Person or Persons Unknown (13 page)

At that moment Mr. Millhouse threw a rather desperate look in my direction. He caught me staring. I had given up all pretense of separating the ancient court records into piles, so fascinated was I by the progress of Sir John’s interrogation. Mr. Millhouse turned back to Sir John then, yet for a moment he seemed quite unable to respond.

“Well, I…,” he began uncertainly. “I pitied her, of course, but I …”

We waited. But having begun, he seemed quite unable to proceed. Nothing was forthcoming. He sat dumbly for near a minute.

“Let us put that aside for a moment,” said Sir John. “Another question for you — one that should be easy to answer. And that question is this: Did you see Priscilla Tarkin alive on the night she died?”

He sighed. “Yes, she made an appearance in the Dog and Duck on Bedford Street where I was drinking with my friends. She walked through the place, seeking custom.”

“Did she speak to you?”

“She said hello.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No.”

“Who were those with whom you drank that night?”

“Mr. Oliver Goldsmith, poet, historian, romancer, and once, as I understand, physician, as well.”

“That is one. Were there others?”

“Mr. Thomas Davies, actor, author, and editor, and briefly, a Mr. Ephraim Butts, a friend of Mr. Davies, of whom I know little, having first met him only on that occasion.”

“Very good. Now, I have something here.” Sir John opened the drawer in his desk and felt about in it for a moment. He brought out a key and placed it before him on his desk. “Yes,” he continued, “this key. Do you recognize it, Mr. Millhouse?”

“Why, it looks quite like the key to our room.”

“No doubt it does. It is, I take it, the key to Polly Tar-kin’s room, for it was found in her pocket by Mr. Donnelly, together with a shilling and a few pence. Jeremy?” He turned in my direction. “I hear papers shuffle from time to time, so I assume you are still with us.”

“I am, sir,” said I.

“Would you go now and fetch your hat and coat to accompany Mr. Millhouse to Half Moon Street that he may point out to you her room. I wish you to search it, Jeremy. Learn what you can of her, those she may have known, and anything else that may be helpful to the inquiry. Feel free to bring back to Bow Street anything you deem of particular interest.”

I jumped up quickly from the station I had taken in the comer. “1 should be happy to do so, sir.” And I made to go. Mr. Millhouse gaped.

“Close the door after you,” Sir John called after me, “and wait in the hall.”

This was, for me, quite an unexpected turn. First to be given the opportunity to put questions to a witness, as I had done with Mrs. Crewton, and now to be asked to search for clues in the domicile of the victim — it was clear that Sir John was offering me greater responsibilities in the conduct of his inquiries. The prospect excited me as no other since I had been accepted as a member of his household.

My hand fairly shook with anticipation as I attempted to insert key to lock. Yet with an effort, I took hold of myself and rammed the thing home. At that point, before turning the key, I faced Mr. Millhouse, who had been hovering over me there on the narrow porch.

“Sir,” said I to him, “I must now ask you to go about your business.”

“What? Why, see here, you young — ”

I interrupted him firmly: “You heard, as well as I, that Sir John Fielding assigned this task to me and to no other. If you insist on accompanying me, I shall have to return tonight with one of the constables, who will assist me. I hope I have made myself clear.”

It seemed that I had. Mr. Millhouse drew himself up as if about to unleash an harangue, then stood baffled, quite unable to speak. I waited a decent space. Then, with a firm nod and a “good day,” I turned the key, swung the door open, and stepped inside. Then I removed the key, and closed the door firmly behind me.

The place was quite dark. I went to the windows and threw back the heavy curtains. The sudden light revealed a room of medium size, certainly larger than my own at Number 4 Bow Street, one with a small fireplace, complete with a small cookstove, at the far end. It was altogether better furnished than I had expected. The bed was good-sized and laid-over neatly with a comforter. There was a chest three drawers high, a writing table with a straight chair, a wardrobe, and two comfortable chairs for sitting, even a small rug upon the floor. All these bespoke an earlier life of some comfort. It was indeed far from the squalor of the room described by Private Sperling to which he had been taken by Teresa O’Reilly. How had “Tuppence Poll” managed to live in such a manner as this? I set about in my search to discover the answer to that question.

The wardrobe yielded nothing but clothes. There were a great many of them, more by far than I would have expected. Some were obviously old and threadbare, some were not. Of a sudden I recalled the frock she wore at her death. It was of good, heavy wool stuff which, with the shawl she wore, would have kept her warm even at the late hour at which she was found. Surely that was new, was it not? How had she managed?

Through the chest I searched, but the drawers I ransacked contained naught but undergarments and stockings and keepsakes of various kinds. These last I examined closely. There were a great many — ribbons in abundance of every color, combs which were crested and plain, rings. I examined them closely; a few appeared to be of gold; others, not of gold, were of intricate design; and there were two in which were set stones of some worth. Most striking of all were two cameos, which I guessed to be of considerable worth. This, it seemed to me, was too grand a store for any single woman, much less one who pretended to great poverty.

I found something of great interest in the single drawer of the writing table. It was an account book or ledger — I was not sure how to call it, for I had then no experience of commerce — but I saw that it was a dated list of transactions which went back some three years into the past. There must have been some twenty pages filled, with thirty entries to the page. Though the items sold were in some manner of code, as were the listed buyers, the amounts were given plainly in shillings and pence. This must certainly go back with me to Number 4 Bow Street. If she were so active in selling as it appeared, then she must have had a treasure trove hidden away in some secret place. I looked around me. It was not a large room. Surely I could find it. And so I began my search in earnest. I pulled out the drawers and looked behind each of them and found — nothing. There were a few incidental discoveries: when I threw the bed apart, I found a dagger tucked in easy reach beneath the mattress, and under the bed was a loaded pistol. Had she them with her the night she was murdered, she might be alive in this very room today.

Remembering my efforts in the Goodhope residence two years past, I look out my tinder box and lit a candle. Thus readied, I carefully examined each and every brick in the fireplace. It took me near an hour to do so. Yet none had been loosed. All were firmly set. Not a single brick rang hollow.

By the time I finished, I was soot-stained to my wrists; my clothes were also streaked; and I was so vexed at my failure that I retreated to the middle of the room and stamped my feet in a little dance of frustration.

Thus did I find what I was looking for.

Though there was a rug covering that part of the floor, I distinctly felt a board give beneath my right foot. I threw back the rug and went down on my hands and knees — knocking, pressing, searching to find with my hands what my foot had but a moment before found quite without design or intention. In the end, I was forced to jump up and go stomping about once more with my heels in search of the place. Then, having rediscovered it, I grabbed the dagger off the bed and proceeded to dig away at a board in the floor of about the width of my hand, or perhaps a little larger. I did then manage to pry it from its place and look below.

The space beneath was filled fair to overflowing with all manner of items that might easily be napped from gentlemen. There were three or four silk kerchiefs, washed and folded neatly; there were three timepieces, one of them in a case that looked to be of gold; there were even two pairs of eyeglasses in the square style that was then most popular. This was a store of goods waiting to be sold. But where … perhaps … yes!

What I sought was beneath the pile of kerchiefs. Call it a wallet, or a purse, but it was of good leather and bound with thongs. I undid them carefully and peeked inside. It was fat with gold sovereigns and guineas, the harvest of three years dedicated to criminal pursuits.

Quite unable to help myself, I let out a yelp of triumph. Then, remembering that only a thin wall separated me from Mr. Millhouse, I quietened immediately; yet I could not resist muttering quietly, “Polly Tarkin, I have you to rights! You, my good woman, were a great thief!”

Barely had I time to present Sir John with the purse and account book (which he dropped in his desk drawer) when I was whisked off by him in the direction of Tavistock Street. I naturally assumed that we were on our way to visit Mr. Donnelly; this, however, was not to be the case.

As we went, I told him in detail of the search I had conducted. I was altogether bursting with pride at what I had accomplished. So it was that when I began to sense a certain lack of satisfaction at what I reported, I hastened to the end of my tale and asked a bit petulantly if there were anything wrong.

“Oh no, no, of course not. You’ve done well, Jeremy,” said he, “but I had hoped you might find letters, notations of one sort or another — in short, names. There were none, I take it?”

“No, sir.” Then, thinking further, I offered: “But, Sir John, there must be names aplenty in her account books. They are in code, but could the code be broken — ”

“Mr. Marsden has a talent for such games. I’m sure he will have no difficulty with the Widow Tarkin’s attempts to disguise the buyers of her wares. But, you see, these are mere fences, dealers in stolen goods. It may be that an arrest or two will result — and that is all to the good. But as for the homicide, I fear that having fixed the victim as a thief only makes the task of discovering her murderer that much harder.”

“Oh? How is that?”

“Why, don’t you see, anyone from whom she stole might seek her out and take revenge. And that, as you have proven, could be one of a great number.”

“I understand,” said I, feeling somewhat chastened.

It was about that time we passed the building which housed Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Yet when we continued on, crossing Southampton Street and proceeded down Maiden Lane, I had a better idea of our destination.

“I have some interest in Mr. Millhouse,” said Sir John. “The fact that he was there at the scene says something, surely. He seems at a loss to explain his relation to the victim. When you went off to fetch your hat and coat, he confessed that he sensed something evil about her and disliked his wife’s charitable attention to her. When I pressed him further, he told me he thought the woman was attempting to seduce him, that she might hold it over him to extort tribute for silence, or some such. That seems a bit farfetched — unless, of course, something of the sort were already underway. Tell me, what had he to say on your journey to Half Moon Street?”

“Almost nothing at all. He seemed quite lost in thought. Yet he did expect to enter the Widow Tarkin’s apartment with me. I had to threaten to return with a constable to persuade him to give up that notion.”

Sir John gave a great deep chuckle. “Good boy, Jeremy,” said he. Then: “I believe we are quite close to our destination. Are we near the synagogue?”

“It is just ahead.” I had been right — on my second guess, at least.

“I had thought to seek Rabbi Gershon’s help in finding this fellow, Yossel, who seems to have quite disappeared.”

I held Sir John at the door to the synagogue. It was a new building of brick, put up in short order by the congregation of Beth El on the site of the old one of wood, which had burned under mysterious circumstances two years past. They had made a proper job of it. It looked to be the so-lidest and most durable of any structure on the street.

“Should I knock?” I asked.

“Try the door,” said Sir John.

It was unlocked. I swung the door open and eased him up the single step and inside. We stood in the hall and listened. There seemed to be no one about.

”Halloo!” he called. “Anyone here?”

There was indeed someone there. At the far end of the hall, a face appeared — bearded yet still peculiarly youthful. “Ah!” said the face, and out popped the body, black-clad and rotund. Rabbi Gershon hurried to greet us, his short legs propelling him forward with a rolling gait, the toddling walk of a very young child. “Sir John Fielding! Jeremiah! Welcome!”

I could tell from the smile spreading over Sir John’s face that he did indeed feel truly welcome. Yet he did not reply until the rabbi was upon us. Then did he grope forward with his right hand for the hand of the other. He grasped it firmly and shook it.

“Good day to you. Rabbi Gershon,” said he. “I trust we are not intruding?”

“Not at all,” said he. “I was studying Talmud, and that I can do, Baruch HaShem, every day of my life.”

Then did Rabbi Gershon shake my hand, as well, murmuring my name as he did.

“Now,” said he to Sir John, “to what do I owe your visit? I am always happy to see you here, but I sense this is some special mission. How can I help you?”

“Well, you are right that this is a special mission. And right, too, that we seek your help.”

“So… explain.”

And, briefly. Sir John did just that. He told of the two murders, twenty-eight days apart, and dwelt upon the brutality of the second. Putting emphasis on the difficulty he had encountered so far in his inquiry — the lack of clues, the absence of witnesses — he concluded by saying that there was one whom he wanted for questioning that had so far eluded them completely. “I had hoped,” he concluded, “that you might help us find him.”

“Then he must be a Jew.”

“Well, er … yes, so it is said.”

“And what is his name?”