Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

Here is what I had put down:

Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court, seeks the identity of a young woman, 15 or 16 years of age, a homicide victim, whose body was discovered in the passage off Henrietta Street two nights past at half-past seven. She is five feet tall and no more than seven stone in weight. Her hair is a dark brown color, and her eyes also. There is a small scar upon her left cheek in the shape of a half moon; two teeth are missing that side, and another on the right side of her mouth. Her face, oblong and meagre, has upon it a long straight nose and a mouth of some width. When found, she was clothed in a frock of homespun, blue in color.

Any who believe they may know who she is may view her remains at the surgery of Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, 12 Tavistock Street, City of Westminster.

Having read through it twice, Mr. Donnelly offered a judicious nod.

“That should do quite well,” said he. ” ‘Oblong and meagre’ — a nice phrase that.”

“Thank you, sir. I had tried to scatter other, more decorous phrases throughout — but they seemed inappropriate.”

“Best keep to the facts in such circumstances.” He took a second peek at his timepiece. “Shall we go?”

And indeed we departed together, descending the narrow stairs, he leading the way. When we had reached the bottom and exited to the street, he offered me his hand, just as he might to any gentleman. I gave it a good and thorough pumping.

“I’m glad to see my surgery mentioned in print, even in such a matter as this,” said he. “Who knows? It may bring me a live patient or two. The dear Lord knows I could use them. So far, all my patients have been dead — not that I’m ungrateful to Sir John for the work he has given me.”

I bade him goodbye, knowing full well that I might see him again soon at the inquest. Then was I off in a great hurry to the offices of the Public Advertiser, located some distance away in Fleet Street.

Had I but known the difficulty I would encounter at the newspaper’s offices, I might have supposed it impossible to return to Bow Street in time for any part of the inquest into the death of Priscilla Tarkin. The clerk who had taken my advert had been reluctant to agree to my demand that it be placed prominently on the front page of the next day’s broadsheets. We went round and round about it, more times than was needful — or so it seemed to me. At last, I demanded to see the man in charge — editor, publisher, whoever he may be. When Mr. Humphrey Collier appeared, he turned out to be both editor and publisher, and he settled the matter swiftly: “Why, of course,” said he, “if this has to do with Sir John’s investigations, you can be sure it will be displayed most prominently. We’ll put it in big type at the top of the page with a black band about it. None will miss it. Please tell him so for me.”

Thus relieved of that onerous responsibility, I set out at a gallop for the court. Shank’s mare served me well, for I discovered upon my arrival that the proceeding was not near as far along as I had expected. (I later learned that Mr. Marsden had had a little difficulty in assembling a jury; the word had gotten round that a shilling would be paid, so naturally two shillings were asked.) As I entered the little courtroom, taking care to be quiet, I saw that Mr. Donnelly had just completed his testimony and was returning to his place in the bank of chairs to one side reserved for witnesses; there were others seated there, some of whom I recognized and some whom I did not.

One of the former was called, Mr. Thaddeus Millhouse, but he appeared only briefly before the court of inquest. Sir John wanted from him the victim’s identity, which was given as Priscilla Tarkin, commonly known as “Polly.”

“And what was her work, Mr. Millhouse?”

“Her work, sir?”

“Her occupation. How did she earn her bread?”

“As a prostitute, sir. She made no secret of it.”

“She also, it seems, supplemented her earnings in that line by thievery. Or perhaps, unknown to you, sir, theft was her chief occupation. We have proof of this from a search of her quarters. This complicates our investigation of her death somewhat.”

The witness seemed quite startled by this information.

“You may step down, Mr. Millhouse.”

And so he did, leaving Mr. Marsden space to rise and call the next witness, one unknown to me, a Mistress Sarah Linney. As soon as she had placed herself before Sir John, he began to question her.

“Mistress Linney, you were acquainted with the woman, now deceased, known as Priscilla Tarkin, were you not?”

“I was, y’r Lordship, but I — ”

“Let me interrupt you and assure you I am not so august a personage as to deserve the title you have just conferred upon me. I would be pleased to be addressed simply as ‘sir.’ “

“Yes, sir,” said she. “Well, as I was sayin’, sir, I knowed her but only by the name of Polly. In our game we don’t much go by our right names.”

“And what is your game, if I may ask?”

“Polly and me and half the women in Covent Garden, we was strumpets together. But I must say it come on me as a surprise to hear she thieved.”

“Ah,” said Sir John, “you introduce a Biblical term, ‘strumpet,’ yet I understand you well and accept the word. But now I ask you, when did you last see Priscilla Tarkin, known to you as Polly?”

“That would be the darkey she croked.”

“Would you repeat that in plain English, please? While the court accepts words to be found in the Bible, it will not recognize such flash cant.”

“Yes, sir, that was the night she died.”

“Give me the circumstances, if you will. Tell me the whole story, as you remember it.”

“Well, there ain’t much to tell, but it was on Bedford Street outside the Dog and Duck, just round the comer from that alley where she croked — uh, died. It ain’t a place where I go, the Dog and Duck, so I was just passin’ by, like. But I hear this bloody roue — a quarrel, sir, a turrible quarrel it was. And I looks over, and I see it’s old Poll havin’ it out with himr’ She pointed at Yossel, who was seated next Mr. Donnelly.

“I take it. Mistress Linney, that you have just pointed to someone in this room. Do not point. Name the party if you know him by name.”

“Yes, sir. Poll was havin’ it out with him that’s known as Yossel.”

“Do you know him by any other name?”

“No, sir.”

“Then that will do.”

“Anyways, I went right over to her, and I asked her did she need help, and she said no. Then he — Yossel — raises his hand to me to strike me, like, then he thinks better of it, turns and walks away down Bedford, toward the Strand. Then I turn back to Poll, and I find she left me, too, headed into the Dog and Duck. Like I said, it ain’t a place I go to, so I just shrugged and walked on down Bedford, telling myself it was none of my affair.”

“So you never really discovered the reason for their quarrel?”

“No, sir, but I had a good notion seeing that fellow Yossel, who had bothered us poor girls in the past, try in’ to rob us of our earnings, like.”

“Had he ever tried that with you?”

“Aye, he tried.”

“Without success?”

“No, sir, no success.”

“Mistress Linney, you were very specific about the altercation between Priscilla Tarkin and this fellow Yossel, yet one thing you have not made clear is just when this took place.”

“Well, that’s a bit hard to say, sir. Y’see, when you’re out on the game, prowling about all night, well, a body loses track of time. Also, I had some to drink that night, as I must admit, and gin does no good keeping things in order in your head.”

“You must be more definite than that,” insisted Sir John. “Was it early or late?”