Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

The wardrobe yielded nothing but clothes. There were a great many of them, more by far than I would have expected. Some were obviously old and threadbare, some were not. Of a sudden I recalled the frock she wore at her death. It was of good, heavy wool stuff which, with the shawl she wore, would have kept her warm even at the late hour at which she was found. Surely that was new, was it not? How had she managed?

Through the chest I searched, but the drawers I ransacked contained naught but undergarments and stockings and keepsakes of various kinds. These last I examined closely. There were a great many — ribbons in abundance of every color, combs which were crested and plain, rings. I examined them closely; a few appeared to be of gold; others, not of gold, were of intricate design; and there were two in which were set stones of some worth. Most striking of all were two cameos, which I guessed to be of considerable worth. This, it seemed to me, was too grand a store for any single woman, much less one who pretended to great poverty.

I found something of great interest in the single drawer of the writing table. It was an account book or ledger — I was not sure how to call it, for I had then no experience of commerce — but I saw that it was a dated list of transactions which went back some three years into the past. There must have been some twenty pages filled, with thirty entries to the page. Though the items sold were in some manner of code, as were the listed buyers, the amounts were given plainly in shillings and pence. This must certainly go back with me to Number 4 Bow Street. If she were so active in selling as it appeared, then she must have had a treasure trove hidden away in some secret place. I looked around me. It was not a large room. Surely I could find it. And so I began my search in earnest. I pulled out the drawers and looked behind each of them and found — nothing. There were a few incidental discoveries: when I threw the bed apart, I found a dagger tucked in easy reach beneath the mattress, and under the bed was a loaded pistol. Had she them with her the night she was murdered, she might be alive in this very room today.

Remembering my efforts in the Goodhope residence two years past, I look out my tinder box and lit a candle. Thus readied, I carefully examined each and every brick in the fireplace. It took me near an hour to do so. Yet none had been loosed. All were firmly set. Not a single brick rang hollow.

By the time I finished, I was soot-stained to my wrists; my clothes were also streaked; and I was so vexed at my failure that I retreated to the middle of the room and stamped my feet in a little dance of frustration.

Thus did I find what I was looking for.

Though there was a rug covering that part of the floor, I distinctly felt a board give beneath my right foot. I threw back the rug and went down on my hands and knees — knocking, pressing, searching to find with my hands what my foot had but a moment before found quite without design or intention. In the end, I was forced to jump up and go stomping about once more with my heels in search of the place. Then, having rediscovered it, I grabbed the dagger off the bed and proceeded to dig away at a board in the floor of about the width of my hand, or perhaps a little larger. I did then manage to pry it from its place and look below.

The space beneath was filled fair to overflowing with all manner of items that might easily be napped from gentlemen. There were three or four silk kerchiefs, washed and folded neatly; there were three timepieces, one of them in a case that looked to be of gold; there were even two pairs of eyeglasses in the square style that was then most popular. This was a store of goods waiting to be sold. But where … perhaps … yes!

What I sought was beneath the pile of kerchiefs. Call it a wallet, or a purse, but it was of good leather and bound with thongs. I undid them carefully and peeked inside. It was fat with gold sovereigns and guineas, the harvest of three years dedicated to criminal pursuits.

Quite unable to help myself, I let out a yelp of triumph. Then, remembering that only a thin wall separated me from Mr. Millhouse, I quietened immediately; yet I could not resist muttering quietly, “Polly Tarkin, I have you to rights! You, my good woman, were a great thief!”

Barely had I time to present Sir John with the purse and account book (which he dropped in his desk drawer) when I was whisked off by him in the direction of Tavistock Street. I naturally assumed that we were on our way to visit Mr. Donnelly; this, however, was not to be the case.

As we went, I told him in detail of the search I had conducted. I was altogether bursting with pride at what I had accomplished. So it was that when I began to sense a certain lack of satisfaction at what I reported, I hastened to the end of my tale and asked a bit petulantly if there were anything wrong.

“Oh no, no, of course not. You’ve done well, Jeremy,” said he, “but I had hoped you might find letters, notations of one sort or another — in short, names. There were none, I take it?”

“No, sir.” Then, thinking further, I offered: “But, Sir John, there must be names aplenty in her account books. They are in code, but could the code be broken — ”

“Mr. Marsden has a talent for such games. I’m sure he will have no difficulty with the Widow Tarkin’s attempts to disguise the buyers of her wares. But, you see, these are mere fences, dealers in stolen goods. It may be that an arrest or two will result — and that is all to the good. But as for the homicide, I fear that having fixed the victim as a thief only makes the task of discovering her murderer that much harder.”

“Oh? How is that?”

“Why, don’t you see, anyone from whom she stole might seek her out and take revenge. And that, as you have proven, could be one of a great number.”

“I understand,” said I, feeling somewhat chastened.

It was about that time we passed the building which housed Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Yet when we continued on, crossing Southampton Street and proceeded down Maiden Lane, I had a better idea of our destination.

“I have some interest in Mr. Millhouse,” said Sir John. “The fact that he was there at the scene says something, surely. He seems at a loss to explain his relation to the victim. When you went off to fetch your hat and coat, he confessed that he sensed something evil about her and disliked his wife’s charitable attention to her. When I pressed him further, he told me he thought the woman was attempting to seduce him, that she might hold it over him to extort tribute for silence, or some such. That seems a bit farfetched — unless, of course, something of the sort were already underway. Tell me, what had he to say on your journey to Half Moon Street?”

“Almost nothing at all. He seemed quite lost in thought. Yet he did expect to enter the Widow Tarkin’s apartment with me. I had to threaten to return with a constable to persuade him to give up that notion.”

Sir John gave a great deep chuckle. “Good boy, Jeremy,” said he. Then: “I believe we are quite close to our destination. Are we near the synagogue?”

“It is just ahead.” I had been right — on my second guess, at least.

“I had thought to seek Rabbi Gershon’s help in finding this fellow, Yossel, who seems to have quite disappeared.”

I held Sir John at the door to the synagogue. It was a new building of brick, put up in short order by the congregation of Beth El on the site of the old one of wood, which had burned under mysterious circumstances two years past. They had made a proper job of it. It looked to be the so-lidest and most durable of any structure on the street.

“Should I knock?” I asked.

“Try the door,” said Sir John.