The Price of Murder (24 page)

“I knew you was bringin’ trouble the moment you came through that door,” the serving woman shouted after us.

 
Luckily, I had with me the letter dictated by Sir John to the magistrate of Newmarket, Malachi Simmons. I had carried it round with me in the inside pocket of my coat since we had left London. I recalled well that there was a problem in using it, and that had to do with when it was presented to the local magistrate. It was best to use it only in an emergency, Sir John had said, but if it were offered too late, it had best be given with a good excuse as to why it had not been presented earlier. I believed I had just such an excuse.

Alice Plummer had quietened down a bit by the time we arrived at the magistrate’s court. Not that she had reconciled herself to the shocking news we had given her. No, indeed. I believe, rather, that the strain put upon her throat by her repeated screams had overtaxed it to the point that she could scarce speak above a whisper. Yet that was not immediately apparent to us, for at some point shortly after we three had left the Good Queen Bess she silenced herself altogether: she spoke not a word, nor did she scream again. And I thanked God for it.

The magistrate’s court stood upon that very street off Market Square that I had latterly overlooked; the name of that street, if indeed it ever had one, I have completely forgotten. We found the house quite easily, a couple of hundred years old it was, but large and imposing. I banged loudly upon the door, and as we waited for a response, I muttered to Mr. Patley that he was to let me do the talking. He nodded his understanding and agreement. We heard steps behind the door, and a brief moment later, it flew open to reveal one who was at least as tall and wide as Bow Street’s Constable Bailey.

“What’s your business here?” he demanded.

“We wish to have some words with the magistrate, Mr. Malachi Simmons.”

“And what about?”

I stifled the urge I felt to tell him that it was no business of his, whatever it was. Rather, did I smile sweetly and inform him that I had a letter to deliver.

“Must be a pretty long letter if it takes three of you to deliver it,” said he, then added, “From London, are ye?”

I said that we were.

“Well then, stay where you are, all three of you. What’s your name?” He pointed at me.

“Jeremy Proctor,” said I, “but I doubt he’ll know me. But say, we’re come from the Bow Street Court.”

“Stay here.”

Then did the fellow close the door, as one might upon a beggar, in our very faces. Patley and I exchanged looks, shrugs, and sighs of resignation. After a long wait, we heard footsteps once more and the door came open again.

“He’ll see you,” said the fellow. “Right this way.”

He led us down a long hall and another, so that we were at the farthest corner of the house from the door through which we had entered. Our guide moved at a swift pace, indeed so swift that Alice had some difficulty in keeping up. He was a strange sort of butler, was he not? Probably butler cum constable cum turnkey, and who could say what more? He knocked upon the door at the end of the second hall, waited a moment till he heard something beyond it, then opened the door, and nodded us inside.

These were the magistrate’s chambers. Malachi Simmons sat hunched at a table—or could it properly be called a desk? He was, in any case, a man of sour countenance. He looked at all three of us in a suspicious manner, as if trying to determine which among us were the criminals and which were not. ’Twas upon me that he settled.

“With what are you charged?” he asked in an unpleasant, nasal voice.

“Well . . . well, I’m not charged,” said I most emphatic.

He thrust his head forward and squinted at me. “Not charged? Then why are you here?”

Why indeed? “I’ve a letter for you, sir.”

“What? a letter? Oh yes, now I remember. Well, hand it over, lad.” As I was fishing it out of my inside pocket, he added: “Who’s it from?”

“Sir John Fielding of the Bow Street Court in London. I am his assistant, Jeremy Proctor. This gentleman at my left, sir, is—”

“You’re exceeding your brief, young sir. I asked for the letter, not an introduction to each of your company. Now, give me the damned letter, would you?”

I hastened forward and dropped the letter before him upon his desk. He broke the seal, opened the letter, then threw it down in disgust.

“How am I to read that?” said he. “I’ve not got my spectacles. You—yes, you young man. You read it to me, will you?”

I did as he asked, laying special emphasis on our respect for his jurisdiction in all matters and the collegial appeal Sir John made to Malachi Simmons for his assistance in these matters. As I read, I glanced up at the magistrate more than once and found him nodding with what I assumed to be satisfaction. Yet when I finished, I found him to be anything but satisfied.

“That’s a very good sort of letter, very well phrased—and you read it well—but I find it just a bit heavy in the generalities and light in the particularities.”

“How do you mean, sir?” I asked.

“Just what I say. About all I get from what you’ve just read me is that you’ve come here to Newmarket to search for a woman named Alice Plummer, and to apprehend her, and return her to London. Mistress Plummer, I take it, is the young woman between the two of you. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir, she is.”

“Tell me why then she has been so energetically pursued by you two—all the way from London, after all. What is the charge that she faces back in Bow Street?”

“Child-selling, sir.”

“Ah, well, that
is
serious. And what do you wish me to do with her?”

“If you could hold her overnight, we would be greatly in your debt.”

“Hold her? You mean in our strongroom? I should need a bit of proof for that, something in the way of evidence. Have you the child here? Where is the child?”

“Dead and buried,” said I.

“Sounds worse and worse,” said he. “But surely your Sir John had a lesser charge that he might employ to hold her. Are you familiar with the term ‘holding charge’?”

“I am, and we have such: Giving false report of a crime.”

“But that can’t be proven, either, I suppose.”

“On the contrary, sir. Constable Patley, to my left, was given the false report by Mistress Plummer.”

The magistrate, Mr. Simmons, turned his attention to Mr. Patley.

“What about it, sir? Are you willing to swear to that?”

“I am, sir,” said Mr. Patley. “And she’s confessed all to us.”

“Well, it may not be necessary. But what’s she got to say for herself?”

“Not much,” said Patley. “I fear she’s passed out on her feet, sir. If I wasn’t holding her up, she’d fall over on the floor.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Sure as I can be, sir.”

“Unhand her then. Let’s see if she manages to keep her feet.”

Mr. Patley shrugged, removed his hands from her waist and her arm. Alice promptly crumpled to the floor, bumping her head rather nastily. She, however, seemed quite oblivious of the hurt.

“Well!” said the magistrate, “just as you said. I’d say she was drunk, wouldn’t you?” This he directed to me. I nodded, not knowing quite what he hoped to prove by this.

“Indeed I would say she is quite drunk,” said I.

“Well then we three are enough together to comprise a bit of the public, and so I fine her a shilling for public drunkenness.”

“A shilling?” said I. “That’s a pretty light fine. Sir John fixes it at a pound.”

“Those are city prices. We get a lot of drunks out here and not a one of them could afford a pound.” Then did he call out loud and clear: “Mr. Yates, come here. I’ve a need for you.”

And so, without delay, came the big, hulking fellow who had led the way to the magistrate’s chambers. I recall that I decided that he must have waited just outside the door, expecting the call.

“Yes sir,” said he who had answered the call. “What will you?”

“Take her away and lock her up in one of the cells, will you?”

Needing no more detailed instruction than that, Yates bent down and swept her off the floor. He threw her over his shoulder as carelessly as one might toss a rag doll.

“Let her sleep it off.”

Yates gave a kind of mock salute and marched out with his prisoner. I must say that I was impressed.

“All right,” said Malachi Simmons to us. “I’m little pleased to have those from other jurisdictions coming round and waving their warrants and what-not at me. In short, I don’t like it. Me and your Sir John have clashed more than once on just such matters. Come back in the morning no later than seven, pay her fine, and you can have your prisoner. That satisfy you?”

 
We fair danced out the door, Mr. Patley and I. Though we had been careful not to parade our feelings of triumph before the magistrate (for he was a tetchy old bird), once out of earshot, we surrendered completely to them. We giggled and capered our way downhill. Mr. Patley, who had a talent for mimicry, did a fair imitation of the magistrate’s nasal whining and managed to attract a bit of attention from the crowd.

“Hi, Jeremy,” said he, “what say we wet our whistles at the next tavern we come to? I could sure do with an ale. Now that we got our prisoner taken care of till morning, I’m for a bit of a celebration. What say you to that?”

I was, indeed, eager to join him, but somehow I was certain that this was not the time for me to relax my efforts. As it was, I felt a bit guilty about arranging things so that I might be present for the big race the next day. There were too many loose ends, matters still to be arranged before our departure, and now was the time to attend to them.

“No, Mr. Patley,” said I to him, “I’ve a few things to do yet. But go and have an ale on me, and I’ll join you soon.”

“But not too soon.”

And so, as good as his word, he left me at the next inn we came to, the Green Man (one of a hundred such scattered round rural England). I promised to come by for him there in an hour, or not too much more. Then did I proceed to the track where I began my search for Mr. Deuteronomy.

I found him without too much difficulty, exactly where I supposed he might be: poised over the rail, the spy-glass to his eye, evaluating the horses upon the track. There were not as many of them as before, and all of them seemed to be genuine entries. Mr. Bennett was beside him, making notes as Mr. Deuteronomy called off orders to him.

“The black is good. Find out his name, who’s riding him, and where he stands in the betting. He ain’t Charade, but he looks good. Oh, and the big red, too. Get the same information on him, too.” Bennett then departed.

Then, at last, did Deuteronomy take down the spy-glass. ’Twas then that he saw me there, awaiting his attention.

“Jeremy,” said he, “just the man I’ve been searching for.”

“And I’ve news for you,” said I.

I told him hurriedly of the successful search for his sister, of her near blameless confession, and of her present whereabouts.

“You can visit her there right up to seven in the morning.”

“I think I’ll decline that pleasure,” said he. “I get sick enough as it is before a race. No need to go stirring up more trouble. But now, let me tell you where we are on the matter of the wager.”

He then explained that the odds on Pegasus had gone down rather than up, that it now stood at 30 to 1. “Still favorable,” he said, “still marvelous, but this is as long as I care to wait. So here, Jeremy. I’d like you to put this on Pegasus to win.”

And so saying, he brought forth from his coat an envelope fat with bank notes and handed it to me.

“It’s a hundred, no more nor less. And for my own reasons, I’d still like you to place the bet for me.”

I took the envelope from him and agreed to do as he directed.

“There may be a bit of difficulty getting your winnings to you right after the race, though,” said I. “I may even have to take it with me to London. That is, assuming there
are
winnings. We’ll have to run for the mail coach as soon as ever we can. Your sister will be with us, you know.”

“I know. Take it with you to London. And don’t worry about whether or not there’ll be winnings. That’s my responsibility, as you’ll see.”

I left him then with a firm clasp of the hands and a whispered “Good luck to you then.”

Though tempted, I avoided those strolling turf accountants with their fast-changing slates and their line of chatter, for Mr. Patley had warned me that all too often they stroll out of sight when it came time to pay off winners. Rather, did I go to the turf-accountant’s stall where first I saw the odds against Pegasus posted. There I placed two separate wagers, both of them in my name: one for a hundred pounds, and another, much smaller one, for five pounds, eleven shillings, both at the posted odds of thirty to one. The accountant looked at me queerly when I made it clear that both bets were to be put upon Pegasus; then did he call me an optimist. Nevertheless, he wrote me out two chits with all the relevant matter upon them. I tucked them away, glad to be relieved of the awful responsibility put upon me by carrying about a great sum of money belonging to another. I remember that I mused on my way to the post house that I had given no thought whatever to hedging my own bet, nor would Clarissa have had me do so. Thanks to her, and thanks, as well, to Mr. Deuteronomy, I had become less cautious and more willing to take chances—in short, a proper betting man.

As it happened, I was stopping by at the post to present my letter of preference for places on the first post coach following the conclusion of tomorrow’s race. In effect, I had, with the letter of preference, reserved three places (one each for me, for Patley, and for Alice Plummer) on the five-o’clock post coach to London. This was, as I discovered, one of the prerogatives of traveling on official business for the Bow Street Court. Three coach passengers could even be thrown off to make room for us. This, however, was unlikely to be necessary, according to him I talked to at the Newmarket post house.