The Price of Murder (12 page)

“Then what is it?”

“Why, it’s the sort of ticket you’re given in any sort of shop that serves the gentry when you bring in something that needs repair—to a tailor, a dressmaker—or to a gunsmith.”

“I don’t understand,” said I. “What is it put you in mind of this?”

“Well, the paper it’s on, for one thing. When we was passing it back and forth a day past, I happened to give it a careful look, and I noticed that it was printed upon substantial stuff and not the flimsy sort of the rest. Another thing—the numbers are just jotted down in pen and ink on the pawn tickets.”

“Whereas on this one here . . .” I held up the small rectangle of stiff paper.

“The number—what is it? twenty-nine?—is printed, well, stamped upon it, really. Now, it would take a very fancy shop to use such a device as one to make a stamp with different numbers, now wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it would, but how do you know that it’s a gunsmith’s shop?”

“I don’t—not truly. ’Tis just a maggot that’s fixed itself within my head, but there’s good reason to think it, ain’t there? You said a while back that you took it away from that Tiddle woman. And just look at it. How would the likes of her come by such? That we don’t know, but we do know that she had naught in her possession of greater value, nothing that even came close. Why, if you added up the true value of all the items we looked at yesterday—I mean the things she pawned with no intention of redeeming—we’d probably find that all together they weren’t equal in worth to this pistol. So . . .”

“So? What are you suggesting?”

“That we try our luck at some of the gunsmith shops nearby. I know of a few. You probably do, too.”

Since I could think of nothing better to suggest, I agreed to follow his suggestion, though not without some misgivings. What about Sir John’s warning against allowing Mr. Deuteronomy to take the investigation out of my hands? Why had I not planned for the next step in this peculiar search? It seemed that I could do little more than ride the coattails of him I had earlier permitted merely to help.

 
I found Deuteronomy Plummer surprisingly knowledgeable in all matters pertaining to firearms, spouting information wherever we did go. The thought came to me, as we set off on what seemed to me a bootless effort, that my companion may simply have planned it all this way that he might escape the burden of what may have been for him simply another boring day.

We thought it best to proceed on the same general principle as we had established the day before: that Katy Tiddle was too lazy and too besotted with booze to wander far from Seven Dials. So we would try those gunsmiths who were nearest first. I admit that I found the bits of gun lore I learned along the way quite anything but boring. I recall that in the first shop we visited—Wogdon’s, I believe, right there in the Haymarket—the clerk admired the pistol we showed him but said they had nothing like it in the shop. The clerk also said that the ticket we showed him was not one of theirs. But then, just as we were leaving, he asked if we might not like to see something “a little special.” Before I could decline, Mr. Deuteronomy had accepted the invitation and had us looking over an early-sixteenth-century hand cannon. When I said quite innocently that I’d no idea there were firearms quite so early, I was set a-right by both men who, together, lectured me at great length on the history of firearms in Europe. At the next, which was Nock’s, I received the word on firing devices—matchlocks, wheel locks, and flintlocks, and had to listen as Nock’s clerk puffed Henry Nock’s contribution to the history of firearms (his patented lock), which he called a “great step forward.” It slips my mind just now what it was I learned at Manton’s, but at the shop of Joseph Griffin in Bond Street I learned nothing at all.

That was because when the clerk emerged from the rear of the shop, presenting himself all spruce and dapper, he took up the ticket I had placed upon the counter and smiled in recognition.

“Ah,” said he, “I’d been wondering when someone might drop by for this. A pistol, isn’t it?”

“No doubt it is, sir. It should be a mate for this.”

And so saying, I hauled out the pistol that I had taken from Katy Tiddle and placed it on the counter.

“Ah yes, of course. I shall be but a moment.” He then did turn and disappear behind the curtain into the rear of the shop.

Saying nothing, yet wearing an I-told-you-so expression, Mr. Deuteronomy offered me a wink. We had not long to wait, for quick as Bob’s your uncle, the fellow was back, carrying a box about a foot square and half-a-foot deep.

“Here we are,” said he, “a bent hammer, or so it says on the repair slip. I’ll not ask how it came to need fixing,” said he, chuckling as if he had made a great joke. “Perhaps you would like to check it over.” And having said that, he laid down the box before us and opened it. The thing did fairly gleam at us from its bed of plush. “If you like, I shall polish up the one you brought in whilst you inspect this one.”

As I smiled and handed over the pistol I had pulled from my pocket, I happened to glance at my companion and, expecting him to be smiling in triumph, found him looking troubled instead. No, more than merely “troubled,” Mr. Deuteronomy seemed absolutely thunderstruck. He was reading the repair bill, and I wanted to ask him just what it was had so taken him aback, yet I thought it unwise to do so within the hearing of the clerk.

When the latter returned from the buffer, the pistol in his hand seemed to sparkle and gleam like the one from the case that now rested in the right hand of Mr. Deuteronomy. Snap-snap-snap, it went—just as it should.

“You see?” said the clerk. “It now works as well as its mate. Not much of a job, really.”

“Well yes, I understand,” said I, “but how much will that be? You see, this is evidence—important evidence—in an important investigation conducted by the magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

An uneasy look appeared upon the face of the clerk. Clearly he did fear that I would simply claim the pistol, the case, and all, in the name of Sir John Fielding.

“Never mind that, lad,” said Mr. Deuteronomy. “Let’s hear the cost of it, shall we?”

“Just half a pound,” said the clerk. “Ten shillings.”

“I’ve not got much with me,” I muttered sotto voce to Mr. Deuteronomy.

“I have,” said he, wherewith he dug from his pocket and counted out the amount demanded by the clerk. “And well worth what you ask, I’m sure.”

“We guarantee all our work,” said the other fellow smugly.

As Mr. Deuteronomy began packing up the gun case, I realized that we were leaving a bit too quickly. I had a number of questions that should be answered. I informed the clerk of that and noted gratefully that he seemed eager to cooperate, if only to be rid of us the more quickly.

“Not quite so fast, if you please. There are some things I wish you to tell me. First of all, a remark you made when we came in did imply that the pistol has been here in the shop for quite some time. How long has it been here?”

“Well, that’s easily answered,” said he, picking up the repair bill. “Right after the first of the year it was—January sixth. So we’ve had it here about four months.”

“All right, fair enough. Who brought it in?”

Again he looked at the repair bill. “A Mr. Bennett—or so it says here.”

“Not good enough,” said I. “You must have some memory of the fellow. Or was it a fellow? Could it have been a woman brought it in?”

“Not likely.”

“Oh? And why not?”

“Well, because ninety-nine out of a hundred who come in here are men.”

“Then you have no memory of the fellow at all?”

“None . . . Well, give me a moment. Let me think about that.”

He did just that, covering his eyes, concentrating. “It seems to me,” said he, “that the man who brought it in was not the owner of the pistol—but a servant—something of that sort.”

“What was he physically? Fat? thin? tall? short?”

Again, hand over eyes, he went into a brief trance from which he emerged to say: “Of medium height, robust though not fat. I recall nothing of his face at all.”

“Nothing of his nose? his eyes?”

“No, nothing.”

“But there—you see? You’ve remembered more than you thought you did.”

He smiled at that as if surprised at himself. “So I have,” said he.

“About the pistol itself,” said I, “is it of Joseph Griffin’s manufacture?”

“Oh no, certainly not. This, as is its mate, is of French making.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, first of all, look into the barrel—not when it is loaded, certainly—and you will see that it is rifled. It’s not done with English pistols—very rarely, in any case. And the bore is a good deal larger than what might be found in an English dueling pistol. From the look of them, I’d suspect that LePage was the maker, though for the life of me I can’t suppose why his name is not engraved upon the pistols or at least stamped someplace upon the case.”

“These are specifically intended for dueling, then?”

“Oh yes.”

“One last question. Why were the pistols separated? That is, why did I carry one of them into your shop looking for its mate?”

“That is our policy here at Griffin. We do not take into our charge any pistol or rifle on which we are not doing repair work of some sort. And we do not sell consignment. In that way our liability is lessened greatly.”

“Thank you then, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

“Blythe.”

Having all that from him, I turned to find that Mr. Deuteronomy had packed up the pistols in the case and was waiting with it for me by the door. We left the shop together, and I cheered considerably when he did turn to me and declare:

“I must say, young sir, that you got more from that fellow Blythe than I would have thought possible. How you will fit it all together, however, I’ve no idea.”

“Nor have I!” said I, laughing. “I simply do as Sir John does: I ask questions until a pattern begins to emerge.”

He joined his laughter with mine (which I thought a bit excessive) and kept it up a bit longer than necessary. Then did I notice that he seemed to be drawing away from me. Slightly alarmed at this, I put the matter to him quite directly:

“Where are you going, sir,” said I to him, “with those dueling pistols?”

“Why, I . . . I thought to show them round a bit that we might find us out who these belong to,
really
. To do this right I’ll need to borrow the pistols for a day or two.” He hesitated, and then he added more aggressively: “Besides, ’twas me put up the money so as we could get them out of the shop, was it not? I ought to be able to take them anyplace that I want.”

“Your logic is faulty,” said I.

“My . . . what?”

“It’s true that you put up the money to claim the repaired pistol, but you took both of them. If, by keeping it overnight, you honestly believe that you can find your way to this Bennett, or to whomever it was sent him there to Griffin’s to get that pistol repaired, then I’ll let you try. But I’ll thank you to give back to me the one I brought to the gunsmith. Do you accept those terms, for otherwise I’ll claim them for the Bow Street Court in the name of Sir John Fielding—and you’ll either give them up, or face a charge of impeding an investigation and have a year for yourself in Newgate.”

I said it all as coldly as ever I could. Mr. Deuteronomy had better believe me, for I believed myself. And indeed I could tell that I had made quite an impression upon him, for he had said naught during my speech, neither did he attempt to respond immediately. He simply stared at me, shocked and dumbfounded.

“You’d do that to me, would you?” said he at last.

“Without another thought,” said I. “Do you accept my terms?”

Saying nothing, he went down on his hands and knees right there in Bond Street at the doorstep of the shop of Joseph Griffin, gunsmith; and there, as a crowd gathered, he opened the case, took from it one of the pistols, and handed it up to me. I pocketed it. The crowd, behaving as crowds will, laughed at what they had seen. Muttering and buzzing about it, they began to drift away. I offered Mr. Deuteronomy a hand up. He was slow to accept it.

“ ’ Twas not my intention to shame you,” said I. “Simply to show you that I was serious in the matter.” Yet that, too, was said in a tone of seriousness that may have sounded cold to any listener.

Nevertheless, he took my hand, and I helped him to his feet.

“You made your point,” he replied.

“I’ve a question for you. Since I’m trusting you with court materials, I must know where you live.”

“In the Haymarket,” said he, “just above the coffee house.”

No wonder he had arrived there so quickly!

“And another,” said I. “What are your plans regarding the Newmarket race next Sunday?”

“Ah, you heard about that, did you? Well, I’ll be there to ride Pegasus, and we’ll win—damn me if we don’t!” He hesitated, then blurted out. “And you can tell your Sir John another thing. Tell him that I expect to find my sister there.”

That did little more than confuse me. How would he find her so far away? And why should he find her in Newmarket, of all places?

“Explain that, if you please,” said I.

“And if I don’t?”

“Do it anyway.”

He came close and lowered his voice. “Once, whilst in her cups, she told me that she had met Maggie’s father in Newmarket at the races. Maybe she thinks she’ll find him there again. Maybe she already has.”

With that, he wheeled about and bolted off in the direction of the Haymarket. In a sense, he seemed to be daring me to catch him if I could. I did not accept his challenge, but turned and started back to Bow Street. I had much to tell Sir John, as I well knew. I was certain, too, that he would be most interested in that last bit of intelligence that Mr. Plummer had given us.

 
So much had happened through the morning that I thought the day near done by the time I reached Bow Street. There was no telling from the gray sky above just what time it might be; I had not seen the sun the whole day through. Yet as I approached Number 4, I heard a commingling of sounds that told me that it was not near so late in the afternoon as I had supposed. There was, first of all, the rumble of many voices together, and then a beating of wood upon wood and one loud, low voice (unmistakably that of Sir John) that stilled the rest. It could not be much after one o’clock. Then came the sound of another voice—high, sharp, and hectoring in tone. Good God! It was Clarissa! What had been threatened once or twice had come to pass. When I was unavailable to take the place of Mr. Marsden, Sir John found that Clarissa had not as yet left for the Magdalene Home, and so did draft her for duty as his clerk. She, of course, would have been delighted. I wondered how she had done—and managed to wonder it without feeling that sense of anxiety that heretofore had always come in those situations in which I imagined us in competition, each with the other. I no longer supposed that, though just what our true relationship might be, I would have been at a loss to say. Engaged to be engaged? What, in all truth, could that mean?