The Price of Murder (8 page)

From mixing with the men and the few women who had thus far arrived, I soon came to the conclusion that their number did not include either Mr. Baker or Deuteronomy Plummer. I cannot say that I was surprised by this. Though I knew not the exact time, I had the feeling that it was still quite early. Looking round, I noticed a man who, like me, was simply standing about, observing the work of the rest. He also appeared prosperous enough to be the possessor of a timepiece. I approached him diffidently and made to him a polite inquiry.

“I wonder, sir,” said I. “Have you the correct time?”

“I do,” said he. “I most certainly do.”

Yet he made no move to produce the timepiece, neither did he inform me of the hour and minute. He simply turned away from me and stared off rather pointedly in another direction. Had he misunderstood me? Was this his notion of a joke?

Still most politely I put the question to him in a manner which could not be misunderstood.

“Would you
tell
me the time, sir, if you please?”

He continued to look away as he said, “No, boy, I do not please, and I shall not tell you the time.” Then did he add: “Go away.”

I looked upon that face of his—arrogant, fat, cold, and utterly unsympathetic—and willed myself ever to remember it. And, indeed, I did remember it always. It became for me the face of all that I knew to be wrong with England.

Then, my face quite burning with embarrassment and unexpressed anger, I turned away from him. I left them all to their preparations for the race meet and walked cross Uxbridge Road to an inn, the Elephant and Castle. They, I was sure, would have a clock ticking away upon the wall; and there I might quench the thirst that had come upon me in the course of my long walk.

True enough, they had both. I took a place at the long bar where most had gathered, ordered a tankard of bitter, and found a clock just above me that told me that there was just over an hour to the start of the first heat of the first race. It should not be long, I assured myself, till Mr. Baker arrived.

Thus it was that I sat sipping my ale, listening to the talk swirl round me. And all the talk was of horses and jockeys, of which might last through all four heats to the final race, and who might then be in the saddle. Numbers were quoted back and forth. At first, I was near certain that these would be the numbers worn by the horses, and then I thought that perhaps those would be the jockeys’ numbers. Then I understood at last that these were odds that they were reciting. Who were these men at the bar? The odds-makers? the touts? I’d no idea, really.

One of them looked familiar to me. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? It was recently, and of that I was sure. I remembered that round face, smiling. The curious thing was that he seemed to know me, too. That more or less confirmed that we had met recently, did it not? He seemed even more certain of it than I, for as I kept an eye upon him—not staring, you understand—he separated himself from the group at the end of the bar and came straight over to me.

“Beg pardon, young sir,” said he, “but though we an’t personal acquaint, I reco’nized you right off.”

“Then you have the advantage on me, sir,” said I, “for though you appeared most familiar to me, I have not, for the life of me, been able to settle upon the specific occasion of our meeting.”

“’Twas but yesterday. I was in Covent Garden on a matter of little importance, and here you come, arm-in-arm, so to speak, with Mr. Deuteronomy. That’s what they call him, you know.”

“Of course,” said I. “I remember very well now. You removed your hat to him, did you not?”

“I did and will again when the opportunity arises. Have you seen him ride?”

“I must confess that I—”

“That’s as I s’posed,” said he, interrupting, “for I an’t seen you at none of his other races.”

Speaking thus, he altered his manner ever so slightly, allowing it to become a bit heavier. There was perhaps an element of accusation in his observation of my absence at Deuteronomy Plummer’s earlier meets. I attempted, perhaps a little too hard, to justify myself to this stranger.

“Ah well,” said I, “’tis no easy matter for a young fellow such as myself to travel so far out of town to attend a race such as this. And what’s more,” I added, “being a humble apprentice, I’ve no money of my own to wager.”

“Ah, but I meant no offense,” said he, all smiles once again. “Here, let’s have us another ale, shall we? Innkeeper!”

He called out and waved to him behind the bar. Then, over my protests, he ordered two more ales. By the time they arrived, he had introduced himself to me as Walter Hogg and fetched from me my own name. We talked idly of one thing and another. I recall having told him that Mr. Plummer commented upon his presence, and said that he believed Mr. Hogg attended all his races.”

“He recognized me then, did he?” said Walter Hogg. He seemed as pleased as could be to hear it. “Let me tell you, I’ve won a good bit, putting my money on him.”

At that I could not but laugh. When asked why, I told him that indeed, Mr. Plummer had also said something of the sort.

Mr. Hogg let out a whoop of delight and then cackled. “He said that, did he? Imagine it, would you!” Then, rather inappropriately, he asked, “You said you was an apprentice. What line of work you apprenticing to?”

I thought it an odd question, coming from him, but I saw no reason to lie or evade. “I’m for the law,” said I.

He seemed to be quite impressed by that. “The law, is it? A young fella like you?”

“I won’t always be so young,” said I, quite reasonably.

“Well, that’s true. Who’re you ’prenticing to?”

“I’m reading law with Sir John Fielding.”

“The Beak? The Blind Beak in Bow Street?”

“The very same.”

“Well, what did he want with Mr. Deuteronomy? He ain’t committed no crime, has he?”

It was then, or perhaps just a little earlier, that it occurred to me that this man Hogg was asking too many questions. “I really couldn’t say,” said I to him. “He must have some interest in a case of Sir John’s, but I couldn’t suppose what it was.”

He nodded and fell silent for a moment—which gave me time enough to glance up at the clock and let out a yelp of dismay.

“Dear God,” said I, “Just look at that clock, will you?”

“Look at it? What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s the time. Why, I was to meet my chums ten minutes ago. They’ll be quite angry with me, I fear. Sorry, Mr. Hogg, but I fear I must be going.” I slid off the stool and began backing off toward the door.

“Oh, oh yes. I understand. I’ll be looking for you when the races begin.”

“Awfully good talking to you, but I must go find them now.”

Calling to me that he understood, he waved a goodbye to me as I escaped through the door. And there I was, ready to rush cross Uxbridge whether Mr. Baker be there or not.

Preparations for the race were much farther along. Riders were on their mounts, circling them about as they warmed them for the first heat. Those horses scheduled for later heats were walked round by their grooms. There were horses, touts, jockeys, oddsmen, bettors, and watchers quite everywhere. The level of shouting and talking had risen to a level I would not earlier have supposed to be possible. The number congregating in this corner of the Common had tripled, perhaps quadrupled, in the hour or so during which I had been inside the Elephant and Castle. How was I to find Mr. Baker in such a crowd of people? or, for that matter, Deuteronomy Plummer?

I plunged into this great, milling mob of people and crisscrossed it a couple of times, looking for a familiar face, hoping to find one before more strangers came and added to my difficulty. Yet, as it happened, ’twas not I who was the finder, but another who found me. I recall discovering myself trapped in an unyielding knot of bettors surrounding an oddsman who shouted his numbers louder than all the rest. Since I could not move, I remained in place, listening to him chant in the manner of an auctioneer as he went down the listings on his slate. In this sense, I was reminded by him of the arcane activities of the patrons of Lloyd’s Coffee Shop in the City of London.

I felt a hand upon my shoulder and a squeeze, at which I turned to find—not Mr. Baker, as I half-expected, but rather Constable Patley.

“If you’re thinkin’ of putting down a wager, Jeremy,” said he to me in a voice strong enough to be heard by one and all, “you’d do well to do it with another who gives better odds. This fella just shouts the loudest.”

There was a round of laughter at that. I joined in, but the oddsman certainly did not. As his audience fell away and began drifting off in every direction, he looked darkly at Mr. Patley and snarled some quite incomprehensible malediction at him.

“And right back at you, sir,” responded Mr. Patley to him. And then, to me, he said: “Come along, Jeremy. We’ve got us a good place to watch from.”

And he then guided me along the course to one of the horse carts placed there as a marker on the way. He was right. The cart provided an excellent view of the race course, and the two Bow Street Runners, my companions, were incomparably well-informed guides to the sport. Nor was I surprised by their knowledge, for Mr. Baker was well known in Bow Street for his love of the turf; and it did but stand to reason that Mr. Patley, who had done army service in the King’s Carabineers, a mounted regiment, would bring with him his equine interests into civilian life. The two men carried on long-running debates on the virtues of this horse or that, or one jockey or another. In sum, I could not have found two better teachers in all of London.

My education began with a question.

“Tell me, Jeremy,” said Mr. Baker, “is this your first time out to a race?”

I admitted that it was so, and, in my defense, offered about the same excuses I’d given to Mr. Hogg when he asked me if I had ever seen Deuteronomy Plummer race. All that I had said was true, of course, yet what was also true was that I simply had not had the right sort of occasion to do so.

“Well, you come to the right place to start,” said Mr. Patley.

“Why? Is this one expected to be a specially good one?”

“Oh, it’ll be good enough,” he assured me. “There’s a lot of good horses and a lot of good riders. But that ain’t really what I had in mind.”

“What then?”

“Well, this right here—the Shepherd’s Bush Common—is about the best, and cert’ny the longest course round London.”

“Just look at it,” put in Mr. Baker as he gestured toward the large expanse before us. “There’s a full eight acres here the way it’s laid out. And when horses make it four times round carrying their riders, that’s quite a stretch for them.”

“I can see that,” I assured him.

“Only thing wrong with it,” said Patley, “is that it’s laid out kind of peculiar.”

“Peculiar in what way?”

“Take a look at it. See? It goes from the start, to there, to up here where we are, and then back to the start again. In other words, it’s a triangular course.”

“They laid it out that way to make it long as they could,” said Mr. Baker, “but it makes for an awful big scramble and pileup here.”

“Where?” I asked, not quite understanding.

“Right here, where we are in this horse cart. See, Jeremy, this cart where we’ve taken our places to watch all, this serves as the ‘Distance Post.’ They’ve all got to go round it and sometimes it gets kind of crowded. If they fail to circle it, or haven’t circled it by the time the leader has made one full tour of the course, then they must drop out of all the following heats. You understand now, don’t you?”

“Oh, well, yes—yes, of course.” Or so I said. In truth, I had understood only a portion of it. Yet, it seemed to me that I should understand quite all after I had watched a heat of the race run.

“Good lad,” said both together in what seemed a single voice.

I hung over the side of the cart and studied the final preparations for the race at some distance. Two drummer boys beat a rat-tat-tat upon their drums, signaling that the horses were to come forward to the starting line.

As they came up, I asked, “Which of the riders is Deuteronomy Plummer?”

“Aw, I heard you met him and came to watch him particular,” said Mr. Patley. “Well, that’s the man, third along the line. See?”

Yes, I did see. There was little to distinguish him from the rest of the jockeys—only the colors that he wore, which were green and white. They were indeed a colorful lot. Every color of the rainbow and all mixtures thereof were there at the starting line. As I studied them, a thought occurred to me, and I thought it might be wise to frame it in a question to my tutors.

“Both of you seem to agree that this corner of the course can get quite crowded as the horses round the cart. Is that right?”

“Oh, it is indeed.”

“Right as ever can be.”

“Then this must be a dangerous spot from which to watch.”

“Well,” said Mr. Baker, “you might say so, but it’s a great place to see the action, ain’t it, Patley?”

“Oh, none better, not in all Shepherd’s Bush Common.”

“But dangerous,” said I.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. If the cart starts to go over—and it’s been known to happen—just get over to the other side and jump clear, far as you can,” said Mr. Baker.

“Good advice,” said Mr. Patley.

Not in the least comforted by what I had heard, I returned to my study of the horses and riders at the starting line. I concentrated my gaze upon Mr. Deuteronomy and the beautiful red mount beneath him. Did beauty, in this case, mean quality, I asked them.

“Aw, he’s a beauty, in truth, ain’t he?” said Patley. “Name is Pegasus, and from what I hear he deserves it. Ain’t he the horse with wings in the storybooks?”

“Onliest thing to be afraid of,” said Mr. Baker, “is that he looks headstrong, and might not run the race Deuteronomy tells him to. This is his first race, y’see.”