The Price of Murder (5 page)

There it was again.

The single source of light in the room came from the far end, where a poorly pinned curtain came together in an irregular strip, admitting sunlight and blue sky. Between me and it was an empty bed; all messed, untidy, and dirty, ’tis true, yet nevertheless a proper bed. Katy must be in that narrow space between the bed and the windows. To there I hastened and found that, indeed, she was—if that poor, bloodied creature at my feet could be called by her name.

Saying nothing, I lifted her, with some difficulty, up to the bed. I took but a moment to examine her, yet it was sufficient for me to see that she had been stabbed repeatedly (afterward, Mr. Donnelly counted no less than thirteen wounds in her trunk and two in her throat), and she was not likely to live much longer.

“Katy,” said I. “Who did this to you?”

Her mouth worked soundlessly. Something was then mumbled and, at last, two syllables came, fairly clear: “Water.”

Water, yes, of course. She must be quite unable to speak more intelligibly without it. ’Twas a wonder she could speak at all with those wounds in her neck. I found an empty cup on a table bedside her bed. That would do. It would have to. I remembered a pump out in the middle of the courtyard. I would leave her just long enough to fill the cup.

And that was what I did, rushing out the door and to the pump, filling the cup, and then back to her room, spilling half its contents on the way. In all, I could not have taken a great deal more than a minute. Yet that was sufficient time for Katy Tiddle to die. I blamed myself for leaving her. Had I not, she might have lived longer. Some say that the human voice has life-giving qualities: to keep another alive, you must talk to him, give him something on which to concentrate. Would it have helped in her case? Mr. Donnelly later said it would not. True enough, the water would likely have killed her, but so many of her vital organs had been punctured or cut that there was no possibility that she could have lived. Better to let her talk, if she had a mind to, for she had evidently stayed alive for many hours by the power of her will alone, hoping to announce the name of her killer. And so, to leave her at that crucial moment . . .

For that matter, if I wished to blame myself (as I seemed determined to do), perhaps it would have been more to the point had I charged myself with depriving Katy of the only weapon she owned—a pistol. Engraved and highlighted, it was; nevertheless, it would have been one capable of ending the life of her assailant—or, at the very least, of frightening him away. Why had I taken the pistol from her? Because I thought—nay, assumed—that she had stolen it. And while I thought it still, it may well have been that her practical needs for such a gun outweighed considerations of property. Yet, alas, it was far too late now to weigh these matters.

 
All recriminations such as these and others did I deal with during the next few hours, whilst occupied with the dreary business of delivering Catherine Tiddle’s body to Mr. Donnelly and reporting the matter to Sir John. I recall that as I made my way down the long hall to inform the magistrate, I felt oddly (and wrongly) to blame for Katy Tiddle’s death. As soon as ever I had finished, Sir John commented upon this.

“The tale you tell seems punctuated by certain notes of guilt, Jeremy. Why should this be?”

“Well,” said I with a sigh, “if you look at the possibilities, you must admit I could have done better.”

“Oh? How so?”

Then did I unburden myself, making plain to him those doubts and discomforts that I have thus far mentioned—and perhaps a few that I have not. He listened with a patient lack of concern, and when I had concluded, he gave a great shrug.

“Each of us can look back on such tests and decide we could have done better,” said he. “There are times that our feelings are justified. That is to say, yes, we could have done better. But just as often, the answer must be no—we could have done no better than we did. From all that you have told me thus far, I would judge the latter to be the case.”

“Thank you, sir, I—”

“But,” said he, interrupting, “I am far more concerned that you have given so little thought to
why
this deed was done. More often than not, you think as a constable, and all the while I urge you to think as a lawyer,
think as a lawyer
: Often you do just that, thus making me happy and saving us both considerable time and effort. I praise you for that, but now I urge you to put aside the question of how the poor woman was murdered and what you might have done to prevent it. Accept that it happened, and accept also that there is little you could have done for her. Get on now to the more important questions.”

“Yes, sir,” said I, properly chastised.

“For instance, have you considered the possibility that the murder of this Tiddle woman may have some connection to the matter that brought you to her in the first place?”

“The death of Maggie Plummer? No sir, I haven’t, not really.”

“Why not? She was most forthcoming regarding little Maggie’s mother. She may have been spied in your company. It may well have been supposed that she knew even more than she told. After all, I thought as much. That is why I wished her brought to me—that I might question her further. If you wish to blame yourself for some aspect of this, then blame yourself for not taking her immediately to me after she had identified the body of the child, instead of then letting her go.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what I should have done.”

“There were hints that she held something back, were there not? What did she mean when she viewed the corpus and identified her, then asked the child’s forgiveness?”

“Yes, of course, I see that now. She felt a degree of guilt.”

“Perhaps a considerable degree,” said Sir John. “And what did you tell me she had to say of the goodly price paid to Maggie’s mother for the child?”

“Well, I don’t recall the
exact
words, but Tiddle certainly left the impression that she was envious.”

“Exactly! And she would only have been envious if she had played a larger role than mere observer, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes, I see what you mean.”

“No doubt you can come up with other examples, other hints, if you think back over what was said by her.”

“No doubt I can. But sir?”

“Yes, Jeremy? What is it?”

“If such as these gave you pause for thought, then why did you not send me back immediately to bring Tiddle in for questioning? If you had done so, she might now still be alive.”

“Why?
Why?
” He sputtered a bit, seeking a proper rejoinder. “Well, because I—that is, if—” Then did he pause and take a deep breath before proceeding: “Because, I confess that I am, as you, an imperfect investigator. My mind was on the nature of the crime, on the sins of our society, and, finally, like so many others because my hindsight exceeds my foresight. In short, I could have done better.”

“Yes sir. I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, you did well to put the question to me. But what I wish you to do now, Jeremy, is return to the room of Catherine Tiddle and find out all you can about her from the bits and pieces in her room. Can you do that, lad? Don’t allow anything to slip through your fingers.”

“I can, sir, of course. I’ll give the afternoon to it.”

With that and a quick goodbye, I started from the room.

“There was but one other matter,” said he, calling after me.

“And what is that, sir?”

“Would you accompany Clarissa to her destination? It seems that she happened to run into a friend from Lichfield. She said that you knew about this?”

“That is correct, sir.” He meant Elizabeth Hooker, of course. I recalled that they had arranged to meet that day that they might reminisce and do what other foolish things girls do at such an age.

“I understand that it’s quite near your own destination— in one of those courts off St. Martin’s Lane—the better part. Still, it
is
St. Martin’s and quite near Seven Dials, so your company with her would be appreciated. You might make arrangements to walk back with her, too.”

So it was decided for me. I mounted the stairs quickly and collected Clarissa from the kitchen. She had brought the leftover pot roast up to the point where it needed only to be popped into the oven. As I entered, she was sitting, her cloak over her arm, waiting for me. She took but a moment to throw the cloak round her shoulders and announce that she was ready to go.

Then, out in the street, we walked close together with barely a word between us for the length of Bow Street—or perhaps even farther. At last, Clarissa, who abhors silence, could endure it no longer. She turned to me all of a sudden and demanded to know why I was not speaking.

“Why
I
was not?” said I in a most defensive manner. “I hear nothing from
you
, do I?”

“I was quiet because you were. Besides, I asked you first, didn’t I?”

We could have gone round-about in such a way for an hour or more. And, a year or two before, we would have done just that. Yet now, as both of us attempted, with some success, to act in a more mature manner, such behavior hardly seemed appropriate.

“Oh, all right,” said I, “to tell the truth, as we are now sworn to do, Sir John gave me a proper burning, then sent me off to accompany you to your friend’s place. And by the way, where is it?”

“Dawson’s Alley,” said she, “number five.”

“Should be easy to find.”

“So you were—oh, how to put it? You were licking your wounds—mentally, that is.”

I thought about that a moment. I understood the picture perfectly, but still . . .

“Not exactly the image I would use,” said I. “Nevertheless, that sums it up pretty well.”

“Well, forgive me,” said she. “But is there nothing I can do to help?”

“No, not really. I deserved it, you see.”

“Truly so? Wouldn’t it help to talk about it?”

“Perhaps not as much as you think,” said I uncertainly. Yet it was my uncertainty that led me to tell her all that had passed between Sir John and myself as she waited in the kitchen for me. Yes, I told her all and offered comments along the way regarding my responses and his own. To my surprise, it did indeed help to restore my equilibrium. The telling of it all, her comments as well as my own—all of this took a good deal longer than I expected. In fact, by the time the story was done, we had reached noisy St. Martin’s Lane where the usual crowd of hawkers and barrow-sellers did congregate. ’Twas then just round the corner to Dawson’s Alley and number five.

It was a larger, more imposing building than most of those there on the narrow little alley. Built of brick and three stories tall, number five was impressive by any measure.

“This is where her mother lives?” I asked. “Does she own this grand structure?”

“Ah, no, she rents out the rooms, fixes the meals, and does all that needs to be done. The owner collects the rents. I gather it’s all quite respectable.”

“It certainly
looks
respectable—more in the nature of a prison than a lodging house. You’re expected, of course?”

“Oh yes.”

“Well, do keep in confidence all that I told you on the way here, won’t you?”

“Oh, I will,” said Clarissa. “Let me repeat that I think you did right to remind Sir John that if he had suspicions earlier, he should have asked to see Mistress Tiddle most immediate.”

“He admitted as much.”

“We’ll talk of it later, shall we?”

“Perhaps. In any case, I’ll come by for you in about two hours, give or take a bit.”

“Two hours it is.”

With that, she left me, crossing to the door and banging upon it with the brass hand-knocker that had been there provided. No more than a minute later, Elizabeth appeared, threw her arms round her visitor, and pulled her inside. Clarissa barely had opportunity to wave goodbye to me. My duty then discharged, I set off in the direction of Seven Dials.

 
I had not been a great deal of time in Katy Tiddle’s untidy room, not much more than an hour, when I received a considerable surprise. I had thrown open the curtains which covered the window, certain that to do the sort of thorough search Sir John had asked of me, I should need plenty of light. And, indeed, it was so. What the abundance of daylight revealed were bits and pieces of paper scattered here and there round the place. Most of them were of no importance. Mistress Tiddle, it seemed, was in the habit of pulling the labels from all sorts of bottles—chemist’s, whiskey bottles, even French wine bottles (though how and where she had found that last I have no idea). I collected them all, assuring myself that if they had significance of any sort, I would more likely discover it through careful study at Number 4 Bow Street. Yet it may well have been that the labels had no significance at all.

The pile of numbered tickets and stubs I found in the single drawer of her bedside table was another matter entirely. Could Katy Tiddle read or write? Not likely. Did she know numbers beyond the ten digits she found upon her hands? These, I was sure, were more interesting and of much greater significance—if I could but determine what that significance might be.

Interesting as these might be—and they did, in the end, prove so—they were not the “considerable surprise” to which I referred a few lines back. That came, as I said, a little over an hour after my arrival. By that time, I had looked near everywhere—through her clothes, under the bed, et cetera. As I remember, I was standing in the middle of the room, checking the corners, looking about for new places to search, when I heard a noise from the front of the room. I had closed the door after me when I came in to search the place, and, at first, I thought what I had heard was someone unknown to me trying a key in the lock. But no, a moment later the tumbler turned, and I understood that it was not the door to Tiddle’s, but rather the one to Alice Plummer’s, that had just been unlocked. When it swang open, creaking and complaining, I was sure of it. Could it be Plummer come back?