The Price of Murder (16 page)

“This is very interesting indeed,” said he. “Mrs. Chesley, the very sister of Jenny Hooker, was so reluctant to let her know that another had attended the dinner in her place that she failed to mention it to her. You’ll notice, too, Jeremy, that we are beginning to get a much different picture of Elizabeth as we learn more about her—as we probe deeper—a girl who indeed has dreams of her own.”

“Yes, the cook had some very interesting observations, did she not? I can hardly wait till Kathleen has her say. You realize, don’t you sir, that she and not Elizabeth’s uncle and aunt was the last to see her.”

“Hmm. Yes. Quite.” Sir John seemed to be far ahead of me. “Let me make you an offer, Jeremy,” said he at last “Since it was you came up with this interesting bit of information, you may interrogate Kathleen, if you like.”

“I welcome the chance, sir,” said I.

“Very well, the burden is upon you then. But do keep in mind that even though she has not stepped forward with this information, she
need not
have done so. Do not accuse her. Simply draw her out and let her tell her story.”

“Yes sir.”

And so saying, I opened the door, and we two stepped out into the kitchen. Kathleen stood where she had when we entered the pantry. I pulled out a chair for Sir John, and I invited her to sit down there at the large kitchen table. She accepted, smiled, and dropped into a chair nearby. I sat down opposite her.

“Kathleen is your name?” I asked.

“It is, sir.”

“What is your surname, Kathleen?”

“Surname, sir?” She did not know the word. Could she read, I wondered.

“Yes, surname—your family name.”

“Ah!” said she. “Kathleen Quigley is my full name, sir.”

“What sort of name is that? North of England, perhaps Scottish?”

“Irish, sir.”

Kathleen Quigley was a pretty girl who, had she been asked, might have agreed that she was pretty but would have argued that it meant little in London in such times. Which is to say, she was a realist—as Clarissa perhaps was not.

“I want you to know, Miss Quigley, that you made a great success on Sunday.”

“Sir?”

“With the Chesleys—Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle.”

“Ah, you saw them, did you?”

“Why yes, and their neighbor, too—Hetty Duncan.”

“Oh that funny old woman who lives next door? I saw her peeking out her window at us. What did she have to say?”

“She thought you and Elizabeth looked enough alike to be sisters.”

“And what did you think of that?”

“Well,” said I, “when she said that, I didn’t know
what
to think, for I hadn’t met you then, had I?”

“All right, now what do you think?”

She raised her chin and looked away slightly, as if she were posing for a portrait.

“Oh, there’s no question in my mind. You’re much the prettier.”

“Kind of you to say so. We was wearing frocks that was similar. I ain’t sure how well she could see us at that distance, though.”

“Obviously not too well.” I let that hang between us for a long moment. Then: “Why did you not tell us? Or tell Mrs. Hooker when she was about asking after her daughter? Or tell Mr. Turbott?”

“Well ...”

I saw that she was reluctant to answer. Why? But then did I notice that the cook had reentered with Clarissa close behind—and I understood.

“What was the difficulty? What was the problem?” I asked. “Surely it’s quite a commonplace sort of thing—Mrs. Hooker is unable to go, and so Elizabeth invites you to come along in her mother’s place. What could be more natural? You were her workmate in the day and her bed-mate at night, were you not? And after all, that walk to Wapping is a terribly long one—much too long to take alone, surely.”

“Well . . . yes . . .” She hesitated, then, after fighting a brief skirmish with herself, she plunged on: “What you just said was the way I thought about it when Lizzie put it up to me—especially that part about the long walk to Wapping. But it wasn’t the walk
to
Wapping frightened me, ’twas the walk back.”

I could tell that she was truly disturbed by something—the memory of that evening, no doubt—and I must now do or say something that would assure her that all was well, that she had only to tell her story and all would be well. I reached across the table and patted her hand.

“Whatever you are holding back,” said I, “can only help bring her back.”

She nodded, sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes with a dirty kerchief.

“All right,” said she, “I’m sure you’re right.” Then, lowering her voice, she told her tale.

Just as Mrs. Chesley had told her sister, she had warned Elizabeth against leaving so late, and had gone so far as to invite the two girls to spend the night in the spare room. Otherwise, she said, they would find themselves on central London’s wildest and most dangerous streets toward the end of their journey.

But Elizabeth was adamant: “Not if we leave now and hurry along. We shall run if we have to, won’t we, Kathleen?”

And that is just what they did—though their running was more in the manner of skipping. (I may say that with some authority, reader, for Kathleen arose from her chair and demonstrated their step.) They skipped and giggled their way across London until at last, when they came upon Drury Lane, that wicked thoroughfare that cuts so close to Bow Street, it was fair dark.

Now, Drury Lane is an exceptional street in a number of ways, yet foremost is this: at no other place in the city do those who have plenty and those who have naught, move in such proximity. There is, of course, Mr. Garrick’s Drury Lane Theatre, as there is also the Theatre Royal, popularly known as the Covent Garden Theatre, just off that thoroughfare and touching the north corner of Covent Garden; these, as well as an eating place or two, provided the attraction for the rich, and the rich attracted the poor. There is a good deal of pickpocketry and petty thieving along the way, but, most of all, prostitution and pimpery do there abound. Elizabeth and Kathleen were quite uncomfortable walking there.

It was Elizabeth Hooker’s harebrained notion that they might cut across Covent Garden and save a good deal of time, even though it be dark. And so, over Kathleen’s objections, they left Drury Lane and came down Long Acre. Then, with the Theatre Royal in sight, they made their way toward it along Phoenix Alley. They were not long on this leg of the journey before they were made aware that much went on in this alley that neither would have guessed at. First of all, what had been thought to be deserted was actually peopled by a considerable number of prostitutes. They hissed at the pair from every dark corner along the way. Elizabeth and Kathleen fair flew down the alley, driven by cries of “Git out!” “This is our spot!” “You’ve no right to be here!” And so on. They had no wish to stay and make the acquaintance of any of these dark ghostly figures.

When they reached the arcade wherein the theater was located, they were out of breath and frighted, and only too happy to see a couple of nice-looking young fellows who came out into the light, looking concerned and asking how they might aid the two girls. They explained that they had become bored with that evening’s presentation at the Covent Garden and had left early. And now they had been standing about wondering how they might fill the rest of the evening.

“And what better way than to aid two young ladies of obvious good character,” said one.

“How may we help you?” said the other. “You look as if you could use a pair of protectors. Will we do? I’ve a stout stick, as you can see. And Robert has with him a pistol. Have you not, Bobby?”

Though they were properly dressed, these two did not quite seem to be proper gentlemen—not to Kathleen Quigley, at least.

For her part, Elizabeth Hooker seemed convinced of the good intentions of the two young men and immediately revealed to them her plan to cut across Covent Garden. They agreed with her that much time would thus be saved.

Kathleen pulled her friend aside and argued against accepting their protection. “We don’t know them. They could be the greatest villains in London, and we would be none the wiser. Come with me. Bow Street Court is just round the corner here. A constable will see us home.”

Elizabeth laughed at her friend and declared she would go with these two fellows, no matter what Kathleen chose to do. “The fact is,” said she, “I fancy one of them, the one named Robert.”

And so it was that Kathleen then left Elizabeth and headed for Bow Street. She looked back but once and saw that her friend and coworker had disappeared into the darkness.

That, Kathleen told me, was why she had held back her story; she felt she had betrayed her friend in allowing her to go off by herself in the company of the two young men.

Sir John cleared his throat, turned to me, and asked if I had further questions for her.

“Only if she went through with her plan to go to Bow Street to find a constable to accompany her here.” I looked to her then. “Did you?” I asked.

“I did,” said she, “and indeed one of the constables did take me here. He was a strange sort of man, he was. He spoke bare a word to me on our walk.”

“Sounds like Mr. Brede,” said I to Sir John.

“It does. We shall check with him, of course.”

 
The three of us argued our positions all the way to Bow Street. Clarissa’s was, simply put, that the girl described by Kathleen and the cook simply could
not
be the one she had spent two or three hours with the other day. Sir John believed that we must accept Kathleen’s testimony only with considerable amount of salt, which is to say, each part of it must be tested. And my own position? I put my faith in Kathleen Quigley. If she said that it was Elizabeth’s nature that led her to go off with her two “protectors,” then that more or less settled it, insofar as I was concerned.

Thus we argued in the hackney coach until we arrived at Number 4 Bow Street. It was still light enough that Clarissa might hurry upstairs and begin preparations for dinner. Sir John could go to his chambers and wait for Constable Brede to make his appearance. And I could follow him there and provide a surfeit of details from Mr. Chesley’s testimony. It seemed a shame, and altogether wrong that a day so rich in revelations should end in such a way. Yet, it turned out, there was still a single surprise left for me. Mr. Fuller called me back as I followed Sir John.

“What then, Constable Fuller?”

“A fellow came by and left something for you, a box it was.”

I took it from him and saw immediately what it was. The size and shape of it gave it away. I opened the box and saw that it was the dueling pistol, which Mr. Deuteronomy had taken with him. I had its mate in my pocket. There was a note inside, addressed to me. I fumbled it open. Mr. Fuller, ever curious, watched me with interest. I read:

 
“The fella who brought it was that one who’s uncommon short, just the size of a child is all,” said Mr. Fuller.

“It’s all right,” said I. “I know who he was.”

SIX

 
 
 
 
We did not get round to discussing Mr. Deuteronomy Plummer and Newmarket until that evening after dinner. Mr. Brede came by and confirmed that indeed he had accompanied a young lady from Bow Street to some house or other in Chandos Street. He hadn’t thought it of sufficient importance to include in his report, he said, but he remembered her well. Irish, wasn’t she?

Then did Mr. Bailey come in and bring with him a whole calendarful of problems having to do with scheduling.

Then—oh well, one thing after another until it was time to eat dinner upstairs. Clarissa’s dinner wasn’t quite up to what she had offered us earlier in Molly’s absence, so that I, for one, was secretly glad that our regular cook was returning. Stew it was again—and she had done it better two nights before. Talk flew round the table. Most of it had to do with the “girls” at the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes and how well they had taken to Molly’s cooking course.

“There are two or three who could take Molly’s place,” said Lady Fielding, “if it ever came to that.”

“Thank God it has not,” said Sir John. Then, lest that be taken amiss by Clarissa he complimented her on the stew, and of course all the table joined in, praising the meal as though it were some culinary masterpiece. Clarissa smiled graciously and acknowledged our thanks with a nod. However, once the meal was done, and we had the kitchen to ourselves, she did not hesitate to say what she truly believed. I recall that she had been sitting quietly at the table whilst I rubbed and scrubbed at the pot in which she had cooked our stew. All of a sudden she did speak. It was more than a remark; it was, rather, a pronouncement, a declaration.

“False praise is worse than no praise at all,” said she.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked her.

“Just what I say! I was quite disappointed in you, Jeremy—the way you added your voice to the rest, lauding that mediocre meal when you knew as well as I just how good it was
not
.” She had me there, all right.

“Well,” I replied, “I would admit that it was not up to your very best, but after all, Clarissa—”

With a wave of her hand she silenced me. “Oh, never mind,” said she. “This has not been a good day for me, but you’re certainly not the cause of it.”

“Then . . . who is?”

“
I
am, of course. I’ve no one to blame but myself. How
could
I have spoken up to Sir John and challenged him in his very own courtroom? What right had I? What sort of clerk was I to do such a thing?”