The Price of Murder (6 page)

There were firm steps upon the floor of the room just beyond the south wall. The door had been left open. That meant, perhaps, that whoever had entered had no intent to stay long. If I wished to detain and question that person I had best act quickly and decisively. I tiptoed quickly to Tiddle’s door and opened it. Stepping out into the daylight, I was immediately aware that all my efforts at quiet had been quite unnecessary, for the person in the next room was making a great racket on his own. It was a man. I was near certain of it. Only a man would throw things around and stamp about in such a way. I was in no wise prepared for this sort of interruption and would have liked the opportunity to think through my course of action, but, of course, there was no time for that. If I were to act, I should have to do so immediately.

I drew the pistol from my pocket and pulled back the hammer. Taking a deep breath, I counted to three and threw myself through the half-open door and then took a couple of running steps into the room. I came to a halt just as quickly when I saw who—or what—it was awaited me.

One could have called him a dwarf, I suppose, yet there was naught misshapen about him. Leave it that he was a small man, quite small, no more than child-size, yet fully a man. There could be no doubt of it, for, in defiance of custom, he wore a short beard, and, when he spoke, his words came out of him in a growling, rasping baritone.

“Who the Goddamned bloody hell are you?” he demanded.

He threw the bedclothes he had jerked from the bed down upon the floor. Then did he stand, hands upon hips, glaring up at me. Behind him, and to the right and left of him, was the chaos he had created in about two minutes time. Drawers had been pulled from a bureau, and clothing was scattered across the floor. In one corner, there was a jumble of toys, crudely carved dolls and the like, all of them Maggie’s, which, I was quite sure, had not been touched.

“Must I repeat myself?” he shouted out louder than before. “Who the Goddamned bloody hell are you?”

I fear that I stared at him, so far was he from what I had expected.

“I was about to ask you the same,” said I at last.

“Well, I ain’t afeared of giving my name, and I ain’t ashamed of it, neither. Deuteronomy Plummer is what I’m called, and I am cursed with the burden of a sister.”

“Alice Plummer?”

“Just so. And she is the sole excuse for my presence here—her and the daughter she don’t deserve.”

“You have a key,” said I, bringing attention to the obvious.

“So I do,” said he.

“How do you come by it?”

“How do I come by it?” He burst forth with a great booming laugh at that. “How indeed! I pay the rent on this hovel. Ain’t I entitled to a key?” Pausing a moment, he looked me up and down and allowed his gaze to linger upon the pistol in my hand. “Now that I’ve accounted for myself, why don’t you put that bloody big pistol away and return the favor.”

Though I did not immediately dispose of the pistol, which did clearly make him uneasy, I complied with his request and introduced myself as Sir John Fielding’s assistant at the Bow Street Court.

“What trouble has she got herself into now?” asked Mr. Plummer.

“Well, she may have got herself into a bit of it, but we won’t be sure till we find her and have a chance to talk with her.”

“What sort of trouble?” he repeated in a tone of quiet urgency.

I decided then and there that it would be best if he discussed that with Sir John. “I tell you what,” said I, “it would be best, I’m sure, if you were to ask that of the magistrate himself. He will tell you all that need be known and no doubt he’ll have some questions for you, as well. You see, it’s all a bit too complicated for me, I fear.”

He seemed to accept that: “Well, all right. Ain’t that Sir John Fielding the one they call the Blind Beak?”

“Yes,” said I, “that is how they call him—though not to his face.”

“Oh, right you are. I’ll not make
that
mistake. Just give me a little time to straighten up here. I’m afraid my temper got the best of me, and I threw things round a bit.”

“Right,” said I, “and I’ll lock up next door.”

 
I learned a bit more about him as we walked back to Bow Street. Indeed, I learned a great deal, for small though he be, Deuteronomy Plummer was a great talker.

“Now,” said he to me as we trudged together along Cucumber Alley, “you might wonder how a fella such as I makes his money.”

“Oh, well, I . . .”

“Let me tell you about it.”

That he proceeded to do, telling from the beginning and at great length how he had come to London from some town in the north in pursuit of his sister. He found her in Seven Dials, pregnant and whoring and unwilling to return home with him. In the course of his searches for Alice Plummer, he had strayed as far as Shepherd’s Bush. It being a Sunday, he happened to visit upon the day of the horse races at Shepherd’s Bush Common. Now, Deuteronomy Plummer was no stranger to racing of that sort—the hell-for-leather, rough-and-tumble, dirty-tricks kind of racing.

“I growed up on it,” he boasted. “From the time I was just a babe, I had me a way with horses, and when I started race-ridin’, I found I was just small enough to duck most of the nastiness they’d put my way, and just smart enough to come up with nastiness all my own.”

That Sunday in Shepherd’s Bush he made a spot of cash, using his horse sense, and betting on sure winners. More important, he got acquainted with owners and saw that there were few riders in his class. And he proved it to the satisfaction of all when, just at the start of the last race of the day, a horse threw its rider, and, knowing full well it was allowed, he jumped into the saddle, gave his heels to the horse, and won the heat and the race. He won the heart of the crowd because of his daring and his diminutive size. And the fact that he had bet heavily on that same horse made him doubly a winner. Ever after, he rode for the owners at Shepherd’s Bush, Blackheath, and all the rest of the major race meets round London. Betting on himself, and only on himself, he had made himself a small fortune.

“Racing, lad,” said he to me, “ ’tis the only way a fellow small as me has the advantage.”

I recall that we two were walking cross Covent Garden when he did speak these words, and it was there in the Garden, as well, that I took proper note of the reaction of the crowd to him. Early on, out in the street, I had seen the young, the ignorant, and the rude point at him and giggle at his size. He gave them no heed whatever, so well accustomed was he to such treatment by such ne’er-do-wells. Nevertheless, it was in Long Acre, or perhaps James Street, that I first noticed a different sort of reaction to my companion—and always from men. They noticed him most respectfully. A few did pass us with a smile and a nod; another, just at Mr. Tolliver’s meat stall in the Garden, stepped aside and removed his hat; and indeed, he all but bowed to Deuteronomy Plummer. Previous to this fellow, little attention had been paid to them all by Mr. Plummer. We were not yet past him when the man beside me offered a dignified smile and touched his own hat in response. Then did he wink at me.

“Who are these people?” I asked. “They seem to know you.”

“In a way, I suppose they do. That last fellow, the one who took his hat off to me, I see him at every race meet I run. He seems to follow me round, he does. Probably made a good deal of cash just betting on me.”

“Then you’re a sort of hero, a champion to him,” I suggested.

“Something like that,” said he pridefully yet modestly.

“Hmmm,” said I, considering what he had just said. It was an odd idea to me, this notion of fame. In a sense, Sir John had fame, yet his face was so familiar here in Covent Garden that his appearance hereabouts was unlikely to cause the sort of notice that Deuteronomy had caused already. Deuteronomy? Indeed, I must ask him about that.

“Sir, may I put to you a question that may cause you some embarrassment?”

“Certainly you may. Though if I find it too embarrassing, I might not answer.”

“Your name is a rather singular one. How did you come by it?”

“Plummer?” He seemed to be toying with me.

“No, Deuteronomy.”

He laughed at that. “Sooner or later they all get round to my name. I give you credit, lad. You held out longer than most,” said he. “But, well, it’s simple enough, you see. My father was, in his own way, a very pious man, a great reader of the Bible, in particular the Hebrew portion. He had five sons, of which I am the fifth. My brothers’ names are Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers. You see? It makes perfect sense.”

“All except Alice.”

“Ah yes, our sister, our only sister.”

“What of her? I should think a name such as Esther or Ruth would have been more consonant with your father’s past practice.”

“Perhaps, but it was never discussed within my hearing, nor was I bold enough to ask either of them about it. What I have ever assumed, though, is that my mother, who was also a strong-willed person, said that my father had had the pleasure of naming boys, for he was the father of them all. Yet, she said that since it was that the baby just born was a girl and she the mother, ’twas only proper she should do the naming of her.”

“And the name she chose was Alice?”

“Just so.”

“Why that name? Why Alice?”

“Oh, probably because it was her mother’s name.”

“Only that?” He had disappointed me. I felt almost cheated.

That was quite enough for Deuteronomy Plummer. He halted there, in the middle of the Garden, and where he halted, he fair exploded, stamping one foot and then the other as he shouted out his anger. All of those round us turned to look and wonder.

“How should I know how that silly cow of a sister got her name?” he cried. “What should I care?” Then, having seen the audience he had created for himself, he lowered his voice to little more than a whisper: “The only thing good Alice ever done was to have that daughter of hers. Have you seen her? Have you seen Maggie?”

“I have, yes.” I could say neither more nor less than that.

“Well, then you know.”

I feared he would begin to question me with regard to my “meeting,” as it were, with Maggie. And so I urged him onward to Bow Street and Sir John. I was not the one to inform him of the death of his favorite niece. I knew not how much of the story Sir John would tell him, yet ’twas best for him to do the telling. In any case, I got him moving again. And while he would not say a word more about his sister, he spent the whole distance to the magistrate’s court rhapsodizing about Maggie, praising her beauty, her sweetness, her every accomplishment.

Thus it was that we arrived. I showed him the way in and called out a greeting to Mr. Fuller, the day jailer, just to make sure that he was about. He answered in kind and stuck his head out to see what I might require, but then, when he caught sight of him who was beside me, his mouth twisted into a smirk, and his cheeks puffed in his effort to hold back laughter. (What a churl he was!)

“Is Sir John in his chambers?” I asked him.

He gave a hasty nod and retreated deep into his domain. Not a word was said in response—naught but an odd sound that may have been muffled sniggers.

“Down at the end of the hall,” said I to my companion.

I did a fast pace down the hall, intending to distance us from Mr. Fuller as quickly as might be possible.

I paused at the door, allowing Deuteronomy Plummer to catch up, then introduced the two men without much ado. Sir John came forward, his hand outstretched in welcome.

“Deuteronomy Plummer?” he repeated. “Do I not know that name from the world of racing?”

Obviously flattered, Mr. Plummer hemmed and hawed a bit, unable to find words of sufficient graciousness, and, at last, mumbled that he rode “a little.”

“Ah well, a good deal more than ‘a little,’ or so I’ve heard. What a pleasure to meet you.”

“An
honor
to meet you, sir.”

“Am I to assume from the coincidence of the two surnames that you are related by blood to the Alice Plummer whom we seek?” asked Sir John.

“I’m her brother, sir, and I seek her, too, as you might say. That’s how me and the young man here met. I was searchin’ her place in Seven Dials, just lookin’ for some hint where she went to and along he comes.”

“Young man?” Sir John repeated the phrase as if he could not suppose who might be meant. “Ah, you mean Jeremy, of course.” Then, turning more or less in my direction, he said, “Jeremy, are you still here? Have you not other duties to occupy yourself?”

“None that I can think of, sir,” said I.

“Come now. Are you forgetting Clarissa? She may need your protection. You cannot simply maroon her where you left her, now can you?”

“I suppose not,” said I.

“Then on your way, lad.”

 
On your way, said he. On my way, indeed! I was quite beside myself with indignation at Sir John’s treatment of me, in particular before a witness I had brought to him. How could he have behaved in such a way toward me? Was having Clarissa home to cook his dinner so important to him?

I stormed down Chandos Street in the general direction of Dawson’s Alley and the imposing building where I had left Clarissa some time before. She was with her friend, was she not? She would probably welcome an extra hour with her. But no, Sir John had instructed me to bring her back, and that is what I would do, no matter what her wishes in the matter. Thus was I prepared—oh, more than prepared—to grasp her by the wrist and pull her bodily from the house. I should then run with her at full speed for Bow Street that I might return in time to hear at least a bit of Sir John’s interrogation of Mr. Plummer.

I came quickly to Number 5 Dawson’s Alley and pounded upon the door with my fist. None could complain that I knocked too weakly to be heard, as Sir John sometimes had done. Even if Clarissa Roundtree and Elizabeth Hooker were chattering up on the third floor, they would certainly hear my knock as a summons, a demand for attention.