Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“Oh yes, sir, indeed it is. But, sir,” he added, “there is but one thing more.”

“And what is that?”

“That woman, out in the alley, the victim of the murder…”

“Yes, what about her?”

“I gathered from what I heard this morning as I waited to go before you that you have had difficulty fixing her identity.”

“That is correct.”

“I believe I know who she is.”

Mrs. Millhouse turned to her husband in surprise,

“Of course, it was dark there in the alley. The moon was near down by the time I arrived to look. And it’s been established I was in a drunken state …”

“Yes, man, out with it.”

“Nevertheless, I believe her to be one Priscilla Tarkin who lives in our court in Half Moon Street.”

“Oh, Tad,” wailed his wife. “Polly? Say it is not so.”

He could offer her little hope, for in spite of his reservations, having now spoken, he seemed quite sure.

“And why did you not come forward with this at the time?”

“I would have,” said he, “but I fear that when I tripped and fell, my mind went completely blank. I can recall nothing of that period afterwards.”

“Well and good,” said Sir John. “I must, however, ask you to remain, for the law requires a more formal identification than you have just made.”

Mrs. Millhouse insisted on accompanying us to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery on Tavistock Street. As I led the way, for I was the only one of our company who knew its exact location, she had poured out to Sir John all she knew of poor Polly Tarkin. Though I had no way of knowing, the story she told was one characteristic of many older women forced into prostitution — a husband who died leaving her in debt, a son who had disappeared into the American colonies, desperation, no way of earning her keep except by selling herself. She was neither young nor pretty, and so she frequently went hungry. The Millhouse family had often shared their little with her. By way of repayment, she would care for Edward when Mrs. Millhouse left on errands about the town.

“Had she no trade? no craft? no means of employment?” asked Sir John.

“She said not,” said Mrs. Millhouse. “The poor woman felt only shame for what she did. We had not the heart to turn our backs on her.”

Through it all, Thaddeus Millhouse had listened to his wife’s dreary tale as it was told across streets and down lanes. At the end of it, he commented only thus: “What she did or did not do is all the same now. We all feel shame before God.” He said it queerly, and in such a way that ended the discussion. Only young Edward Millhouse, who looked to be some months shy of a year in age, had much to say after that. He began carrying on rather fretfully, and by the time we reached the entrance to Mr. Donnelly’s building, he was in full cry.

“Teething,” explained his mother, as she bounced the babe in her arms.

Whatever it was that vexed Edward served to announce us to Mr. Donnelly, for by the time we reached his door, the surgeon had it open, so eager was he to welcome patients to his new office.

“Ah, it is you, Sir John.” To his credit he seemed not the least disappointed. “Come in, come in, all of you.”

Sir John introduced the visitors and explained the nature of our visit. I noticed Mr. Donnelly cast a dubious glance at Mrs. Millhouse.

“I’m afraid, madam, I cannot allow you to view the body.”

“But why?” said she. “I knew her best.”

“You might not know her at all as she is now.” He went to the door to the next room. “Give me but a moment, and I shall prepare the corpus for viewing, Mr. Millhouse.”

When Mr. Donnelly called out to come ahead. Sir John signaled that I was to remain as he followed Thaddeus Mill-house through the door. Fumbling a bit, he managed to close it after him.

We waited — Lucinda Millhouse, Edward, and I — as voices muttered low from beyond. Mr. Donnelly’s was a humble surgery. There were but two rooms. This one provided him with living space and would also do for him as a place where patients might wait for his attention — if patients ever came. They might sit upon the couch where I sat, a couch which also served him as a bed. For minutes Mrs. Millhouse paced the floor with Edward, who continued his fussing. Then, of a sudden, she seated herself on one of the simple chairs which had been pulled away from the deal table in one comer of the room. She began dandling the young fellow on her knee.

“He is not always so,” said she to me in the nature of an apology. “Edward is usually the sweetest-tempered of lads. It’s his teeth coming in, you see. It distresses all babes.”

I assured her that his cries did certainly not distress me.

“It will be good for Tad — Mr. Millhouse, that is — to get away from our room in his new employment. It has been most difficult for him to work, day or night, with all of us cooped together.”

“No doubt,” said I in a sympathetic manner.

The door to the next room opened, and the subject of her concern swiftly emerged. His eyes were red, and though he had wiped them dry with the kerchief clutched in his hand, it was evident he had been weeping.

“Come, Lucy, let’s away,” said he.

Yet as she rose, Mr. Donnelly came out, a small container in his hand. “But a moment,” said he. “I have a salve here for the baby’s gums. Just rub the tiniest bit where the tooth is coming in, and it will give him relief.”

Mrs. Millhouse accepted it rather reluctantly. “What is in it?” she asked.

“It is a very mild mix of opium. Don’t worry. It was used often on babies in Lancashire with no bad result.”

“We … we cannot pay.”

“Take it with my good wishes. But remember — only the tiniest bit.”

“Thank you ever so much. I — ”

“L «o’/” Mr. Millhouse stood at the door to the hallway, hurrying their departure. “Please, let us be off.”

She nodded to us all and scurried after him, pulling the door shut with a loud bang. We listened to the descending footsteps. And only then did Sir John emerge from the examination room.

“Why did you do that?” Mr. Donnelly asked him. “There was really no need to display those horrible wounds in the abdomen. A look at her face would have done, surely.”

“I wanted to get a reaction from him,” said Sir John calmly.

“Well, you certainly got one! I thought for a moment I should have to apply some oil of turpentine to his nose in order to revive him. And dear God, the tears! Why, I thought he would ‘drown the stage with tears.’ “

“It was rather a surplus of reaction, wouldn’t you say so?”

“Well, he had spoken of her as one might speak of a family friend. Imagine living on such terms with a prostitute.”

“And the fellow does claim to be a poet.”

“Well, with a poet such a surfeit of emotion is always possible, even likely.”

“Nevertheless,” said Sir John, “it does make one curious. That is why I invited him to come in and talk to me tomorrow morning.”

“But you said you wanted only to discuss certain details of the victim’s life — friends, frequent visitors, and so on.”

“I would not put him on his guard, Mr. Donnelly. But enough of that, what have you to tell me of the wounds of Priscilla Tarkin?”

“Ah, the victim, of course. Well, I’ve written out a report, as you requested, for the record. Shall I read it to you?”

“No, tell it. That way I shall retain the essentials.”

“Oh, very well. Let me see now.” He paused but a moment to collect himself. “She was almost certainly attacked from the rear. There were bruises left and right on her cheeks, which I should say indicated that a large hand had been clamped over her mouth. A single cut wsis made across her throat from the left. Her gullet and windpipe had been severed right down to the spinal cord. Thus we have the cause of death. The mutilation of her abdomen and interior parts was done afterwards. That consisted of a cut made from sternum to pubic bone and lateral cuts made below the ribs and approximately two inches below the navel. They were deep, long, dragging cuts and did considerable damage to the organs beneath — stomach and intestines were badly lacerated. The skin of her abdomen had been flapped back, perhaps to get at her womb, which had been stabbed through — or perhaps merely out of curiosity at what lay beneath. The intestines had been displaced, perhaps again to get at the womb.”