Person or Persons Unknown (29 page)

Eventually did the rush cease. We crossed Russell Street together, but then, seeing Charles Street near empty before us, we spread out in the manner suggested by Sir John. Constable Perkins took the lead, and I followed some twenty yards behind. The four constables trailed not quite fifty yards to my rear, two on either side of Charles Street.

Our plan was to make a square about Covent Garden, and if nothing untoward occurred, we should then make another square, but again, if nothing were to have happened, we would concentrate our attention upon those places that were deemed most dangerous — tempting fate, as it were.

I looked ahead. Even at a distance, Mr. Perkins seemed nothing more nor less than a man in skirts. Not only had the rouge applied by Annie failed to disguise and soften his mannish features, he himself did nothing to alter his bearing. He moved along Charles Street in lengthy strides, turning watchfully right and left exactly as any constable might have done. Surely if the murderer saw him, close up or even from afar, he would know that something was amiss.

Behind me, the escort played their role a bit better. Their movement could be detected, and brief glints from their scabbards, but they went silently in the shadows, wholly visible only beneath the streetlamps; the light of the full moon had not yet touched Charles Street.

And I? I minced a bit as I walked, moving not too swiftly, seeking to appear in some sense available as I had observed such women to do.

In just such a manner did our strange procession turn down Tavistock Street, walk its length, cross Southampton, and proceed down Maiden Lane: The moonlight hit more direct in these quarters. The constables to my rear could no longer seclude themselves as they had, moving from shadow to shadow. Yet they managed to disguise their purpose by strolling, as one might say, in a way quite indifferent to me and Mr. Perkins, There were a few pedestrians on Maiden Lane; they seemed to take no notice of us, passing without suspicion, or even curiosity.

Then on to Bedford Street, which seemed to offer some threat, as it was off that wide way, with its stews and taverns of bad repute, that the mutilated body of Poll Tarkin had been found. Mr. Perkins seemed to be pulling away from me with his long strides and was now near as distant as the team of constables behind me.

I recall that I had gone no more than twenty paces down Bedford, having left my escort temporarily back on Maiden Lane, when a couple came blindly out of one of the gin dives and collided with me. I made to walk on, but of a sudden was jerked roughly back by a male hand.

“Here you! What kind of a blowen are you that you don’t say you’re sorry when you knock into a joe? I’ll give you a proper kick in the arse, I will.”

I knew that voice. Those words, delivered in a shower of spittle and a fog of gin breath, could have come only from Jackie Carver. I needed only to glance at his face to confirm that. I shook loose from his grip, but he grabbed at me again.

“Now, just where — ” There he stopped and let out a sudden giggling laugh. “Just look, look who this is, Mariah! It’s your joe from the Beak. He’s all done up like a moll, he is — lispers and cheeks all painted in rouge like yours.”

It was indeed Mariah who was with him. Having hung back, she came forward, staggering slightly under the weight of gin she had drunk. She thrust her head at me, with some difficulty focused her eyes, and laughed at me.

“
Dio mio, e vero!
Is true, is him!” And she laughed again.

She reached at my face, as if to smear the rouge away. I pulled back. He jerked at my arm, and I, moved to action at last, delivered a stout blow to his chest and sent him reeling back. He looked at me quite in disbelief.

“You know who I am, chum?” he shouted. “What I could do to you?”

And just as he was reaching behind him, ready to propel himself at me, he found himself in the grasp of stout arms, several of them, for my escort had caught up with me at last. And just as sudden was Mr. Perkins beside me, asking if I were all right. The pistol he carried was out from its wrapping.

Mariah looked round her in confusion, eyes wide, saying nothing.

Jackie Carver understood his situation ‘most immediate. “Aw, now, gents, leave off, leave off. Just a bit of a misunderstanding, as you might say. I thought this here blowen was out on the stroll. If it’s a Beak matter, I’ll have no part. Just leave me be.”

“Get along with you, Jeremy,” said Constable Cowley. “We’ll take care of this one.”

“Come along, lad,” said Mr. Perkins. “Perhaps we should walk together.”

“I think not, sir. But let us stay closer.”

“You walk too slow.”

“No, sir, if I may say so, sir, you walk too fast — as a man would. Could you try to be more … more womanly in your walk?”

He looked at me angrily and seemed about to speak. But then, for a long moment, he held his tongue. “I’ll try,” said he at last.

Turning away, he went swiftly to a point fifteen or twenty yards down Bedford Street, stopped, and waved me forward. I followed, walking much as I had before, keenly aware that I was being watched by Mariah and her protector. I felt shamed at the thought, yet I continued, for this was, after all, a Beak matter.

Poor Mr. Perkins, he did his best. He could not mince, for I doubt he knew how, yet he did take shorter steps and not full man-sized strides. The gait that resulted was something in the nature of a shuffle — certainly an improvement. Yet he was impeded further by the shawl he had been given by Constable Cowley, for he sought to cover the pistol with it. He stopped and bent to it, seeking to use his stump to wrap it — quite impossible, of course. I hastened forward to help, but he waved me back. In the end, he simply allowed the shawl to dangle over the pistol. Covered it was, but it might not stay so for long. Yet we proceeded.

I wished powerfully that I had dealt swifter with that fellow Jackie. Why had I stood there dumbly and let him hold me? Why had I allowed Mariah to laugh at me? Why? Why? Why? I found myself trembling with frustration at the incident that was now minutes past. It was, I decided, best to put it out of my mind. Later, when I had the opportunity, I would think it through as best I could.

Looking about me as I passed the alley that led to St. Paul’s churchyard, I saw the yellow-red glow of the great bonfire in Covent Garden, and I heard the roar of the crowd made greater there. And, as I looked, I was surprised to see a wagon stopped in the alley with no driver about — something not surprising in itself, but this wagon was unmistakably the Raker’s own. Of that I was sure. Though I could not see the crude death’s head painted upon the side of it, I would have recognized those skeletal, somnolent horses anywhere. Each was a spectral gray, and each stood, head bowed, on trembling legs. I wondered where the Raker himself might be, though of course I knew his errand. Perhaps he was in that very building where his wagon was halted. Perhaps some poor soul who had lived behind one of those windows had expired from sickness or poverty. Better that, thought I, than dying the victim of a murderer. And then did a shudder pass through me.

At the end of Bedford Street, Mr. Perkins crossed into King Street. I slowed, for I saw him stop directly in front of Number 6 — Queen’s Court, the site of the last and most inhuman homicide. I wondered if he intended to enter the court to search it through. Had he heard something? Seen something? No, again he was trying to wrap that shawl round the pistol — this time using his teeth. I came up closer behind him, intending to insist upon giving him my help.

I was just at the passageway leading to the adjoining court, which was known as Three Kings, when I was pulled bodily into the passage by an assailant who had been altogether invisible to me — as indeed he remained invisible to me as I was dragged back into the dark passage.

One hand was clapped over my mouth so that I could not cry out. My right arm was twisted behind my back. It was a foul-smelling hand, and it tasted even fouler when I bit down upon it. I bit hard on one finger. I grinded and chewed, never letting it loose from my teeth. And as I did so. I beat hard as I was able with my left elbow upon the ribs of my attacker. He was large, as I could tell from the strength of him, and he was near as wide as he was tall. My feet were of no use as he pulled me back and back towards the court, but I tasted his blood in my mouth, and I knew he could not keep his hand there much longer. We stopped, and I slammed the heel of my shoe down onto his foot. With that he let go all but my arm, and I squirmed round to face him.

By God, it was the Raker! I saw him plain in a patch of moonlight.

”Perkins!’ I shouted out, loud as ever I could.

I heard footsteps from the street as he let go my arm, and a blade glinted in his right hand. He came lumbering at me, and I dodged him as we circled. He now had his back to King Street as Mr. Perkins appeared in the entrance to the passage, the pistol in his hand. I backed up.

The Raker must have sensed him there, for then did he come running at me down the narrow passage as fast as those bandy legs of his could move him. I saw he had no intention of stopping. I feinted left and jumped right — away from the knife. But as he passed, he threw me against the wall of the passage. Just as I heard Mr. Perkins fire his pistol, my head hit the brick wall, and I slipped into the black void of the unconscious state.

When next I came to myself I was quite alone, though no longer in the passageway. Of that I was sure, for I ran my hands over the space where I lay and found I was in a bed. My bed? With some effort I opened my eyes and found, casting them about, that yes, I was in my own bed in my own attic room. I made to rise, but the sudden pain at the back of my head sent me back ‘most immediate to my pillow. I touched my aching head and found it wrapped round in a great bandage.

How long had I been here? How long unconscious? How even had I got here?

I concentrated upon the events just preceding my loss of consciousness. They were clear in my mind, and for that I was grateful for I had heard that a knock on the head can sometimes cause a loss of memory, sometimes complete. I remembered it all too well — being dragged into the passage, fighting back as best I could, the taste of blood in my mouth, then breaking away and finding, to my astonishment, that it was the Raker who was my assailant. I remembered also being thrown against the wall by him as Mr. Perkins fired his pistol. Could he have hit me? Was that what caused this awful pain at the back of my head? No, more likely my head had hit some sharp brick, a place where the mortar had crumbled away. Perhaps my poor head had been broken. It felt quite so.

So Mr. Perkins had shot the Raker. The murders were done. I was content in that, and thus content and glad to be in my own bed, I fell unconscious again. Yet it was sleep that came, and quite welcome it was. My dreams were most plea.sant. I was on shipboard, a sturdy vessel with billowing sails which cut through the waves as smooth as a coach-and-four on a well-paved road. Mariah was beside me. We walked the decks together, fore and aft, feeling the wind in our faces. She did not laugh at me, but earnestly told me of her love for me. The seamen treated us with great respect, doffing their hats to us. And the captain of the ship, who was my near-brother, Tom Durham, invited us to the poop deck where he stood in his place of command. He opened a great, long telescope and took a view of what lay ahead. ”Land ho!” said he. “I see the Massachusetts shore.” Then did Annie Oakum appear.

Yet it was truly her and not a part in the dream. She had entered the room. My head was turned to her, and my eyes had opened; there was still moonlight enough for me to know her for who she was.

“You’re awake,” said she.

“Just now,” said I.

” ‘Land ho,’ you said. Was that in the dream?”

“Oh yes, but it was Tom said it.”

“Tom Durham? I dream of him often, though my dreams are worth little.”

I attempted to rise but again felt the pain at the back of my head, though not quite so severe as before. She pushed me gently back to my pillow.

“You must stay still,” said she. “Mr. Donnelly said so. He was right firm in that.”

“Was he here to see me?”

“Oh, indeed he was. He said you had a con … con …”

“Concussion?”

“So he said. And you was to stay in bed, and I was to keep a good eye on you. And here I am, you see.” And then did she give a little curtsey, and I noticed she wore her nightgown. “My second visit of the night.”

“What time is it, Annie?”

“That I cannot say, though it be late. The great fire in the Garden is all burned to naught.” She sighed. “I declare that when that one-armed constable carried you in, I feared you might never wake, not in this life. Oh, Jeremy, I am so glad to see you alive!”

And then did she bend down to me and plant a kiss upon my cheek. With her face so close, I saw that Annie had tears in her eyes.

“No more than I.”

“I must go and tell Sir John you are awake. He is so unhappy — you hurt so bad and all for naught.”

“For naught?” Again, impulsively I rose, with the same bad result. “Didn’t Mr. Perkins shoot him dead?”

“Oh no, all the constables was angry at themselves, for they let him get away. Didn’t even get a proper look at him who hurt you.”

“Annie, you must go and tell Sir John that I know the man. I know the murderer!”

Eyes wide and without another word, she fled. And in less than a minute there was a great thunder of footsteps upon the stairs. And of a sudden, my little room was crowded with visitors. Not only was Sir John present, but also Mr. Donnelly and Constable Perkins, now in proper attire — and Annie with them, as well.

“Ah, Jeremy,” said Sir John, “words cannot express — that is, I … I blame myself for this terrible misadventure. You have my sincerest apology. But Annie said you … you …”

“Yes, sir,” said I, “it was the Raker.”

“The Raker! Good God, of course! He was always about, wasn’t he? And I always thought him half-mad. But you’re sure he was the one?”

“I saw him plain in clear moonlight, sir, and he had a knife — then he was as close as can be when he knocked me down. It was the Raker. I could not be more certain.”