Person or Persons Unknown (15 page)

“Here, young sir, we two are well-acquainted,” said he to me, shining up to me a bit. “We’ve had words on a number of occasions. Perhaps you could tell me, what part of the broadsheet displeases him?”

“I believe it would be fair to say that it displeases him in its entirety.”

“The whole of it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh.”

As I recall, he had nothing more to say during the entire journey. We three simply marched on, side by side. When it became necessary to go single file, Mr. Perkins led the way, and I took the rear.

For my part, I turned over and over again in my mind the unexpected meeting I had had with Mr. Millhouse. Seeing him there at that table with Ormond Neville had surprised me, of course. What seemed far stranger to me, however, was his reaction. Why had he turned from me and attempted to hide his face? I should not have expected him to jump from his chair, shake my hand, and give me a great thump on the back in greeting. Still, to pretend somehow that he was not there seemed rather outlandish. It was as if he had been found out — that I had caught him doing what he ought not to have done. He had every right to be there, after all. Though drinking, he was not drunk. Was it his association with Mr. Neville that caused him embarrassment? It seemed very likely, seeing them together, that Mr. Millhouse had given the author of the broadsheet the name of the victim, since it was he himself who had identified her. Yet if that were so, why had he not also told him of the mutilation of her torso? I wanted to ask Mr. Neville about this, wanted to ask him what, in general, he knew of Thaddeus Millhouse, but, following Constable Perkins’s example, I said nothing at all.

Upon our arrival, we found Number 4 Bow Street quite alive with comings and goings. Sir John and Mr. Bailey were in the center of it all, assigning shifts of guards for the synagogue, revising the streets to be covered by other constables to compensate for a force reduced by two every three hours. It was quite complicated and, it seemed to me, somewhat confused, as well. Into all this we ventured, with Mr. Neville between us. He seemed quite properly intimidated by the helter-skelter; he looked as if he wished himself to be anywhere but where he was. (And he would wish that even more sincerely by the time his ordeal was done.)

“But where are constables Langford and Brede?” shouted Mr. Bailey above the hubbub. “Has anyone seen them?”

Apparently no one had. There were a few replies, but all were in the negative.

Mr. Perkins marched Mr. Neville forward through the milling group to Sir John; I followed along.

“Here’s your man Neville,” said Perkins. “Jeremy found him, and we brought him in.”

“Oh,” said Sir John, a bit owlish, “so we have our author, do we? You are the writer of that broadsheet which appeared today, are you not?”

“I am, sir,” mumbled Mr. Neville.

“Well, speak up, speak up, sir. I hear a good deal about the pride of authorship. Surely you feel a bit of it. Anyone who can cause all this confusion must be a very powerful writer indeed. What have you to say for yourself?”

He said nothing.

“Not a word? Well, I have many words for you — you may depend upon it — but just at the moment all the trouble you have caused me prevents me from speaking them, so I must detain you until such time as I am free to do so, and that may not be until tomorrow. And so, sir — what is his name again, Jeremy?”

“Ormond Neville,” said I.

“Thank you. And so, Ormond Neville, I arrest you for interfering with a criminal inquiry and inciting to riot. I shall hear your case in my court at noon.”

“Riot?” cried Mr. Neville. “What riot?”

“Mr. Baker,” yelled Sir John, “lock him up in the strong room.”

The words that Ormond Neville lacked a moment before rushed of a sudden from his lips as he was dragged away. He protested the unfairness of it all, the injustice, the —

Just at that moment there was a great commotion down the hall. The door to Bow Street flew open. There were footsteps, a few shadowy forms, and a great rush of noise from beyond.

“Bar the door! Bar the door!” came the cry.

“What is it?” called Sir John. “What has happened?”

I started down the long, dark hall with two or three others and nearly bumped into Rabbi Gershon. He was pulling along a dark man about twenty years of age who was sniveling and wailing with fear. This, it seemed, was the notorious Yossel.

“There is a mob out there,” panted the rabbi. “They chased us, would have killed us, except for Sir John’s men.” He pointed back at the two missing constables — Alfred Langford and Clarence Brede — as he pushed past.

I turned about in confusion and saw the rabbi had already reached Sir John. He must already have told him all about the situation. I saw his prisoner backing away. I grabbed him stoutly by the arm and pulled him forward.

“Cutlasses and clubs!” shouted Sir John. “Cutlasses and clubs!”

The Runners grabbed up swords and pulled loose their clubs. They poured into the hall, filling it.

“Sir John,” said I, “here is the prisoner.”

“Yossel Davidovich,” put in the rabbi.

“You were as good as your word. Rabbi Gershon,” said Sir John. “Mr. Baker! If you are about, take the fellow with the rabbi and put him in the strong room with our author. That should give them both something to think about.”

Down the hall I heard the voice of Benjamin Bailey, the captain of the Runners. It was in such skirmishes as these that he proved himself a leader of men.

“Now, when the door goes open, we shall fly at them like the very devils we are. Clubs first, and if they don’t give way, use the flat of the blade. Just follow me!”

A pause. Then: ”Open the door!”

The anticipated battle did not, in fact, take place. The Runners swarmed out the door of Number 4 Bow Street with a grand hurrah and hollo, only to find no mob to oppose them. The few stragglers still hanging about took to their heels, scattering in all directions. Whether from surprise or in genuine amusement, the band of constables looked one at the other and let out a sudden great roar of laughter, all in concert.

“What is it, Jeremy?” demanded Sir John. “What is it strikes them as so damnably funny?”

We stood together in the doorway. The Runners were ranged out in an arc, still looking about them, and still chuckling as the laughter gradually died down.

“Why, I don’t know, sir,” said I, “unless it be that they came out looking for a fight, and there was none to be had. The mob has dispersed.”

“Well, they may yet have their wish.” Then he shouted out: “Hi, you fellows! Get yourselves off to the Jewish church on Maiden Lane, and be quick. The mob may have formed up again there. And, Mr. Bailey?”

The captain of the Runners came up swiftly at a jog-trot as the others started off.

“Aye, Sir John?”

“If there be no great crowd at the synagogue, leave two men there, as we agreed, and send the others out on the routes as you altered them.”

“As you say, sir.”

Then the captain went off at a run to catch the rest up.

“Now, Jeremy, I have a man-sized job for you. I would not ask you to perform the task, but as you can tell, we are at this moment a bit shorthanded.”

“Whatever it be,” said I.

“I want you to convey the rabbi back to the synagogue. But use good sense. When you come into Maiden Lane, be sure there is no disturbance there before proceeding.” He hesitated. “Reluctantly, I think it perhaps best that you wear a brace of pistols. They should be loaded, but think of them only for purposes of display. If you discharge one of them, you had “better have good reason — and let it be into the air. Now go, fetch the rabbi and get properly outfitted by Mr. Baker.”

We must have looked a queer sight as we made our way down Tavistock Street — Rabbi Gershon in his flowing black robes and dark beard; and I a mere stripling, a raw youth wearing two great pistols, pretending to manhood. We did not hurry but went watchfully at first, listening as well for sounds of disturbance. Yet none who passed seemed notably hostile; if they stared a bit, it was in the spirit of curiosity, or perhaps mild amusement.

Still and all, we talked, for the man quite fascinated me, and whenever I had him to myself (which was not often) I had questions for him. On this occasion, they had to do with matters close at hand. I recall asking him if he had had difficulty in finding the fellow Yossel.

“Oh no,” said he. “I knew where to look.”

“And where was that, sir? — if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Jeremiah,” said he — for that was what he called me — “I shall tell you something about Jews. When one of them gets in trouble — let us say he has turned his back on his people and on HaShem, let us suppose he is a miscreant, a terrible villain — nevertheless, when such a one gets into trouble, he goes straight to his people, begging to be taken in, asking forgiveness. And his family takes him in — for who could tum his back on one of his own blood?”

“And so that was where you found him?”

“Yes, with his family, who are good, pious people, all of them together praying for Yossel’s deliverance. But — ” He halted, frowning with concentration. “Listen! What is that?”

It was the raucous noise of shouting voices — nor was it indeed so distant. But then I noted that just ahead of us was Shakespeare’s Head, a place for eating and drinking which attracted a rather rough crowd.

“There,” said I, pointing just ahead at Shakespeare’s Head. “It comes from there, I think.”

“Then let us hurry past,” said he.

And that we did, spurting forward at a sudden brisk pace. It was not until we were a good distance beyond that he resumed his speech to me.

“Where was I? Ah yes, now I recall. I had but entered their home and found them at prayer, Yossel with the rest. I told them that perhaps I had come with the deliverance they sought for Yossel. I also told them of Sir John and praised him as a just man. They listened unconvinced, Yossel most skeptical of all. And then his brother came forward and pushed into my hand that terrible sheet with all the old lies about the people of Israel, and he said, ‘Here, read, there will be a pogrom — not just Yossel, all of us will be murdered!’ So I argued with them. Yossel denied that he himself had murdered any — threatened murder maybe, threatened to cut off a nose or an ear. I said to him, ‘See what your threats brought to your family. Just think what they could do to all the Jews in London!’ Oh, I soon had him crying, begging our forgiveness, and finally he agreed to go with me. We thought it wise, though, to wait until after dark. And so we waited an hour, and you know, Jeremiah, what happened then. We were halfway to Bow Street when one of the women on the street, one he had threatened with that knife of his. she sees him, and she shouts. There’s Yossel. That’s him! There he goes!’ And then he did something foolish — he started to run. That brought forth a great multitude. If he had not run straight into the arms of two of your constables. I believe we would both have been torn apart by the mob. Oh, they were good, those two men of Sir John’s — they faced them, they drove them back, they — ”

“Uh. Rabbi Gershon?”

“Yes, Jeremiah?”

“We’re here, sir.”

So consumed was he by the telling of his story that somewhere between Tavistock and Maiden Lane he had quite lost the sense of his surroundings. The synagogue lay just ahead on the quiet street. The red-waistcoated Runners hung about the place, arguing over the new routes handed out them by Mr. Bailey (thus does the human animal abhor changes to his set routine). The rabbi looked around him and. greatly reassured by this concentration of constables at his front door, he turned to me with a hesitant smile.

“So many?” he asked.

“I believe there will be but two through the night,” said I. “The others must now go off on their rounds.”

“Well, two is a great number. I shall always remember how we were saved by two from our pursuers.” He threw me a wave at the door. “Goodnight to you then, Jeremiah.”

I called a goodbye and gave him a wave as he hopped up the two steps to his door. Mr. Bailey snapped a salute in his direction. The rabbi produced a large key, which he used to enter. There were squeals of children, the voice of a wife, as the door shut; he was home and safe.

Walking over to Mr. Bailey, I presented myself to him in hopes of some further assignment. His men were leaving now, going off singly and in pairs.

“Well, look at you, young Jeremy — a brace of pistols by your side and ready for a fight, you are. All you lack is a red waistcoat, or you’d be one of us.”

Was he serious? My hope that he might be, rekindled my fanciful desire to become a Bow Street Runner at age fifteen.

“You accompanied the Jewish priest home, did you?”

“I did, Mr. Bailey. It was Sir John’s idea that I wear the pistols. He quite surprised me in that.”

”Are they loaded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No sense carrying a gun about if it ain’t loaded. Have any trouble on the way over?”

“No, none, just a few curious looks.”

“People will stare, won’t they? But listen, Jeremy, my lad, if there’s no great demands upon your time, I wonder would you care to take a stroll with me round Covent Garden just to be sure they ain’t no great mob of them skulking about, biding their time, looking for their chance. That is sometimes the way with mobs — they go off and hide for a bit.”

I eagerly agreed to his proposal. He took but a moment to give final instructions to constables Langford and Cowley, who would stand the first watch before the synagogue, then beckoned me to follow as he started off in the direction of Bedford Street.

Going at an easy pace, we turned right as we reached it, and at that same easy pace we came upon Henrietta Street, one of those that entered direct into Covent Garden. We were at that point not at all far from the alley off Bedford where Constable Brede had found the mutilated body of Priscilla Tarkin against the churchyard fence. But here at the comer of Henrietta Street, Mr. Bailey paused to listen. What could he hear more than the rowdy noise issuing from the stews and dives on Bedford? They were not yet as noisy as they would later be, nor were the streets yet as crowded. The day-people had by then left the Garden; the vast night population had not yet come out in full force.

Mr. Bailey nodded in the direction of Henrietta Street, and we started off at that same easy pace. Since he had been listening so keenly but a moment before. I was a bit surprised when he spoke up in jaunty style once we were underway.

“You and me, Jeremy,” said he, “we make quite an army between us — you with your pistols and me with this great sword in its scabbard.”

“It’s true,” said I. “We’ve no cause to fear man nor mob.”

“Nevertheless, I can’t wait until we get back to Bow Street and get shed of this cutlass. It’s an annoyance having it rattling against my left leg.”

It did rattle a bit. To me, however, it seemed a reassuring sound. The street was dark; streetlamps were few, and few windows along the way were lit. There were no pedestrians ahead or behind us, and there was no horse traffic, so that the entire scene had a rather deserted, sinister aspect. Of a sudden, it came to me that I should not like to be walking this street alone, nor even less should I like walking down even darker, narrower, emptier streets at night with only a club to protect me. Perhaps I was not as ready as I had supposed to join the Bow Street Runners.

As if to confirm that conclusion, a call came from the far side of the street.

“Hi, you two! Are you Beak Runners? Over here!”

We looked, but we could not see. There was but a dark passage between two buildings. The cry could have had no other source. Then, as we started across the street, I dimly perceived a crouched figure in the shadows of the passage. The figure waved, then stood and stepped forward, beckoning us towards him.

“Careful, Jeremy,” said Mr. Bailey. “It could be bait for a trap. Keep your hands on those pistols.”

I did as he told me until we came quite close to him who had hailed us, for by the dim light of a streetlamp then I recognized him as none other than Mr. Tolliver.

“It’s all right,” said I to Mr. Bailey. “It’s our butcher.”

“Your butcher, is it? You’re sure of that?”

For his part, Mr. Tolliver seemed sure: “Jeremy! How lucky you should come along with one of the Runners — though I’m not sure I want you to see what lies back here in the passage.”

“What is it then, sir?” asked Mr. Bailey. The two tall men were now face to face. Mr. Bailey’s eyes shifted from Mr. Tolliver to the dark space behind him. There was something or someone lay crumpled on the ground about six to eight feet from the narrow walkway where we stood.

“Why, it’s a woman. She’s dead, rightly enough, though I swear she’s still warm to the touch. Come see for yourself.”

Mr. Bailey gave him a curt nod. “I will, sir, and I thank you.”

He moved round the butcher, who stepped aside in such a way as to block my path. I attempted to follow Mr. Bailey.

“Jeremy,” said Mr. Tolliver, “there’s no need, surely, for you to see, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

Reluctantly, he gave ground, and I scrambled after Mr. Bailey.

Indeed I had seen worse. This woman — or girl, for her age could hardly have been greater than mine — was situated against the wall at one side of the passage, almost in a sitting position, sagging a bit forward in such a way that her chin rested upon her chest in much the same way that Priscilla Tarkin’s had.

“She’s dead, all right,” said Mr. Bailey to the butcher, “and still warm she is.” He stared down at her. “I wonder what killed her.” He was not by nature a detector.

“Pull back her head,” I offered, remembering the Widow Tarkin, “and see if her throat’s been cut.”

At my suggestion, he did just that. There was no wound to be seen, and no marks on her throat from strangulation, but her unbuttoned frock invited examination.

“Is she cut open?” I asked. “The last one was.”

“Well, let’s see about that.”

Kneeling down beside her, Mr. Bailey threw open her frock, exposing the girl’s small breasts — but no jagged belly wound.

“Here now,” said Mr. Tolliver, “that ain’t proper. It ain’t decent.” He seemed unduly disturbed by a process I had come to accept as quite routine.

“But, sir, she’s dead.” Did that explain it? Someone — I couldn’t then remember who — had said that the dead don’t care, a crude philosophy at best. I ought to explain myself better to Mr. Tolliver: “You see, if she died by foul means, there must be an autopsy. If she died fair, then she will be taken away for burial in the city plot — unless someone claims the body, of course.”

“I see. Well, then, I suppose it must be done.”

Mr. Bailey had looked from one to the other of us during this discussion, as if not quite understanding the sense of it. It then occurred to me that perhaps this unfortunate had been killed as Teresa O’Reilly had.