Person or Persons Unknown (22 page)

With that. Sir John slammed down his gavel, indicating that matter was concluded.

“Now to you, Mr. Edward Tribble,” said the magistrate. “Yours is by far the gravest offense, as I’m sure all those in this room would agree. When I first was told what you had done, my wits balked at what my ears heard. I thought surely I had misunderstood. Thus does the mind boggle at the nature of your crime. When you come before the judge, I advise you to use as your defense that bit of humbug you tried upon these three misguided men. Tell him that you were selling her parts that you might give the rest of her a decent Christian burial. Who knows? He may accept that. The jury may believe you. I, for one, do not. That, however, matters little, for in this instance, my only duty is to charge you and bind you over for trial.”

“Wot?” screeched the prisoner. “You mean I ain’t goin’ to the Fleet with the rest?”

“No, you are not. You are to be sent to Newgate where you will await trial at the Old Bailey.”

“On what charge?”

“Disturbing the dead.”

There was an immediate hush in the courtroom.

“But…” Tribble sought words, unable for a moment to find them. “But that’s like grave-robbing, ain’t it? I never done that. She weren’t in the ground.”

“No,” said Sir John, “you did not even wait until she was beneath the ground until you insulted her corpus. To my mind, what you did was at least as bad and probably worse.”

“Disturbing the dead — that’s a hanging offense!”

“It is, but I offer you this hope. If you cooperate with my constables in the recovery of the organs you sold — and I believe you know the buyers — then I shall recommend transportation. Judges at the Old Bailey accept my recommendations in sentencing — nearly always.”

Edward Tribble looked about him wildly, yet uttered not a word.

“Mr. Fuller,” said Sir John, “take these five to the strong room and bring forth him who is inside. While that is attended to, I declare this court in recess and give permission to talk and walk about. And I summon to the bench Mr. Oliver Goldsmith and Master Jeremy Proctor.”

This was a right rare occurrence. I had never before been called before him in court except at our first meeting when I, a boy of thirteen, had been falsely accused of theft. And now, to be summoned in the company of one so well known as Oliver Goldsmith was a sign of how my estate had risen in the past two years. Nevertheless, I had no notion of what we two might have in common.

When, however, I reached Sir John, delayed somewhat by the milling crowd, I recognized the man who was leaning over in deep conversation with the magistrate. Was this then Oliver Goldsmith? It was the same man who had spoken out in defense of Ormond Neville when Constable Perkins had arrested that poet cum journalist at the Goose and Gander. If this indeed be Goldsmith, he was about my same size, near bald on his head (which he made no effort to disguise with a wig), and most Irish in appearance.

The man in question glimpsed my arrival and said to Sir John, “Would this be the lad, sir?”

“Jeremy, is that you?”

“Indeed it is. Sir John.”

“Ah, well and good. I knew not for certain that you were in the courtroom when I called you forth. Mr. Goldsmith and I have need of that scurrilous broadsheet authored by that fellow, Neville — you remember him, of course.”

Before I could say yea or nay, Mr. Goldsmith nodded at me sharply.

“I’m sure he must remember him,” said he. “He was with the constable when Neville was taken in.”

“Ah, so he was!” Sir John agreed. “But, Jeremy, would you now go and fetch my copy of that broadsheet? It is in the drawer of the desk in my chamber. You should have no difficulty finding it.”

“Certainly. I’ll be back in a trice,” said I.

Leaving them without another word, I made swiftly for the side door of the courtroom, through which Mr. Fuller had just tugged his five charges. That door, of course, led to that part of the ground floor given over to the backstage business of the court — the strong room, the constabulary armory, Mr. Marsden’s alcove and record bins, and Sir John’s sanctum. I knew it, by then, as well as any part of Number 4 Bow Street.

There was Mr. Fuller, herding his prisoners into the strong room, once more the court jailer. Yet when called upon, he proved himself a proper Beak Runner. None could have improved his morning’s performance. When would I be called upon, as he was, to prove myself? Oh, if the need arose, I might be assigned to guard a door, or to accompany one like the rabbi home through streets that might be dangerous in the potential. Nevertheless, I had not truly been put to the test. What was I but Sir John’s errand boy, sent to fetch this or that, dehver a letter, or summon a witness?

And here I was once again, sent off to fetch that vile broadsheet from Sir John’s chamber. Could he not have sent Mr. Marsden? No, such an errand would have been beneath the court clerk. Better to send Jeremy; he will do any and all that is asked of him.

(Boys not yet men do often thus experience such attacks of dissatisfaction, overestimating their powers and underestimating the blessings bestowed upon them by fortune.)

I stormed through the open door and into the room kept by Sir John for private and informal interrogations, meetings with the constables, and the like. I knew precisely the location of that for which I had been sent. There was but one drawer in the desk, which in truth was more in the nature of a table, but one drawer did him well enough. He had no need to store papers; for that he relied on Mr. Marsden. I jerked it open and pulled out the broadsheet, folded over on account of its large size.

Just as I was about to shut the drawer I stopped, for my eye had glimpsed something familiar inside. It was the leather purse I had found under the floorboard in Polly Tar-kin’s room. Unable quite to help myself, I tugged it open and satisfied myself that the same heap of guineas and sovereigns was intact, just as it was when I had brought it in to Sir John. Nor had I any doubt that they had gone uncounted. It was true. The magistrate was careless about money that flowed into the court. In my mind echoed the words of the bully-boy from the night before: “It’s not like the Beak would miss it if you helped yourself, maybe a little at a time.”

I dipped my hand into the purse and let the treasure run through my fingers. It would not be necessary to take a little at a time. Ten guineas would never be missed from such a store. And had I not found the purse? In that sense, was it not as much mine as Sir John’s? Had I kept it, none would have been the wiser, yet I had handed it over to him, thinking it would have importance to the inquiry — yet it had none. He simply tossed it indifferently into the drawer.

Yet how could I be indifferent to that bag of money when just a fraction of its contents would buy Mariah’s freedom from that despicable, giggling wretch?

All this, reader, passed through my brain in the merest part of a minute. Yet what then came to mind were the jeering words of that pimp, those which were his last to me: “It’d be like stealing money from a blind man.” And with that, in my mind’s eye formed the gentle, generous visage of Sir John Fielding — he who had taken me in, clothed me, and fed me — and I knew then that I could take not a single guinea from that bag. Putting behind me all sophistry and self-deceit, I pulled closed the purse by its thongs and slammed shut the drawer. Grabbing up the broadsheet, I ran from the room and made straight for the court.

The hum of conversation told me, as I opened the door, that the session was still in recess — and yes, I saw that they were still up and milling about. Sir John was still in conference with Oliver Goldsmith at the bench, and he spoke most heatedly.

“ — if need be, yes, Mr. Goldsmith, for it must be made clear that that petty criminal Yossel has been dismissed for good and sufficient reason. You need not be specific. Say only that his time that night was accounted for. We need not bladder about who accounted for it and how. That story will be all about London swiftly enough.”

“I daresay,” agreed Mr. Goldsmith. “Uh … the lad is back, sir.”

“Ah, Jeremy, good. Have you the damned thing with you? Give it me. I shall need it for brandishing purposes.”

He groped for it, and I put it in his hand.

Mr. Fuller appeared with Ormond Neville in tow. “The prisoner’s present,” said he.

“Then we may start. Mr. Goldsmith, do not sit too far to the rear. I shall ask you to come forward. And again, sir, I thank you for what you have offered.”

“Glad to be of service, sir.”

And then did Sir John beat mightily with his gavel upon the table before him.

“The Bow Street Court is back in session,” cried Mr. Marsden, rising to his feet. “All take your places, and be silent, for Sir John Fielding, magistrate, will now hear the final case of the day.”

It took bare a minute for the crowd to disperse to the benches and chairs provided. I noted with interest that when Oliver Goldsmith returned to his place, which indeed was near the front, he seated himself next Mr. Millhouse, the neighbor of the second victim, Polly Tarkin. I, for my part, scrambled to find a better place than I had had earlier, and found one off to the side behind Mr. Fuller and his charge, Ormond Neville.

“Order, order now,” said Sir John, and the room fell silent. “Mr. Marsden, call the prisoner forward.” And then did the clerk summon him by name. As Mr. Neville took his place before the bench, the magistrate called forth: “I summon also Mr. Benjamin Nicholson.”

Was I not then amazed, reader, to see the younger partner of the publisher William Boyer rise from a place much in the rear of the courtroom and come forward with his head hung low. He was a man of reputation in Grub Street, so highly esteemed by his elder partner that the name of the firm had recently been altered from Boyer’s to Boyer and Nicholson. Yet there was little pride in the man as he shambled up to take his place beside the prisoner.

“Mr. Neville,” said Sir John, picking up the broadsheet and waving it before him, “are you the author of this scandalous concoction of surmises, suspicions, fabrications, and ancient lies?”

“Ah, well, yes, I suppose I am. Yes.”

“Such hesitation. Where is that pride of authorship? And you, Mr. Nicholson, did you not publish it?”

“Well, we printed it.”

“You seem to be making what I would call a false distinction. Did you not pay Mr. Neville for his work? Did you not cover the cost of printing right in the Boyer and Nicholson shop? Did you not then engage a company of hawkers to take the broadsheet through the streets of London and sell it for the price you set? Did you not, finally, claim the profits from this little enterprise for the firm?”

Mr. Nicholson sighed a great sigh. “Yes, Sir John,” said he.

“Does the process I have described not constitute publication, as it is generally understood? So I put it to you again, sir — did you not publish it?”

Another sigh. “Yes, Sir John.”

“Now tell me, either one of you, whose idea was it to create this” — Sir John hesitated — “this tissue of hasty conclusions and outright calumny?”

The two men then spoke in chorus: “It was his.” And so saying, each pointed at the other.

“Well,” said the magistrate, “I see that there is some difference of opinion here. Let me ask the questions and weigh your responses. Mr. Neville, how is it you say Mr. Nicholson initiated the enterprise?”

“Why, sir, because he called me to his office and suggested I make a journalistic inquiry into the murder of Polly Tarkin, which I had then not even heard about. He believed there to be material for a broadsheet in it.”

“Very well,” said Sir John, “and how was it you came to hear of the murder, Mr. Nicholson?”

“From Giles Ponder, vicar of St. Paul’s Covent Garden, who has a book in preparation with us. He said that he was wakened by a commotion — voices, lanterns, and such — at the back gate of the churchyard. He went down to investigate and heard from a constable that a woman had been found murdered just there. The constable and a lad were just then in the act of moving her body.”

I was that lad, of course. And I recalled a visit from a half-dressed churchman, his nightshirt hanging down over his pantaloons, who demanded to know what we were about. (Sir John was off at that moment talking with Mistress Linney and her colleagues.) Constable Brede, tight-lipped as ever, had told him simply that — a woman had been murdered — and wished him a good night. Or a good morning, for by then dawn was breaking.

“And on that information you summoned Mr. Neville, did you?”

“I did, yes, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Neville, set out to discover what you could about this grisly affair?”

“Yes, sir,” said Ormond Neville.

“And how came you by the information you wrote?”

“Well, I found to my surprise and good luck that one of my circle of acquaintance was a neighbor of the victim, that he lived literally next door to her. He gave me her name, informed me of her occupation and where I might look for those among her scarlet sisters who could tell me more. I went to Bedford Street, bought a few glasses of gin for them, and soon had much of what was needed.”

“Let me detain you, sir,” said Sir John. “That member of your circle must have been Mr. Thaddeus Millhouse, a poet by his own description. He was that morning in the strong room here at the Bow Street Court awaiting his time in court for refusing to obey my order to clear the alley where the murder had taken place. Did you talk to him there?”

My attention had been drawn immediately to Thaddeus Millhouse at the mention by Ormond Neville of “one of my circle of acquaintances.” I fear I stared. Whether out of shame or guilt, he shrank down in his place next to Mr. Goldsmith, and when his name was mentioned, he actually sought to hide his face. And to what purpose? Only five or six in the courtroom would have recognized him and one of them was blind. But of course no man would wish to hear his name in open court in such circumstances. Still, it did seem strange.

Mr. Neville surprised me with his response to Sir John’s question.

“Yes, I did. Mr. Millhouse’s wife had heard of his misfortune and asked me to bring him a clean shirt that he might look more presentable for his appearance in court. That I did, and your jailer allowed me in for that purpose. I had a brief conversation with Mr. Millhouse at that time, in which I mentioned the matter of my investigation for the purpose of the broadsheet.”