The Price of Murder (13 page)

I slipped into the last row of the courtroom, attracting no notice at all. If I were recognized, it would only have been by those whores and layabouts who saw me doing the day’s buying in Covent Garden. I had become as one easily passed over by then, unnoticed in the background. That pleased me somehow, though I should be at a loss to explain why it did.

The case before Sir John was one of those disputes between merchants in Covent Garden that he was known to settle so evenhandedly. The disputants were a man and a woman, as more often than not was the way of it. The man had a choice plot just at the entrance to the Garden through Russell Street, and he meant to hold on to it—in spite of the challenge put to him by the woman. (A Mrs. Penney, as I recall.) It seems that she approached the vendor (whose name I cannot now for the life of me remember), and offered to buy the space from him. Her offer of cash suited him, and he gave his consent orally. She presented him with a bill of sale that her solicitor had drawn up and asked him to sign. Reading the document carefully, he saw that there was no provision for him to have a space from which to sell his fruits; he had assumed they would trade spaces, and he, having the more desirable one, would get the cash amount in addition. By no means, said she. A place for him to sell his goods had not been under discussion. What he did after selling his place to her was up to him, but he had agreed to sell, she said, and now he must do that. He refused, and hence the two disputants wound up in magistrate’s court before Sir John Fielding.

Sir John asked a few questions in order to get some feeling for the two disputants. She, needless to say, was the more aggressive of the two. Her plan, it seemed, was to sell raw produce from both locations. When it came time to interrogate the second disputant, Sir John asked the man if he contested any of the facts that Mrs. Penney had presented; he did not. He asked him then how he had come by the plot in question, and was told that it had been in his family for years. How many years? Fifty, at least—his grandfather had bought it from a widower without children. And why had the greengrocer agreed to sell it now? Sickness in the family, said he. At that, Sir John nodded and asked to have the bill of sale that was in contention. Mrs. Penney handed it up to Clarissa, who, at Sir John’s request, read it carefully.

To her, he said, “It is just as has been presented?”

“It is, Sir John.”

“Then give it me, please.”

She complied, and the magistrate took the bill of sale and ripped it into as many pieces as was convenient.

“There,” said he, “that is what your bill of sale is worth, Mrs. Penney. You may have another made up, which includes a trade of the two properties as well as a sum of money, for his property is unquestionably more valuable than your own.”

His decision threw the courtroom into mutters and mumbles. There came male laughter and strident female objections. All was in turmoil until one voice broke through and dominated all the rest.

“I do not think that altogether fair, Sir John. After all, a solicitor’s time costs money, does it not? Could the original bill of sale not have been amended to include those stipulations you demand? Of course it could. Yet now—
now
of course it could not. And another thing . . .”

That voice, reader, you many suppose was that of a dissatisfied Mrs. Penney. Nevertheless, if you supposed such, then you would be wrong, for it was none other than our Clarissa who spoke out so boldly against Sir John.

Even I, who knew her so well, was surprised at this intemperate outburst. Yet if I was surprised, the rest in the courtroom were quite stunned. All of a sudden, a pall of silence fell over the seated crowd. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Oh, they themselves had often misbehaved—indeed they had done so just now—like children in school. Occasionally, though very rarely, one of their number was so rowdy that he (or she) would be expelled from the courtroom, but the usual thing was simply to quiet down when Sir John banged with his gavel and called for order. All this, certainly—but never, never anything like what all had just witnessed: criticism of the magistrate by the very clerk who sat beside him. This was outright rebellion and must be put down. But how? Not only had the crowd fallen quite still, but also those in my row shifted forward in their seats and seemed to hold their breath. I felt it was done so in every row and corner of the place.

Clarissa, too, had noticed the sudden silence and the sense of anticipation all around her. She was made uneasy by it but bravely (if a bit foolishly) attempted to continue.

“And another thing . . . Sir John . . . we know not the financial circumstances of the woman in the case, do we? She may be . . . that is . . . she may be a widow . . . She may be . . .”

And there, having noted the reaction of the crowd and feeling greatly oppressed by it, she, at last, sputtered to a halt. For the better part of a minute, she said nothing—nor, for that matter, did anyone else speak up. But then, addressing Sir John, she spoke up in a much smaller and less confident sort of voice.

“I’m making a fool of myself,” said she, “am I not?”

He sighed and nodded. “I fear so.”

Even from my place in the last row I could see tears glistening in her eyes.

I do believe that at that moment she might have jumped up and run from the place had Sir John not restrained her with his hand upon her own.

“Please forgive me,” said she.

“You are forgiven.”

Then, once again, the unexpected: quite spontaneously, the entire court burst into applause. Sir John, certain that he wanted such demonstrations never again repeated, simply ignored this one. He picked up his gavel and beat thrice upon the tabletop.

“The court is dismissed,” said he.

And so they waited, he and Clarissa, until their audience had filed out in ones, twos, and threes, and at their own pace. Once again, Sir John restrained her with a hand upon hers. But once the crowd had gone, and he removed the restraint, she was up and away in a matter of seconds. She quite flew through the door that led to the “backstage” area, and, through it, to the stairs to our kitchen above. Indeed, even before she was out the large room and into the hall, she had a kerchief in hand and had begun weeping.

“Come ahead, Jeremy,” Sir John called out, rising. “Let’s go to my back room and talk of your morning.”

“How did you know I was here?” I responded.

“I not only knew you were here, I knew also when you arrived. Just at the beginning of that sorrowful mess with Mrs. Penney, was it not?”

“It was, but how could you tell?”

“A certain step you have—a certain squeak in the shoes perhaps. I know not what it is, but it is enough to tell me when you enter a room.”

We left the courtroom by way of the door through which Clarissa had exited a minute or two before. I knew not quite what to do with regard to her. I was, first of all, quite proud of her for admitting her mistake and asking Sir John’s forgiveness before all, as she had done; and a good part of me wished to go, find her, and comfort her. Yet I did naught, for, on the other hand, I owed a greater debt to Sir John; and he had, with little difficulty, convinced me that all our efforts must be concentrated upon finding the killer of Margaret Plummer.

“I’m sure you perceived what had happened,” said Sir John as we entered his chambers. “Mr. Marsden fell ill not long after you left to meet that Plummer fellow. A coughing fit it was, yet I have never known one quite so violent and long-lasting. I fear for the man, in truth I do. I was about to send Clarissa to bring you back. But then she prevailed upon me to allow her to fill in for the clerk. It is not a demanding job, certainly. The real work of it is in the record-keeping and filing done afterward, so I thought, why not? I gave her a bit of instruction and sent Marsden home. The poor fellow had no voice left, or next to none. But it was a light day. There were two cases of public drunkenness and another of pissing in the street, and one other dispute besides the one to which you were witness—just the sort of easy day to try her out. What could have possessed the girl? Ordinarily, she is quite polite—but strongheaded and willful, there can be no doubt. What could have possessed her?”

What indeed? I decided that Sir John’s question should be answered.

“Perhaps, sir,” said I, “she supposed herself at table with us in the kitchen where all speak their minds and give their opinions as they will.”

“Perhaps . . . but how could she be taken in by that Magdalene Penney? That woman has boasted she will own all of Covent Garden in five years.”

“Does Clarissa know that?”

“Well . . . no . . . I suppose she doesn’t. Still, that’s no justification for arguing one of my decisions with me.”

“No, certainly not, Sir John.”

“I must talk to her about that.” He sighed—unhappily, as it seemed to me; perhaps he was thinking of what he might say to her. But then did he rouse himself to say: “Do tell me what you accomplished this morning. I’ve a feeling you did well. Now, don’t tell me that I’m wrong.”

And I certainly did not: I told him all, and he seemed well satisfied by my report. He applauded my threat to Mr. Deuteronomy, saying that a year in Newgate seemed justified in such a case as this one. He also thought it justifiable to allow Deuteronomy to “borrow” the pistol in its case, so long as we knew where to find him and get it back. Yet Sir John became most excited when he learned that Deuteronomy would be riding at Newmarket on Sunday and that he thought there was some chance his sister would also be there.

“He said that, did he?” asked Sir John. “Do you feel that he was serious about this?”

“Oh, I do,” I assured him, “for he told me that once when she had been drinking she told him that she had met Maggie’s father there at Newmarket. She’s a simple soul, sir. She probably believes it will all happen again just as before.”

“Perhaps,” said he, “yes indeed, perhaps.” He seemed troubled; nevertheless, I knew not what seemed wrong with what I had just told him. Yet he explained: “The trouble is with the magistrate of Newmarket, you see. It could be difficult to arrest Alice Plummer, or even to remove her to London for questioning. The magistrate seems to feel that unless a crime be committed in Newmarket, it is no true crime at all. I have had dealings with him before, but each time matters had to be negotiated. Oh, he can be—”

Sir John halted at that point, for a voice, a very familiar one, intruded. From the sound of Clarissa’s voice and her hastening footsteps, I could tell she was most agitated.

“Sir John! Jeremy! I’ve news for you!”

The magistrate, now risen from his chair, seemed perturbed, unhappy with the interruption. “What is it, child?”

“Elizabeth is missing.”

FIVE

 
 
 
 
It became clear, after a few moments of awkward sputtering, that Sir John had no notion of just who Elizabeth might be. Clarissa and I set about to explain it to him, yet, between us, I feared that we may only have made things a bit worse.

“Now, please, both of you,” said he, “let me see if I have this properly now. Elizabeth is a girl whom you knew back in Lichfield,” now addressing Clarissa. “Yet about the time you came here, so did she. Is that correct?”

Of course, it was. Nevertheless, he took us painstakingly through all the information that we had heaped upon him, getting confirmation for each bit and fact until it became evident to me that he had used this as a device to slow things down a bit.

“And you say that she has now gone missing?”

“Indeed she has,” answered Clarissa. “Her mother brought this distressing news just now.”

“Is she here?”

“Oh, indeed sir—and terribly distressed.”

“Well, bring her here, child, bring her here.”

Needing no further encouragement, she set off down the hall at a dizzying clip. When she returned, she had with her a woman of no great age, yet one who bore a face that was lined and careworn; it was plain that the woman had been crying.

Sir John rose, bidding her to sit down. Once he had resettled himself behind his desk, he leaned forward and asked her name.

“Jenny Hooker,” said she.

“And you are the mother of Elizabeth?”

“I am, sir, and she don’t have nobody but me. Her father died a few years past. I’m a widow now.”

“I see. Well, could you tell me how long she’s been gone? All the circumstances of her disappearance as you’ve been able to discover them?”

The tale that she told must have been common enough in London at that time, when such disappearances were reported almost monthly. Nevertheless, Elizabeth was not some faceless name, but rather someone I had met, someone you might say that I knew. As Mrs. Hooker told the details, she began to snivel till Clarissa hastened to her and supplied a kerchief that she might blow her nose.

It seemed that both mother and daughter had been invited to Mrs. Hooker’s sister’s home in Wapping for Easter dinner. Mrs. Hooker’s duties at the lodging house made it impossible for her to attend, but she encouraged Elizabeth to take the walk there and spend the day with her uncle and aunt. This was what she did, enjoying herself greatly, eating her fill—and then some. She did, in fact, stay so late that her aunt feared that it would be dark before she reached home. Why not stay the night? Yet Elizabeth insisted that she go, for she was certain that the long walk would greatly help her digestion, and so she started out. That was the last anyone had seen of Elizabeth Hooker.

Sir John listened patiently to Mrs. Hooker and allowed her to tell everything at her own pace. He waited until he was sure that she had done with all. Only then did he lean forward and ask a few questions which he deemed necessary.

“Now, Mrs. Hooker,” said he, “how do you account for your delay in notifying me of your daughter’s disappearance?”