Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“It’s true,” said I. “We’ve no cause to fear man nor mob.”

“Nevertheless, I can’t wait until we get back to Bow Street and get shed of this cutlass. It’s an annoyance having it rattling against my left leg.”

It did rattle a bit. To me, however, it seemed a reassuring sound. The street was dark; streetlamps were few, and few windows along the way were lit. There were no pedestrians ahead or behind us, and there was no horse traffic, so that the entire scene had a rather deserted, sinister aspect. Of a sudden, it came to me that I should not like to be walking this street alone, nor even less should I like walking down even darker, narrower, emptier streets at night with only a club to protect me. Perhaps I was not as ready as I had supposed to join the Bow Street Runners.

As if to confirm that conclusion, a call came from the far side of the street.

“Hi, you two! Are you Beak Runners? Over here!”

We looked, but we could not see. There was but a dark passage between two buildings. The cry could have had no other source. Then, as we started across the street, I dimly perceived a crouched figure in the shadows of the passage. The figure waved, then stood and stepped forward, beckoning us towards him.

“Careful, Jeremy,” said Mr. Bailey. “It could be bait for a trap. Keep your hands on those pistols.”

I did as he told me until we came quite close to him who had hailed us, for by the dim light of a streetlamp then I recognized him as none other than Mr. Tolliver.

“It’s all right,” said I to Mr. Bailey. “It’s our butcher.”

“Your butcher, is it? You’re sure of that?”

For his part, Mr. Tolliver seemed sure: “Jeremy! How lucky you should come along with one of the Runners — though I’m not sure I want you to see what lies back here in the passage.”

“What is it then, sir?” asked Mr. Bailey. The two tall men were now face to face. Mr. Bailey’s eyes shifted from Mr. Tolliver to the dark space behind him. There was something or someone lay crumpled on the ground about six to eight feet from the narrow walkway where we stood.

“Why, it’s a woman. She’s dead, rightly enough, though I swear she’s still warm to the touch. Come see for yourself.”

Mr. Bailey gave him a curt nod. “I will, sir, and I thank you.”

He moved round the butcher, who stepped aside in such a way as to block my path. I attempted to follow Mr. Bailey.

“Jeremy,” said Mr. Tolliver, “there’s no need, surely, for you to see, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

Reluctantly, he gave ground, and I scrambled after Mr. Bailey.

Indeed I had seen worse. This woman — or girl, for her age could hardly have been greater than mine — was situated against the wall at one side of the passage, almost in a sitting position, sagging a bit forward in such a way that her chin rested upon her chest in much the same way that Priscilla Tarkin’s had.

“She’s dead, all right,” said Mr. Bailey to the butcher, “and still warm she is.” He stared down at her. “I wonder what killed her.” He was not by nature a detector.

“Pull back her head,” I offered, remembering the Widow Tarkin, “and see if her throat’s been cut.”

At my suggestion, he did just that. There was no wound to be seen, and no marks on her throat from strangulation, but her unbuttoned frock invited examination.

“Is she cut open?” I asked. “The last one was.”

“Well, let’s see about that.”

Kneeling down beside her, Mr. Bailey threw open her frock, exposing the girl’s small breasts — but no jagged belly wound.

“Here now,” said Mr. Tolliver, “that ain’t proper. It ain’t decent.” He seemed unduly disturbed by a process I had come to accept as quite routine.

“But, sir, she’s dead.” Did that explain it? Someone — I couldn’t then remember who — had said that the dead don’t care, a crude philosophy at best. I ought to explain myself better to Mr. Tolliver: “You see, if she died by foul means, there must be an autopsy. If she died fair, then she will be taken away for burial in the city plot — unless someone claims the body, of course.”

“I see. Well, then, I suppose it must be done.”

Mr. Bailey had looked from one to the other of us during this discussion, as if not quite understanding the sense of it. It then occurred to me that perhaps this unfortunate had been killed as Teresa O’Reilly had.

“Check just below the breastbone,” said I to him. “See if there is a small wound there.”

He did as I directed, then held his fingers up to the light. “By God, there it is, Jeremy, just as you said. There’s so little blood come out of it I missed it altogether when first I looked. She’s been stabbed by a very narrow blade — one thrust. That’s what done her in!”

I glanced at Mr. Tolliver. He was leaning forward to stare, fascinated in spite of himself.

Mr. Bailey covered her as best he could, stood up, and came back to the entrance of the passage.

“It’s murder, right enough,” said he. “Now, Mr. — what is your name again, sir?”

“Tolliver.”

“Now, Mr. Tolliver, if you could tell me, how did you happen to notice the body of this poor girl here?”

He thought about that a moment. “Why, I don’t know, exactly. I finished late tonight at the stall, washing up and so forth. I locked up and started home down this street, as I always do. Come to think of it, I always take a look down this passage when I walk this way after dark — so as not to be surprised by some villain.”

“And that was when you saw her?”

“That was when I saw something. It could’ve been a drunk collapsed from too much gin — common enough in this district. But I stopped and stared, and whether it was the head hung so low, or whatever it was, I thought it best to look. I felt her pulse — there was no pulse — but she was still warm, as you yourself discovered. Then I looked about for help and spied you two passing by. You had the look of authority, and so I hailed you.”

“And that is all? You saw nobody down the passage?”

“No. The light is poor, as you can see, but as near as I could tell, there was no one.”

“And you didn’t hear anything?”

“No, not in the passage.”

“No footsteps, nothing?”

“Not then — only your own as you came down the street.”

“Where does this passage lead, do you know?” He knew that, I was sure. I wondered why he asked.

“I think it must lead to St. Paul’s churchyard. I’ve heard that it does, though I’ve never had cause to go down it.”

That registered sharply. Polly Tarkin had been found against St. Paul’s churchyard fence in the alley that led from Bedford Street. Perhaps it had been the assailant’s intention to take this body to the fence and carve it up as he had Tarkin’s. If that were so, then it would mean he was still about — down this dark passage, or in one of the houses crowded along the way.

“If you will pardon my asking, sir,” said Mr. Bailey to Mr. Tolliver, “what is in that leather packet you have tucked under your arm?”

I myself had noticed it but thought so little of it I did not wonder what it contained.

“Why, my knives are inside. I carry them home every night,” said Mr. Tolliver.

“Knives, is it?”

“Yes, knives. I’m a butcher. They are the tools of my trade.”

“Ah yes, so Jeremy said. Would you mind, sir, opening it up so I might have a look at them?”

“Well, I…”

Clearly, he did mind, yet to show that he had nothing to hide, he brought the packet from under his arm, untied it, and carefully opened it. On the chamois leather, eight knives of diverse sizes and shapes were displayed, each in its separate pocket. Even in dim light they glinted as Mr. Bailey removed them, one by one, for inspection. Each was clean of blood, and not one had a blade narrow enough to have inflicted the sort of wound I had seen on Teresa O’Reilly’s body and the one described by Mr. Bailey on the nameless girl in the passage. Indeed Mr. Bailey must have realized that, for when he had concluded, he nodded and thanked Mr. Tolliver kindly for his cooperation.