Watery Grave (29 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Bailey.” To the prisoners he then posed this pregnant question: “Would any of you care to deny this?”

They hung their heads and mumbled in the negative.

“That being the case, I find you all guilty of public drunkenness and sentence you to seven days’ incarceration in the Fleet Prison. If, by any chance, the
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should make ready to sail and the case is not yet resolved, I shall make some arrangement. Now, gentlemen, the Fleet is fundamentally a debtors’ prison, and though it may seem paradoxical, you will need money there, particularly since three oi you four are in need of further medical attention. I know not your financial state, nor do I wish to, but I do believe there is a way to allow you some modicum of comfort there.”

With that, Sir John shifted bodily in the direction of the lieutenant.

“Lieutenant Churchill,” said he, “are you still with us?”

“I am, sir, ” came the reply.

“Good, for by your own admission and description you acted against the law in proceeding as you did against those who caused such trouble in the Strand. For that I find you guilty of discharging firearms illegally in the City of Westminster and, by so doing, causing bodily harm to two men.”

“But sir,” objected the lieutenant, “I carried no firearm. I had no pistols by my side. My only weapon was my sword!”

“Come now, Lieutenant, I thought better of you. You know very well that the firearms I refer to were the muskets of your grenadiers, and they were discharged at your command. And for this the court fines you five guineas.”

“I shall have to borrow it.”

“Then borrow it. Now if I may continue, this fine will go toward easing the stay of the four prisoners at the Fleet and paying their medical bills. None of it, however, is to pay for alcoholic drink. If any is left over after they have served their sentence, it is to go into the general fund.”

And having so said, he slammed a great blow with his gavel and bellowed, “This court is dismissed, the matter continued.”

Whether it was late at night or early in the morning, I was unsure. I knew only that it was deep dark at an hour of no moon and that we had been exploring the dens of St. Catherine’s Street through the evening. They were, as Black Jack Bilbo had assured us, far worse than those in the area of the Custom House. There were none of the dirt-floored gin dives which lacked all furnishings but bar and bottle, yet those through which we had passed on that night seemed distinctly worse, even when well appointed, due to an oppressive sense of evil which seemed to permeate them all.

How might one describe such an air of malevolence? No doubt the same sinful pursuits were available m Covent Garden to those who wished them, yet I then always thought of it, and today think of it still, as a jolly place, one given more to frivolity than conspiracy. Yet in place after place there on St. Catherine’s, we were met by a sudden hush as we entered; eyes narrowed watchfully; and when conversation resumed, it was to be heard in a whisper. And the appearance of those who threw conspiratorial glances about and buzzed who knew what dark plans to their fellows seemed of a somewhat satanic cast. Lean and hungry they were —hags young and old —and hagridden men. They looked the sort who, given equal opportunity, would rather do harm to a man than good.

I believe I might not have survived my tour of that dark underworld (as indeed I nearly did not) had it not been for Constable Oliver Perkins. Now that I, like Tom Durham, could recognize Tobias Trindle on sight, there was no point in the two of us searching in concert. Alore-over, had we located him, we could have done nothing but attempt to persuade him to give himself up —neither of us had the power to arrest him, after all —and so each of us two was paired with a constable who carried a warrant for Trindle’s arrest. It fell to Constable Perkins and myself to search the riverfront beyond the Tower, which mcluded the gloomy dens along St. Catherine’s Street.

It seemed a bootless task. We entered one dark place after another — the Pig and Whistle, the Green Man, the Quarterdeck, it was all the same —whereat I would look through a crowd gone suddenly quiet and carefully observe their sullen faces. Mr. Perkins would, in the meantime, engage the innkeeper in conversation at the bar, displaying his red waistcoat prominently (which identified him as a Bow Street Runner), as well as the brace of pistols he wore in his belt; he mentioned the names of Tobias Trindle and, at my suggestion, Black Emma or Black Ella. He learned nothing of either, and for my part, I saw neither Trindle nor any of the others from the
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I had come to know in the past few days.

At one point, as we passed from the last to the next, Constable Perkins gave out a groan and shook his head in a great, slow gesture of discouragement.

“I vow he ain’t here, ” said he.” I would wager him to be across the river in Southwark or Bermondsey. That’s where I’d hide —another world entirely over there.”

“Perhapsyou’re right, sir, ” said I.” I’ve never once been to that side.”

“You’ve no need to go, lad. It’s a bit fouler than here, though there’s not so much of it.” He walked along in silence for a bit.” But we’ll do the job, will we not? If they wish us to search this nasty stretch, we shall give a good effort to it. You’re holding up well?”

“Well enough.”

“Good lad.”

It may have been at our next stop, or perhaps the one that followed it—yet not long afterward a break came in the disappointing pattern that had thus far been established. I recall well the name of the inn that marked our change of fortune, for there seemed something prophetic in it: the Queen of Sheba it was called, after the Ethiopian queen who led old Solomon such a ramble.

I had completed my inspection of those at the tables —drinkers, smokers, gamblers at simple games of chance —searching for the sharp-featured, leathery face of Tobias Trindle; all without result, of course. Yet returning, I noted Mr. Perkins standing near the door and saw him gesturing sharply for me to hurry. I was with him in a trice.

“What is it, sir?”

“Come along,” said he.” I’ll tell you as we walk.”

Stepping outside, the constable surprised me by taking us back the way we had come. He was angry, properly seething, cursing under his breath. I thought it best to put no questions to him until he had cooled down a bit. Yet it did not take long until he had regained control of himself and blurted it forth.

“It was the innkeeper of that last place. He was no better than the rest of them, but he did have something to say when I brought up your Black Emmavoman.”

“What was it?” I asked, of a sudden taken with excitement.

“Well, he said, ‘She don’t come here no more.’ And I said, ‘But she used to?’ And he said, ‘Aye, she used the rooms upstairs.’ Never mind what for, lad. I’m just tellin’ it as it was told to me. So I says to him, ‘Where does she go now?’ And he says, ‘The Green Man —and that’s what makes me so damn angry.”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Perkins. Why should that anger you so?”

“Because we were in there eight or ten places back, and the fella there said he never heard of her, that’s why! Thinks he can trifle with a one-armed man, he does. Well, I’ll show him Oliver Perkins is not to be dallied with, not to be mocked. No indeed, I shall not be lied to.”

Thus with muttered threats and imprecations the constable led me the long way back to the Green Man. Though not much taller than myself, and with legs not much longer, he nevertheless kept me at a jog-trot as I continually attempted to catch him up. I hesitated but a moment as he burst through the door and into the place; then I plunged after him. Yet in that moment, he had whipped out his stout oak club and cleared three men from the bar and then emptied it of bottles and glasses; they were still skittering left and right as I entered. He then threw down his club upon the bar and dove across it, grasping the cowering innkeeper by the collar, and pulling him back by the strength of his single arm, he stretched him forward until they were face-to-face.

Then said Constable Oliver Perkins to the innkeeper in a voice which, though quiet, filled the room: “You lied to me.”

One of the three men who had been at the bar began moving slowly sidelong toward the door. Seeing him, I took a position near it, reached into the pocket of my coat, and brought out the pistol that Mr. Bilbo had given me the day before. I showed just enough to prove that I was armed. That proved sufficient. He returned to his former place, and his fellows had noted my demonstration. As I returned the pistol to its place deep in my pocket, I continued to hold it tight by its handle.

“Now,” said Constable Perkins to the innkeeper, holding him as before, “I shall ask you again. What do you know of a whore named Black Emma? Where … is … she? And if you tell me you do not know, sir, you will regret it.”

The innkeeper’s answer came in a whisper, whether because Mr. Perkins had him so tight by the collar or because of his shame at snitching I cannot say. Yet even though I was not far distant and the room quite silent, I could not make out the exact words of his reply. It was not lengthy, but it proved to be precise.

Having heard him through, the constable gave him a great shove, propelling him back across the bar and sending him down in a heap behind it. He grabbed up his club and moved past me to the door.

“Come along, lad,” he called.” We must hurry.”

And hurry we did. He resumed at an even faster walking pace —so fast, indeed, that I was obliged to go at a run to keep up with him. Nor

would he allow me to fall behind. He urged me on with a steady stream of curses well mixed with encouragement.

“I’ve need of you, ” he declared.” Someone looked after my back in the Green Man, and I believe it was you. I’ll not ask what you have in your pocket, but by God wave it if you’ve need and use it if you must.”

“Where are we going? ” I gasped.

“To Black Emma’s. She has a lodging down Pillory Lane.”

“But why this great rush?”

“Because that fool of a fellow behind the bar said that another had come only minutes before and bribed the right answer from him.”

“Bribed? That does not sound like Trindle.”

“Nor did the description he gave.”

We had turned down Pillory Lane. I liked not the name of the street, though I knew not its history. There were many great buildings in it of a simple kind I took to be storehouses and magazines.

“It should be an easy matter finding the place. He said that it — ” Constable Perkins stopped and pointed down and across Pillory Lane. “See it, lad? Stuck there between big boxy structures? It’s the only lodging house on the street.”

“I see it, Mr. Perkins.”

“Here is what I wish you to do. If it is like most such places, it is a warren of small rooms, top and bottom, with a way out the back. The woman’s crib is on the upper floor. I will enter by the front and find it. Yet it will take a bit of noise to do so, and our man may hear and scarper out the back. That is where I wish you to be. Should he come, do all you can to stop him, short of shooting him dead. Don’t worry. 11 shoot you must, then I’ll take the blame upon myself. Now come along.”

We proceeded in a diagonal course across Pillory Lane. He moved as stealthily as he had moved swiftly but moments before. He held his hand to his lips, signaling quiet, then pointed left around the side of the old house where a path led to the rear. He then gestured that he would go through the door immediately before us, where a single candle burned. It was, as near as I could tell, the only light in the street.

I nodded my agreement and started down the path as he had directed. The stench of it near drove me back. Many a chamber pot had been emptied out the windows this side of the house. I would have stepped careful had there been light enough to do so, yet there was naught but a dim glow from one of the upper windows. I tripped once but did not fall.

Little more than halfway to the rear of the house I heard a small explosion, a loud report —a shot! I started to run down the path, unable to see much beyond my hand before my Face. I bumped into I knew not what on my left, careened into the wall of the lodging house on my right, just as I heard the clatter of footsteps above. I had near lost my balance completely as I came at last to the rear of the house. Thus stumbling awkwardly about in the dark, I was ill prepared when, with no more warning than a grunt from above, a man dropped down, not quite on top of me but against me in such a way that I was knocked off my feet. I rolled so as to take me away from him. Yet in doing it, I lost my pistol. I began groping the ground most frantically for it, feeling this way and that.

For his part, my assailant paid no attention to me, nor to my searches. I sensed rather than saw (so dark was it) that he had recovered his feet and was thrashing forward —that is, away from the lodging house.

Just as I found my pistol, I heard a voice cry out from that rear:

“This way, sir!”

Still down on the ground, I had the presence of mind to pull back the hammer. I raised to my knees, peered hopefully into the darkness, and by some faint glow, perhaps radiated from distant streetlamps, I caught the movement of a dark-clad figure some thirty yards away.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

“Shoot away, lad!” came Mr. Perkins’s call from above.

Aiming low at the ill-defmed target, I pulled the trigger. There was a great flash. The weapon jumped mightily in my hand. This one was no dueling pistol but a serious firearm from Black Jack Bilbo’s dark past.

Mr. Perkins discharged his weapon at nearly the same moment.

Yet great was the disappointment we shared when we heard the footsteps resume farther and continue yet farther away.

“Step away, ” called the constable. “I’m jumpin’ down.”

Light on his feet he was, and he landed easy just to my right.

“Go up and secure the room —up above, last on the left, ” he yelled to me.” I’m off to give chase.”

But he was already on his way —and I on mine. I went to the front of the house and through the door. The curious had popped their heads out their doors.

“Back inside,” I yelled at them, then hopped up the stairs two at a time. They were out and milling about on the upper floor. I still held the pistol in my hand, and though it was empty, I knew it to look quite formidable. I waved it about in a threatening way.