Jack, Knave and Fool Page 9

  “Right as rain,” said he, as we hiked along together. “We’re readin’ through the Criuoe book you gave to me at Christmas. We’re up to the part about the cannibals.” He paused just long enough to offer me an impudent grin. “Jeremy, old chum, you don’t s’pose, do you, that the head’s all that’s left of that cod in the churchyard? You think he got ate?”

  While he made little effort to contain himself, doubling up in laughter so that he could but stagger along as he barked forth a series of great guffaws, I exercised a great deal of restraint, reminding myself that I owed it to Annie to endure any number of his witticisms in bad taste.

  (Was I then truly such a prig? At times, reader, I fear I was. It seemed to come upon me in fits and starts.)

  Waiting until at last he had calmed himself, I offered Bunkins what I meant to be a rather noble smile; then said I with all good cheer: “No, I think it more likely the rest of him has found a home of some sort in the ground, or perhaps been floated out the river to the sea. But they may now have all of him they will ever find.”

  “Then admit it, chum. He could’ve been ate.”

  “In London all things are possible.”

  Was this the moment to put to him the question I had come to ask? Though not quite certain of it, I had decided to do so and was searching for the words to make my proposition seem desirable, when Bunkins pointed out the tower of St. Andrew’s Church ahead, lying just off Holbourn. My opportunity had passed.

  As we reached the open gate of the churchyard, I saw that a great crowd had gathered there. Had admission been charged, I believe there would have been just as many, so eager were Londoners then (as now) to view sights bizarre and ghastly. They were, as I had expected, rowdy and joking in their demeanor, in no -wise offering the sort of dignity the dead deserve. To my surprise, however, there were a few women among them, drabs and whores most of them no doubt, their laughter pealing higher and shriller than the rest.

  Bunkins came to a halt at the gate. He faced me, hands on hips, a frown upon his face. “Jeremy,” said he, “you truly mean to wait here whilst I takes a look?”

  “Well … why not?”

  “You seen worse, told me so yourself, how you looked upon them whores, all cut up so horrible with their innards all hangin’ out.”

  “But that was different. That was … that -was a criminal investigation.”

  “Ain’t that what this is? They got to put a name on this poor cod before they can find out who killed him, don’t they? If this was Sir John asked you to take a look at what’s left of him and say if you knew who it was, why you’d do it surern anything. Now, ain’t that so?”

  I glowered at him. “What if it is?”

  “Well, maybe you do know him in the churchyard. Ever think of that?”

  In truth, I had not, and so my only answer was silence.

  “Look in there,” he persisted. “They is women in there, and they ain’t afraid to take a look. They’re hopin’ for their ten shillings like the rest.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Then, what’s holdin’you back, chum? Yer pal Annie, she’d not drag her feet. She’d be up to the head of the line, lookin’ and sayin’, ‘Oh, that’s Mr. Whomsoever. I bought greens from him three days past in the Garden. “

  Annie? did he say Annie? This was my chance!

  “Oh, by the bye,” I blustered in, “that brings to mind something I wished to ask, Jimmie B.” Would that do for preamble? “Annie wants to learn reading. How would it be if she sat in class with you and Mr. Burnham?”

  “Ask him, not me,” said he, put off a bit by my interruption.

  “I did. He told me to ask you.”

  “Well, course it’s good with me. Annie’s a rum little moll.”

  “Tell Mr. Burnham that, would you?”

  “Awright. But now, let’s get back to the subjec’ at hand, as Mr. Burnham might say.”

  “Oh, never you mind,” said I. “You’ve convinced me. This is, as you say, a criminal investigation, and were it Sir John’s I would willingly take part.”

  “Well … well …” Bunkins seemed confused by my sudden concession. “Then come on. Let’s have a look.”

  He beckoned me through the gate, and together we marched into the churchyard. On the one hand, I was so relieved at having achieved my purpose that I hadn’t it in me to offer further resistance. But in all justice, I had to admit that Jimmie Bunkins had argued well. There might be much of the street boy in him still, and he might be only just past the threshold of literacy, but he was right firm in debate —and that was the sign of a good mind.

  We joined a line that had formed. Though there were many ahead of us, they moved along swiftly enough so that I had no need to fear that we should be there overlong. Because of the number blocking our view, there was no chance to glimpse at a distance the object we were to study up close. That suited me well. Even if I had given in to Bunkins, I felt a bit queasy about what lay ahead.

  Those in front of us —and now those behind — in the waiting line were, as I had stated, quite boisterous and some to the point of rowdiness. There were jokes —“Anyone yet thought of askin’ this joe on the pole his name? Now that’d be a right queer shock if he should answer —ain’t it so?” (This was shouted out by one of the women.) There was jolly talk about what would be done with the ten shillings once it was earned; most such plans included strong drink and loose women. There was braggadocio and swagger of every sort. But off to the left, there was a lesser group —or a few groups, really —of those who had already been through the viewing line. They were altogether quieter, muttering and whispering among themselves; from them I heard no laughter.

  For our part, Bunkins and I talked little. He surprised me at one point by speculating that he was sure that he might himself be able to help Annie along, for Mr. Burnham had said he had learned from his own earlier teaching experience that it was the duty of scholars to help one another along. A nice thought, of course, but perhaps Bunkins underestimated Annie Oakum and her great desire to learn. I said nothing of that, however — merely told a little of my own unsuccessful efforts to teach her letters, of my lack of patience and lack of system. Then did Bunkins comment quite confidently: “We’ll teach her, Mr. Burnham and me.”

  Throughout all this, I had kept my back turned and face averted from the head upon the pole. Whenever Bunkins stepped forward, I moved with him. As we came nearer it, his eyes seemed to rove back and forth uneasily, and his face took on a more serious mien.

  At last he nodded and pointed behind me.

  “Our turn, Jeremy.”

  There it was, the awful thing. In a way, it was not quite so bad as I had feared. The face and hair had been washed, so that none of the filth of the sewer was upon it. Even so, it seemed doubtful somehow that it had ever held a place atop a proper human form. The skin had discolored to a sort of gray-brown cast. The sewer waters had somehow loosened and distorted the features in such a way that the face bore a slack and doleful expression —the sadness of death. The mouth was open, as were the eyes —expressionless, the pupils faded to some pale color, less than a proper blue.

  That it was indeed a head separated from a body was evident from the bits of dark gristle hanging down from a spot below the vocal cords where the head had been severed. Yet it was a clean cut. Could a headsman’s axe have done so well? Below the chin was the mortal wound —not a gash but a slit which ran from just below one ear, across the throat, to the other.

  I shivered. I looked away. There was naught for me to see that I had not seen. Yet Bunkins stayed on, staring in deep concentration until reluctantly he, too, turned away. We walked from the thing together, saying nothing until we reached the churchyard gate. Only then did he stop and take me by my arm as one might in making a declaration of the most solemn sort.

  “You know, chum,” said he, his voice hardly more than a whisper, “I think I know that poor cod from somewheres, but I just can’t think where or how it was.
/>   FOUR

  In Which Sir John

  Confers with a

  Widow Without Result

  Next morning I saw Annie off for her first day of school. At our parting, I rather presumptuously began to give her instructions as to what route she might best take to reach Mr. Bilbo’s house in St. James Street. She looked at me rather queerly and interrupted me with a just reminder.

  “You forget, Jeremy, that I worked in that house for over a year,” said she, “and most days I tracked back and forth to Covent Garden to do the buying for cook. I ain’t daft. I know the way still.”

  In truth, I had for the moment forgotten. “Of course,” said I in chagrin. “It’s me must be daft. Yet I believe you’ll find the house much changed inside.”

  “All changed for the better, I’m sure.” And with that she gave me a wave and departed.

  Off I went then to do our buying for that day from the greengrocers in the Garden. Annie had dictated the list to me, and it had been agreed with us in the household that such responsibilities which usually fell to her would now always be mine. She would attend the morning session only. That one was given over solely to reading. It was Mr. Burnham’s custom to devote the afternoon to geography and numbers. Annie declared that her knowledge of London was complete, and she had no need to know more of the world. And as for numbers, she knew enough to count her change, which she always did quite carefully, and that, she was sure, would suffice. So it was determined she would be a morning scholar. The afternoon she would have clear to devote to baking, to special dinners for guests which required more in the way of preparation, and to incidental duties as devised by Lady Fielding. Thus were all satisfied.

  Upon returning from Covent Garden, I went at Sir John’s request to his chambers, where he did dictate a letter to a Squire Bladgett, Magistrate of Lichfield. The name had been searched out from a list provided by Mr. Mars-den, the clerk of the Bow Street Court, that Sir John might communicate with the law in distant parts of Britain in matters such as that of Thomas Roundtree. It was not a very grand letter. It simply stated that while in our custody on a minor charge, the fellow had escaped and as a fugitive was now in much greater trouble than before. Seeing that he claimed to be from Lichfield, he might possibly return there; if he should do so, he was to be held until a constable could be sent to bring him back to London. After signing the letter, Sir John indited a postscriptum, to wit: “Would also appreciate any information you might supply on said Roundtree which might aid us in our search for him here.”

  I read back the letter to him in full. He listened attentively, rubbing his chin, until I had finished. “That should do it, don’t you think?” said he.

  “Oh, I do indeed. Nothing more needed.”

  Still he sat, musing. “This fellow continues to plague me. He could not have made his escape simply to avoid a month in the Fleet. I daresay he wished to make himself scarce so as to avoid discovery in some greater crime. The theft of the vase? Perhaps, but as you pointed out, Jeremy, he had already managed to get himself off the hook on that count. No, there must be something more, something greater. Yet I, for one, do not know what it might be.”

  “Nor do I, sir,” said I. “It might be helpful if I went to that room of his in Half-Moon Passage and had a look about it. Something might turn up.”

  He chuckled a bit at that. “Something might, though I doubt it. With the damage you did the lock, the place was left open to whoever might wish to enter. I would wager that his room is by now rather bare.”

  “So did it seem upon my first visit—yet I took no time to inspect the premises. Still …”

  “Still it may prove worth the effort. No stone unturned, et cetera. Why not? After you have posted the letter at the coach house, proceed to Half-Moon Passage to continue your investigation.”

  “Yes, Sir John, and then I should like to stop in at Mr. Bilbo’s house in St. James Street. Since Mr. Burnham declared he was taking Annie only on trial, I would like to see if, perhaps, she has met his expectations.”

  “And inquire as to how much it will cost me,” said he.

  “As you say, sir.”

  “Again, why not? You’ve a busy morning ahead of you, lad. Best get on with it.”

  The old building in Half-Moon Passage was as I remembered it from the day before. What had been the coach entrance, once cobbled but now broken and covered over with refuse, seemed quite like those country roads of dirt that I had known earlier in my boyhood. The littered courtyard smelled Still as foul as before. I found my way up the short stairway, then down the long hall along which I had followed that sly fellow Roundtree.

  Oh, how he had gulled me! My cheeks burned with shame at the thought of it. All of it —his foolish clowning in the street, his pretended awe at my storytelling, and especially, oh most especially, his lurid tales of women naked in the hallway—was meant to prepare me for that moment when he knocked me off my feet and against the wall, slipped into his room, and locked the door against me. He had duped me proper. Sir John was right: the fellow had true talent as an actor. Even as I, in my embarrassment, recalled his performance in Bow Street, scratching and jumping about as he remarked upon the “flea farm” we kept in our strong room, I could not but smile. Feigned or true, there was indeed something likable about Thomas Roundtree.

  I had no difficulty finding the room that had been his. It was, of course, the one with the destroyed lock upon the door. I had half expected to find it standing open, for thus I had left it in my bootless rush to get out to Half-Moon Passage that I might give him chase. He was, of course, nowhere to be seen. Even had he been nearby, he would have been quite invisible, for the crowd in the narrow street — hardly wide enough for a wagon to pass through—was such that none but a giant would have stood out from the mass. Though tall, he was no giant. He had most likely dodged into another court, perhaps sought shelter from a friend, or ducked into one of the many dives and taverns up in Bedford Street. I had seen it was hopeless, and so I had gone on to Bloomsbury Square to seek out his putative employer.

  Thus I came to his door and gave it a push with my hand, expecting it to open. It did not. I gave it another, stronger push, felt it give a bit—yet only so far, perhaps half an inch, perhaps less. Had I the right door? Yes, certainly, for there was the hole made by the ball I had discharged into the door. Had the lock been repaired, the room perhaps already rented? That seemed doubtful.

  Then did I hear movement inside —light footsteps, like those of a child or a small woman. I pounded loudly upon the door with my fist.

  “Hi in there!” I shouted. “Open up! I am come from the Bow Street Court with orders to search this room.”

  For a moment there was no response. Then: “Go away.” It was the voice of a woman or a girl, of that I was near certain.

  “Stand aside,” said I, “for I am coming through.”

  I reasoned she must have some piece of furniture pushed up against the door, perhaps a chest. Was there a wardrobe in the room? I had not yet gone against the door with my full strength. I would do that now. Planting my shoulder against the door, I leaned hard against it, dug in my feet, and pushed with my whole body. It began to swing slowly forward. There was resistance from the other side; whoever was beyond the door had not only barricaded herself but was also pushing back as I pushed forward. There was naught I could do but push harder, and that I did —harder and harder —until at last whatever piece of furniture blocked the door was pushed aside with a bang and my adversary was sent sprawling.

  I was inside. The piece that had blocked my way was a large chest of drawers now flat on the floor; and indeed, the occupant of the room was flat on her backside, looking up at me angrily as my eyes scanned the room.

  “Got no respect for privacy?” she asked.

  “Who’re you?”

  “I asked first.”

  “I have no respect for them who don’t belong — and you have no right to be here.”

  “Oh yes I have. I’m his
daughter.”

  I was confused. “Whose daughter? What do you mean?”

  “Him who made a fool of you.” Then, most impudently, did she stick out her tongue.

  She was of an age for such brazen foolishness — eleven perhaps, not more than twelve. I saw, when she scrambled to her feet, that she was tall for that age, slender and wiry, yet quite undeveloped in the womanly way. She must recently have taken a spurt of growth, for her frock reached down to a point well above her ankles and its waist rode up above her own.

  “What is your name?” I asked in a manner most stern, as befitted my errand.

  “Clarissa Roundtree,” said she, giving emphasis to her surname, “daughter of Thomas and proud of it.”

  “You should not be, for he is a fugitive from the law.”

  “If the law is you, then the law is a ninny. Ain’t you ashamed of yourself? Lookin’ about for nekkid women? Oh, I heard. I know the whole sorry tale of it.”

  She stood, arms at her sides, her hands made into fists. The look she gave to me was both belligerent and contemptuous. I should not have been surprised if she had shaken a finger at me like some old shrew.

  “Well,” said I, cool to her taunts and refusing to blush as she would have me do, “if you know the whole sorry tale, then you have heard it from your father. Has he been back here?”

  “I’ll not tell.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “You must tell, for this is a court matter.”

  “Oh … pooh. A court matter, is it? Well, you may torture me if you like. but I’ll not betray my father.”

  At that I burst out laughing. She did not like that at all. Retreating a few steps, she glowered at me most murderously.

  “And why should that be runny?” she demanded to know.

  “You have got that from some romance or other. We do not torture.”

  “No?” She seemed truly dubious.

  “No. All we need do is put you before Sir John Fielding, who is the magistrate at Bow Street, and you will begin to quake in your boots quite immediate.”