The Price of Murder (4 page)

“Might what?”

“Might come back.”

“Oh. Well, maybe, I suppose. It’s just, if I had all the money she’s got, I wouldn’t come back, and you can be sure of it.”

All the money she’s got? This was something new, wasn’t it?

“When was this?” I asked.

“Well, it was the day after little Maggie disappeared. She didn’t exactly
show
me all this money she had. She showed me her purse, though, and rattled it for me. I was just sure I heard guineas in there, along with bulls, neds, and bobsticks—all manner of His Majesty’s coinage.”

“Didn’t that make you just a little suspicious?”

“Suspicious at what?”

“Suspicious that she may have . . . well, that she may have
sold
her daughter?”

“And what if she did? say I. Maggie was hers to sell, wasn’t she?”

“That’s not what the law says.”

“Ah, well, the law,” she sneered. “The law is for nobs and such.”

“Well, you should know then, Mistress . . . Mistress . . . What
is
your name, anyway?”

She raised her chin and gave me a sharp look. “Katy Tiddle, if you will! Now, you tell me, what is this that I should know?”

And having made her demand, she raised the pistol she had pointed at me through the crack in the door and pointed it at me once again. And she did so most threateningly. Nevertheless, I noted that she had not pulled back the hammer on the pistol. I wondered if she could manage it; I wondered further if the pistol were loaded; and, finally, did I wonder if she had ever before fired such a weapon. If you judge from this that I was in no wise intimidated, then you judge the matter correctly.

“You should know,” said I, “that young Maggie is dead. At least we think it’s Maggie. I’d come here that I might collect Alice Plummer and bring her to the medico to identify the body there as Maggie’s.”

“Can’t do that now, though,” said she with a smirk, “can you?”

I noted that she had allowed the pistol barrel to droop, and she had not yet thought to draw back the hammer. And so, in one swift movement, I grasped the pistol and wrested it from her resisting hand.

“But you know her as a neighbor,” said I, “so you’ll do just as well. Come along.”

Then did she not howl and yelp! She sounded as would a lowly cur in pain.

Indeed, she did carry on in this manner all the way to Drury Lane and Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Halfway to our destination, she did calm down sufficient to allow me to unhand her wrist and take her properly by the elbow. I would not release her completely, for I feared, with good cause, that she would dart into some dark warren at the earliest opportunity, and I might thus lose her altogether. Nevertheless, guiding her with a firm hand, I set a swift pace, and we were quickly cross the distance.

Somewhere along the way, it became evident that her objection had little to do with a loss of time, or some missed appointment. No, it was her mad fear of death—which is to say, her quite unreasoning revulsion from corpses in any condition. I assured her that Maggie Plummer’s body and face had in no wise been ruined by her overnight sojourn in the Thames—all to no avail. It developed that it was not the condition of the body that disturbed her so mightily, but rather the mere fact of death. To be thus reminded of the fate that awaits us all was for her an experience utterly intolerable—or so she convinced me. Yet, tolerable or intolerable, she would nevertheless experience it when we did reach our destination, Mr. Donnelly’s surgery.

When we did, we found the waiting room relatively empty. Only one, a woman of thirty or so, waited. Clearly a lady of quality, she sat high in her chair and attempted to take no notice of Katy Tiddle when we two came storming in from the hall. Yet she, on whom I kept my tight hold, was impossible to ignore. As near as I could tell, ’twas the peculiar red of Katy’s hair that so fascinated the lady with whom we shared Mr. Donnelly’s waiting room. Sitting across from her, it was quite impossible to miss the darting glances that she threw in our direction. Each one, it seemed, was aimed at the tangled mop of vermilion atop Katy’s head. How had she managed such a color?

Without notice, the door to Mr. Donnelly’s examination room opened, and out came a man of advanced age, wherewith the lady bounced quickly to her feet and stepped smartly to the hall door. Mr. Donnelly followed him out, murmuring something about the chemist’s shop below. As the ill-matched couple left, the wife could not resist throwing one last look across the room. Katy Tiddle was waiting for her. She stuck out her tongue most impudently, surprising us all and propelling the gentleman and his lady out the door. Once they were safely gone, Mr. Donnelly could not withhold a chuckle or two.

“Who is she?” said he to me.

“Katy Tiddle is the name,” said she before I could respond. “And if it was up to me, I’d be anywhere but here.”

“She’s come to identify the body,” said I.

“Ah,” said Mr. Donnelly, clearly a bit confused. “Not the mother, surely.”

“The neighbor next door.”

“Well, come along then.”

He led the way back to the little apartment of rooms he kept behind the examination room. What we presumed to be the body of Maggie Plummer lay upon a table in the first of the two. A sheet covered her from head to toe. I glanced over at Katy Tiddle and saw that she had her eyes tight shut.

“What will you, Katy?” said I, chastising. “You must open your eyes for this.”

“I’ve no wish to do it.”

“Well, you must, my girl,” said Mr. Donnelly. “And there’ll be no foolishness about it.”

So saying, he threw back the sheet, exposing the face and shoulders of the child.

“There, Katy,” said I, “open your eyes and take a look. Tell us if the body upon the table is that of Maggie Plummer.”

Still she held her eyes shut. Mr. Donnelly watched her with increasing exasperation. Knowing that it could not continue thus for much longer, I simply did what had to be done: I picked the plumpest part of her upper arm, grasped near an inch of skin, and pinched for all I was worth.

“OW!” said she, a loud cry that must have resounded through every room. But her eyes popped open in surprise, and because she had held her head down in an unconscious gesture of rejection, her eyes fell quite immediately upon that which she had so diligently refused, till that moment, to see.

“Oh, my God, Maggie, it is you, ain’t it? Forgive me!” She screamed it, eyes wide open, wailing out great moans of sorrow. For minutes, it seemed, she could not be quietened. Who would have guessed that this was the sly creature who had declared that a mother had the right to sell her child? Only after Mr. Donnelly had covered over the face of the child did she at last begin to master her emotions. Then did I lead her forth from the room. Gabriel Donnelly followed, closing doors after us.

“Well,” said he, “I daresay we can now consider Margaret Plummer properly identified.”

“It was her, all right,” said Katy Tiddle. “But one thing I want you to know, both of you.” We stopped to listen to her in the empty waiting room, just at the door to the hall.

“And what is that, Miss Tiddle?”

“Alice thought she was doing Maggie a good turn, sending her off with that man. She may have sold her, right enough, but the way he told it to her, Maggie would be ever so much better off with these rich folks who couldn’t have childrens of their own. But—”

“But what?” I asked.

“But I guess he lied.”

 
It was not until into the evening that I recalled that I had been carrying about a pistol in my pocket for most of the afternoon. What was I to do with it? True, I’d taken it from Katy Tiddle; nevertheless, she’d doubtless stolen it from someone. I’d bring it to Mr. Baker, I decided, for he was the proper armorer for the Bow Street Runners. He could check the stolen property list and tell me what ought to be done with it. I’d abide by his decision.

Whilst attending to these matters, Constable Patley happened by, and we talked at some length of Alice Plummer, and little Maggie, as well as Katy Tiddle. I gave to Mr. Patley essentially the same report I had given earlier to Sir John.

“Well, I ain’t surprised to hear it, any of it. There’s a lot of kidnapping and child-buying goes on in this town of London,” said he. “And it ain’t for any good purpose.”

“You said, didn’t you, that you were suspicious of that woman Plummer right from the start.”

“Something didn’t seem right.”

“Sir John’s told me to bring in that Tiddle person. He thinks he might be able to get a bit more out of her.”

“If anyone can, it’s him.”

’Twas just about then that Mr. Baker came over, and in a teasing way, he said to me, “Jeremy, you ought to tell a fellow when you’re handing over a
loaded
pistol. You handle them a little different, you know.”

“Why, I didn’t think for a moment that it was loaded,” said I, much embarrassed. “Sorry, Mr. Baker.”

“I’ve not found it on the stolen property list, but I can tell you this—it’s a fine and expensive piece of gunsmithing you lifted off that woman. Could be one of a set of two. It looks French to me.”

That left me with something to think about, so it did. As I drifted away and up the stairs, I considered the matter further, wondering as I did, how and from whom Katy Tiddle had acquired that remarkable pistol.

And—let me see—just to bring things to a proper conclusion, I shall add one final note to this first chapter. The dinner of pot roast, which Clarissa prepared for the family that evening, was as good as any ever done for us by Molly—or, for that matter, by Annie, who preceded her. Clarissa would make a fine cook. There could be no question of it.

TWO

 
 
 
 
My arrival at Katy Tiddle’s door was delayed until the middle of the next morning. Saturday it was, and the darkest day in the church’s calendar. Yet one would not know it from the crowds upon the street. They were boisterous and jolly, most of them women out to buy for the great holiday next day. Mr. Tolliver’s warning to Clarissa, that she had best do her buying early, was well given and taken to heart by her; she was out to Covent Garden and back, begging me to look upon the prizes she had made off with. True enough, she had done well for herself. Yet by that time, spurred to action by Sir John, I was pulling on my coat and making ready to go.

“Duty calls,” said I, heading for the door.

“Can you not stay long enough to look upon this fine Easter ham?”

“I cannot,” said I, “for I must fetch a witness that Sir John would interrogate.”

“That proves it.”

“Proves what?”

“That you would rather do Sir John’s bidding than that of your very own stomach.”

“Clarissa, you have but to cook that ham and I shall do it justice. You may count upon it.”

With that, I was out the door, moving as swift as I was able through the many who seemed ever to move in the direction counter to mine. ’Twas only as I reached the Seven Dials and Cucumber Alley that I noted that it was no longer such a struggle to move ahead. The denizens of Seven Dials had little interest in the ecclesiastical calendar, nor in any other sort, for that matter. They kept their places at the bars and in the dives, sipping their gin and their rum.

I knew that it would be no easy matter persuading Katy Tiddle to open the door to me after her last experience; nevertheless, I had a plan. Having brought with me the pistol I had taken from her the day before, I had decided to use it as bait. She would certainly welcome me if it meant getting back the pistol. I had paid it little attention before handing it over to Mr. Baker. But when he gave it back and told me that he had not found it on the stolen property list, I took considerably more interest than before. It was indeed a beautiful piece, was it not? Engraved decoratively, perfectly balanced, it seemed more in the nature of a work of art than a lethal weapon. Mr. Baker had suggested there might be a twin of it somewhere about.

Still, how had Katy Tiddle come to own it? Such a pistol was not readily given away as a gift. Whether or not it had found its way onto the stolen property list, Katy had surely stolen it. Yet, until I knew that for certain, I had no choice but to return it to her. And now was the time to do just that.

I knocked politely upon her door. As it had been at my last visit, there was no immediate response—simply silence. I knocked again and waited. More silence. I listened, wondering if she might simply have gone out for food or an early gin. Perhaps I should walk around a bit and come back to try again. But no, I may have been a bit too timid in my first attempts. I would give her one last try and make it a good one. Having thus resolved, I beat hard upon the door, pounding upon it with my clenched fist and calling out her name. But then something quite remarkable happened: the door opened. Not only did it open, it flew open, banging against the wall behind from the force of my blows.

The room that was revealed was unlighted and dark. I examined the three locks upon the door, and I saw that not one of them had given way; all had been left unlocked. I stepped inside, drawing the unloaded pistol from my pocket and easing the door shut behind me. I stood for a moment at the door hoping to accustom my eyes to the dim, almost nonexistent, light. Then did I move forward, holding the pistol at the ready. (How I wished that it were now loaded!) It was impossible, I found, to do this silently. The age of the building, the condition of the floors, made it quite impossible to take a step without sounding forth a symphony of squeaks and creaks. Anyone in wait to do me harm could chart my advance precisely. So, seeing no harm in it, I called her name out softly—once and then a second time.

In response, I heard something—a moan? a groan? an inarticulate complaint? Where did it come from? Was it Katy Tiddle had made the sound? Or—