Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“Mr. Fuller” he shouted after the constable. “Is Mr. Fuller here?”’

He was. “At your service, sir.”

“Expel that woman from this proceeding.”

“That I will, sir.””

She offered no resistance: in fact, she continued to laugh most merrily as Mr. Fuller ushered her roughly to the door — and through it he did not immediately return. Swiftly, the courtroom settled to silence.

“We shall leave it then.” said Sir John to Yossel, “that you had good reason to leave when that woman came at you. The question now is this: Where did you go then? You have heard it given that Priscilla Tarkin was slain at about three o’clock in the morning, give or take a bit. Where did you spend the time between one and three?’

“I spent them with a lady, sir.” He answered quick and sure.

“Have you proof of this? Will she stand witness for you?”

“She is here. You may ask her yourself.”

Murmurs swept through the jurv once again. Sir John silenced them with a scowl.

“You may step down Mr. Davkiovich. Mr. Marsdcn. call the witness.”

“Ladv Hermione Cox.” Mr. Marsden quite bellowed it forth in a voice far louder than he had earlier used to summon previous witnesses. The reason for this became apparent when a side door to the courtroom opened, and the figure of a woman appeared. She was dressed in black, in widow’s weeds, and wore over her face a black veil that obscured, but did not completely hide her features. From her walk, which was graceful enough but a bit stiff, I judged her to be nearer seventy than sixty.

The effect of her entrance upon members of the jury seemed noteworthy to me. While before, when surprised, they had been given to whisperings and mutterings, and on one occasion to laughter, in this instance they simply sat hushed and expectant, eager to hear the next development in this matter.

She took her place before Sir John, leaning slightly upon a cane which she had used as no more than a walking stick, swinging it freely in her approach to the bench.

“You are Hermione Cox, lately made widow to the late Sir Thomas Cox?”

“As you well know,” said she, her strong voice denying any weakness due to age.

“And you have come to testify on behalf of Mr. Davidovich?”

“Yossel, you mean? Of course I have. Why else should I be here? I wish to prove him alibi, John Fielding — I believe that is the phrase, is it not?”

“It is indeed. And how do you propose to do that without causing yourself considerable embarrassment?”

“I propose to do that by telling the truth and giving no thought to the consequences. To be frank, I am too old to give any thought to embarrassment.”

“As you say then. Lady Cox. Tell your story, please.”

“That I can do quite briefly. Mr. Davidovich — was that what you called him? — called at my residence at Duke’s Court, St. Martin’s Lane, between the hour of one and a quarter past. I can be certain of the time, for I had been looking forward to his visit and was slightly piqued that he had come so late. I heard the hall clock strike one, yet it was not so much after that when he arrived. I myself admitted him. I had sent the servants below stairs for the night. He stayed through most of the rest of the night. I should say it must have been a bit after four when he left.”

“I hope, dear lady, that you tell me this in earnest and not as some high-minded jest by which you hope to divert all suspicion from this fellow,”

“I’ll not change it in the slightest, for it is true,” she declared, and to prove it so she struck the floor once with her cane.

“You may bring shame upon your children.”

“I have no children.”

“Then on your late husband.”

“My late husband outlived his usefulness in any sense of the word by at least ten years. He was, for most of his life, a boring man. Toward the end of it, he was not only boring, but ill, as well. In any case, he could not discharge his duties as Coroner of the City of Westminster, yet he had not the good grace to resign the office, which all knew he should have done. He left me with a house and enough money with which to run it, an income, and a terrible case of insomnia. Yossel provided relief from my sleeplessness. He never failed to amuse me, and that is a good deal more than I can say for the late Sir Thomas. I have always been able to sleep when Yossel left me.”

Perhaps I was the only one to notice when Constable Fuller reentered the courtroom, for all eyes but mine were on Lady Cox as she made the above speech, which was to be repeated oft in drawing rooms and eating houses all over London; it entertained society for near a month, until they found the next tit-bit for their tittle-tattle. I happened to note Mr. Fuller’s entry, because he wished it so. He waved to me until he had my attention, then beckoned me to him. I got up from my place on the back bench and tiptoed over to the door where he stood next.

“Jeremy,” he whispered, “I want you to tell Sir John that there has been another homicide — a woman in the house which is located at Number 6 King Street. He will want to go, as will the doctor, for by description, it is the horriblest yet. I must go ahead of all, for there is said to be a great crowd there gawking at the body and taking souvenirs.”

“But he will be furious! ”

“That’s as I know, and so I’m going ahead to put things in order if I can. You go tell him about it right now, for I must be off.”

Mr. Fuller, whose daytime duties consisted of little more than serving as jailer for the Bow Street Court, had little opportunity to prove himself a proper constable. He wore his red waistcoat proudly, yet the most demanding duties he was called upon to perform were the handling of rowdy or recalcitrant prisoners and their transportation to gaol. Using stout rope and hand-irons, he could handle a whole company of malefactors.

And so he had done when we three — Sir John, Mr. Donnelly, and myself — arrived at Number 6 King Street. There must have been a great number at that address, for it was posted over a passage which led back into a court, dirty, cluttered and crowded, a true “rookery,” as one might then have called it.

We trudged down the passage, I in the lead, with Sir John’s hand upon my shoulder and Mr. Donnelly bringing up the rear. As we emerged into the court, we were greeted by a great murmur of voices. The entire muttering population of the place seemed to be scattered about, seated on the steps and leaning in the doorways — all except one group of five, which stood silent and sullen in the yard outside a ground-floor door. Each of them had a noose of rope twisted round his neck — a noose of the same rope, for each was thus tied to the next; the first and last were in hand-irons. Mr. Fuller held the ends of the rope in one of his big hands. With the other he waved us over to him.

“I sense a great many people here,” said Sir John to me.

“They are ranged round us, looking on,” said I. “Mr. Fuller has arrested five and has them trussed up and ready to march off.”

“Well and good,” said Sir John. “Take me to him.”

(I had done as Mr. Fuller urged in the courtroom and gone straight to Sir John, surprising Mr. Marsden and greatly annoying Lady Cox, who seemed to enjoy giving scandal to all assembled. I had whispered in his ear just what I had been told, and in response received a solemn nod. Working as swiftly as he could. Sir John was forced to take near a quarter of an hour to bring the proceeding to a close by discharging Yossel Davidovich and directing a verdict from the jury of “murder by person or persons unknown.” Then he collected Mr. Donnelly, and we all set off together, leaving Mr. Marsden to put the loose ends together. Thus had Mr. Fuller no more than a quarter-hour, and probably something less, to deal with the situation he found at Number 6 King Street.)