The Price of Murder (11 page)

One of the pallbearers looked remarkably familiar. Though I could not immediately place him, I was inescapably certain that I had not only seen but also talked with him most recent. Now, who was he? Then, soon as I had put the question to myself, I had the answer. ’Twas Walter Hogg, the fellow I had talked with before the race in Shepherd’s Bush. He it was had also removed his hat to the jockey the day before the race when we met by chance in Covent Garden. I’d no idea why he served as pallbearer. How strange that he should have popped up again this way. Had he volunteered for such duty? I resolved to speak with him at the earliest opportunity and find out.

The grave, newly dug beneath an oak tree, was easily detected as soon as we made our way through the entrance into the churchyard. It was a choice location. Deuteronomy Plummer must have paid a pretty penny for it, I reflected, for there’s naught that comes cheap in such a funeral as this one. And of course Mr. Deuteronomy would spare little or nothing in providing his niece with the finest for her final resting place. By and by we came to the spot. The pallbearers rested the coffin upon the cross bars above the grave and stepped aside. Then did the vicar begin his prayers at the graveside as Deuteronomy wept on ceaselessly. At the prayer (“Man, thou art dust”) the vicar indicated that Mr. Deuteronomy might toss a handful of dirt upon the coffin, but the offer was declined. At another signal, the two pallbearers picked up the ropes with which the coffin would be lowered into the open grave. Yet there was something still to be done. The vicar seemed to be looking at me and pointing down. At first, I had no notion of what he wished from me, yet a bit of gesturing made it all clear: I was to pull out the cross bars that supported the coffin. I scrambled to it, and as the pallbearers supported the box with the ropes, I whisked the wooden bars out from under it. And then slowly, little by little, it disappeared down into the darkness of the earth. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .”

Oddly, Mr. Deuteronomy seemed to regain his composure immediately after the graveside service. He went straight to the vicar and, after blowing his nose loudly into a silk kerchief and dabbing at his eyes to dry the tears, he pulled from his coat pocket a purse filled with coins and opened negotiations with the clergyman.

And, for my part, I sought out Walter Hogg that I might discover how he came to participate in these proceedings. As it happened, he was on the far side of the grave, working free one of the ropes on which the coffin had rested. He wound it swiftly and expertly round his arm. He seemed eager to be away. Clarissa followed me out of curiosity and listened in.

“May I have a word with you, Mr. Hogg?”

“Well, I haven’t much time now, have I? Must be on to another funeral,” said he.

“Have you something to do with the church here?”

“Naw, naw, ’tain’t like that at all.”

“But you’re not a friend of Mr. Plummer, are you? I seem to recall from our conversation that you . . .”

“No, I told you I never had sand enough to walk up to him and meet myself up to him. Arthur and me”—he nodded at his companion—“we work for the embalmer. Learning the secrets of the trade, as you might say.”

“Surely not as an apprentice? You’re a good deal too old for that.”

“No, we just works for him. That’s all. Part of workin’ for him is we fill in as pallbearers when it’s necessary, as so it was today.”

“Well, all right,” said I, “but wouldn’t you like to meet Deuteronomy Plummer? I’d be happy to introduce you.”

“No time for that. Like I say, another funeral.”

With that, he turned his back on me and, having concluded his winding of the rope, he called quietly to his companion: “Arthur, you ready, are you?”

Arthur nodded, shouldered his coil of rope, and shuffled about, indicating his readiness to depart. Walter Hogg turned back to me.

“Now, if I understood a-right,” said he, “that little girl in the coffin, she was some relation to Mr. Deuteronomy, ain’t that so?”

“That’s so,” said I.

“Well, I wonder, will he be riding at Newmarket this Sunday? It’s a King’s Plate race—all the best from all the counties will be there. Didn’t mention anything about that to you, did he?”

“Not a thing.”

“Just as I feared. Well, I’ll go there and take me chances. Goodbye to you, young sir”—with a nod to Clarissa—“and to you, young lady.”

Then did he leave with Arthur in tow. The two men headed for the gate that led to Bedford Street. Their wagon was there in the alley, no doubt, and indeed, I vaguely recalled an embalmer’s shop in King Street, if I were not mistaken. But it was not the sort of thing that would stay in your head, was it?

“What was that all about?” Clarissa whispered.

“I’m not sure,” said I quite honestly. “Just someone popping up where he wasn’t expected. Probably just a coincidence.”

“Writers of romances know there is no such thing as ‘just a coincidence,’” said she smugly. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t like the looks of the fellow at all.”

“I’ll tell you all that I know about him later on.”

“See that you do.”

Having come at last to a figure that suited them both, Mr. Deuteronomy and the vicar clasped hands. Then did the jockey count out the sum into the clergyman’s hand. Though I had not a good view, judging from the time it took to count it out, it must have been a considerable amount. He turned round then and came toward us, casting not a downward glance as he passed beside the open grave. Looking from one of us to the other, he made it plain that he wished to be introduced to Clarissa. I did the formalities with dispatch and (I thought) a bit of style, as well.

“I wish to thank you both for coming to the service,” said Mr. Deuteronomy. “She got a proper sendoff, don’t you think?”

Clarissa seemed puzzled. “She?”

“Maggie, Margaret Mary—my niece.”

“Oh,” said she. “Oh, yes of course—the funeral. It was all quite grand. I . . . I shall always remember it. The sermon!”

“The choir,” said I.

“Anyways,” said he, “it seemed like the least I could do for her.”

“You . . .” I hesitated, not knowing quite how I might best frame the question. “You may not wish to go out today in search of your sister. I can well understand if you do not. Just say the word and—”

“Oh no! No indeed,” said he, interrupting. “I would not think of deserting the hunt. Not now, not ever! Just give me time to duck back to me ken to change me duds, and I’ll meet you at that same coffee house we met at yestermorn. That suit you?”

I nodded. “It suits me well.”

“Good. Then it’s agreed, ain’t it? Oh, but one more thing. When we first met, you had a pistol you was carryin’ about. You recall, you took it from that Tiddle woman.”

“I recall right enough.”

“Bring it along again, would you?”

“Why? Are the places we’ll visit today so dangerous that we must enter them armed?”

“No, not so. I’ve got a notion about that pistol, so bring it along. I’ll tell you about it when I see you in the Haymarket. And bring along that last pawn ticket, will you? That’s part of my notion.”

I spent the length of our walk to Number 4 Bow Street bringing Clarissa to date on aspects of the case. She wanted first to know all I could tell her about Walter Hogg—which, in truth, was not much.

“What is most interesting about him,” said I to her, “is that he has appeared quite unexpectedly twice since he first doffed his hat to Deuteronomy Plummer here in Covent Garden.”

“But, as I said earlier, Jeremy, there are no coincidences.”

“Well, no doubt they are rare, but surely this is one.”

“Perhaps—but I doubt it. Do you think he and Mr. Deuteronomy are acquainted?”

“I doubt that very strongly. You recall I offered to introduce him to Mr. Deuteronomy? Well, it seemed to me then that the fellow was truly in awe of the jockey. Look upon it so, Clarissa. We may see Deuteronomy as no more than one who rides upon racing horses—though having seen him at it, I can well believe that he is the very best there is—nevertheless, Mr. Hogg sees him as something more, a source of money, dependable income. I doubt not that Hogg makes more by betting upon Mr. Deuteronomy each Sunday than he does from laboring the rest of the week for his embalmer.”

Clarissa gave that some thought. “Do you mean, Jeremy, that there is so much to be made from wagering upon horses?”

“I’d say there was no question of it. Why, I saw near as much cash changing hands at Shepherd’s Bush a day past as I saw of an evening at Black Jack Bilbo’s Gaming Club.”

“Really? I’d no idea.”

“And bear in mind,” I continued, “that the meet in Shepherd’s Bush was by no means one of the grand races—nothing, that is, compared to what’s held at Newmarket out on the heath. You heard what Hogg had to say about that, didn’t you?”

“That all the best from all the counties would be there—horses, presumably.”

“Horses indeed! And they’ll be there to run because the prize money is grandest there—though Mr. Patley insists that for the owners and breeders it’s the honor of winning that means most.”

’Twas when this was said that we left the Garden and struck off down Russell Street on our way to Bow Street, just round the corner—that much I recall exact, though I am not near so certain of the precise words of Clarissa that followed. I believe, however, that they went something like this:

“Jeremy?”

“Yes, Clarissa, what is it?”

“That King’s Plate race in Newmarket—that’s next Sunday, is it not?”

“So it is.”

“Will you be going to it, as you did to Shepherd’s Bush, in order to keep an eye on our Mr. Deuteronomy?”

“I doubt it,” said I. “First of all, Newmarket is quite some distance north—near Cambridge it is. And then, too, Deuteronomy has been so cooperative the last day or two that I, personally, think there’s no need to keep a close watch on the fellow.”

“But say you were to go up there,” said she. “Since this is an all-England event, might it not be that there would be an even greater number of bettors, and consequently greater sums wagered?”

What was she getting at, I wondered. “That would be a probable result,” said I.

“Well then, Newmarket offers a great opportunity.”

“An opportunity of what sort?”

“Just think of it. If we were to combine your money with mine—we each have a little, after all—the combined amount would be, well, no longer just a little, but more than that.”

“Yet still not a lot!”

“Nevertheless,” she declared, “it could be enough to win us our fortune, given favorable odds.”

“
Favorable odds?
Dear God, Clarissa, are you seriously proposing that we gamble away the little money we have in pursuit of making a fortune for ourselves? Why, that’s . . . that’s laughable.”

“Not with favorable odds and the right attitude.”

Though what she said was silly, somehow she did not appear silly saying it. No, the expression she wore on her face was one of quiet conviction. She believed profoundly in what she said.

“And what, pray tell, is the right attitude?”

“Prayerful and submissive.”

At that I threw up my hands in dismay. “Oh, Clarissa, be serious, won’t you?”

“I
am
being serious—and never more so. This is our future we’re discussing, is it not? Don’t you see? We could be married!”

 
Arriving as I did in the Haymarket Coffee House only minutes after my departure from Number 4 Bow Street, I expected to pass a quarter of an hour or more sipping my favorite Jamaica brew before the arrival of Mr. Deuteronomy. Had I not hurried the distance that I might enjoy myself thus? Some men can spend a day drinking their good English bitter, others will consume gin or rum as long as they are upright. Yet my passion had been and always would be to drink coffee. It is in every way superior to those alcoholic beverages, for while they stupefy him who partakes of them, coffee quickens and sharpens the senses and improves the function of the brain. Let all who doubt me note that coffee is the favored refreshment in all such places as Lloyd’s and the Old Bailey, in which the leaders of commerce, business, and the law do gather. Now, the Haymarket’s patrons, while in no wise leaders in such fields, were in no wise in the same class as the louts, criminals, and drunkards, who frequented the dives and grog shops in Bedford Street and Seven Dials. It was, however, as one might suppose, just the sort of place that might be frequented by one such as Deuteronomy Plummer.

And he was here already, having preceded me by half-a-mug of Jamaica brew. He was all for leaving at the moment of my arrival that we might continue our search for his sister. But pleading an early rising time and the need to discuss his new notion regarding the pistol taken from Katy Tiddle, I managed to convince him that it would be best to discuss the next step to be taken before taking it. I ordered a coffee for myself.

“Did you bring that pistol along?” he demanded. “The one I asked you to?”

“Certainly I did,” said I, and, having said that, lifted it carefully out of my pocket and placed it on the table between us. The server came just then with my mug of coffee, and his eyes widened as he beheld the thing on the table—yet he said not a word. Indeed, it was a rather lethal-looking piece, was it not? Yet, it had a certain beauty to it, too—the engraving upon the hammer, the butt, even the barrel; and, of course, the evident signs of skill and craftsmanship that were to be seen in every detail of its construction.

“And what about the pawn ticket? Have you brought that, too?” he asked in a manner most insistent.

“Yes, of course.”

I produced it and laid it down beside the pistol.

“Good, that’s very good indeed. See here,” said he, looking about the coffee house and lowering his voice, “what I got in mind is this: The pawn ticket here ain’t no real pawn ticket at all.”