, for he then translated his cant to plain English: “I hopes to get a reward. See, this letter must be pretty important, for the party what gave it to me did so real secret like. Only it was seen by the folk she was with, and one of them gave me chase, and a proper chase it was, near ran me down, but I got free, and I been walkin’ about ever since, tryin’ to work it out how I might get it to the Beak without risk to myself. Then I spies you here in the Garden, and I sees the way of it. Maybe pick up a bit of clink in the bargain.”

My mind had raced as I heard this. “Who was that gave you the letter?”

“It was a rum old blowen I knowed for a while named Moll.”

“Moll Caulfield?”

“That’s the one. Many’s the time I was without a fadge, and she gave me to eat from what was left over in her cart. How she got in with that bunch in black I cannot figger.”

“When was this?”

“Last darkey — last night to you, chum — but early, not long after I heard six struck on the clock.”

Realizing the importance of this, I determined there and then to suspend my search. “Come along,” said I to him. “It will be done as you like. Though I cannot ensure that you will be able to put it in Sir John’s hands, we shall make the effort.”

He hung back a bit distrustfully. “You’ll make the truce?”

“You may depend upon it.”

With this final assurance, he was at last satisfied. We set off together for Number 4 Bow Street, which in truth was but a short distance from where we had held our parley. Along the way I asked him if his name was truly Jimmie Bunkins. (It seemed to me a rather strange sort, even comical — though I dared not tell him that.)

He was immediately on his guard. “Who told you that?”

“You did,” said I. “You declared that Jimmie Bunkins would never surrender. I took it that you were referring to yourself.”

“You talk queer,” said he. ” T took it you was referring to yourself.’ ” He made a jeering imitation of my speech, which annoyed me somewhat. “You talk like you was studyin’ to be a milord or some such. Why can’t you learn proper London speech? Why can’t you talk flash? Gammon? Cant?”

“I don’t choose to,” said I.

” ‘I don’t choose to.’ ” He echoed me again, annoying me further. “Listen, chum, what you need is a rum teacher.”

“And I suppose that would be you.”

“It might be. You treat me proper, and I’ll treat you proper.”

What could he mean?

There would be no chance to find out, for we had arrived at the Bow Street Court. I opened the door on the right, which led down a long hall which passed the courtroom and the strong room and eventually ended at Sir John’s chambers. I gestured Jimmie Bunkins inside. He held his ground.

“You go ahead,” said he. “Do it like you said, white flag like.”

“A truce?”

He nodded, suddenly shy and uncertain.

“Oh, come along,” said I, just as suddenly impatient. “There are but two Runners inside, no more. If they take an interest in you, I shall tell them you have a letter for Sir John and are not to be bothered.”

“And they will listen?”

I thought about that a moment. “Yes,” I said, “they will.”

“You lead.”

He followed. We went past the courtroom on the left, where, as I had expected, matters were long concluded for the day. Then we walked by the empty strong room, saw no Runners, and met iMr. Marsden in his alcove. I greeted him and asked if Sir John was available in his chambers. He allowed that he was, looked curiously at Jimmie Bunkins, then returned to his court records. We continued on our way.

“He didn’t say nicks about me,” whispered Bunkins.

“Perhaps you’re not as famous as you think,” said I.

“But he wasn’t no Beak-runner.”

“No,” said I, “he is the court clerk. The Runners are no doubt off conveying the prisoners to jail.”

“Crikey!” said Bunkins, and gave a shake of revulsion.

I knocked upon Sir John’s door, identified myself, and was invited to enter. Both I and Bunkins went inside — he most careful, looking this way and that, altogether uneasy. He removed his tricorn, exposing his mop of untidy hair.