Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“We’ve had some dealings,” I said, not wishing to tell him more just then.

The reason we went roundabout — from St. James Street to Little Russell Street by way of Covent Garden — was that Jimmie Bunkins was most eager to view the sites of the past two murders; the first two he had already seen. It was not mere morbid curiosity that prompted him, for I daresay, his years on the surrounding streets had given him a knowledge of the secret byways of the district superior to any other. He wished to be helpful, and as it happened, he was.

When I led him to the passage on Henrietta Street where the body of Nell Darby was discovered, he remarked that he knew the place well.

“On cold nights, or rainy ones, I used to dorse here,” said he.

“Right here? Out in the open?”

“Do I look like an eejit? No, chum, there’s a spot down here a bit. Let me show you.”

He took me several steps down the way to a spot on the building which provided the east wall of the passage. It was a once-grand structure, built in the old style of wood and stucco. The lower portion was all of wood.

“See here?” said Bunkins. “There’s a door here in the wood.” He traced its outline, about three feet square, which was nearly invisible to the eye, even in daylight, so tightly fitted was it. “You got to know where to hit it.”

He pounded thrice at different spots before hitting the right one. The door popped open no more than two inches. He swung it open to reveal the black space beneath.

“It’s an old coal hole, see? The — what do you call them? — the hinges is on the inside so’s you can’t take it for a door from the outside. This was one of them big houses once where somebody rich lived. Now there’s prob’ly a couple score living where four or five once did. And all who live here now must find their own coal, and there’s no need for such as this. They store furniture and the like here.”

“Where does this lead?” I asked. “Is there another door out?”

“Course there is. It leads to a hall and another door to Henrietta Street, which is kept bolted from the inside.”

“That explains it then.”

“Explains what?”

“How Mr. Tolliver heard footsteps behind him just before he found the corpus of that girl, Nell Deirby. But he looked back and saw nothing.”

“There’s spots between here and the Garden where a body could step in and hide.”

“I must tell Sir John of this.”

We arrived at the stables at the foot of Little Russell Street to find Mr. Perkins “keepin’ fit,” taking great whacks and kicks at the sailcloth bag, sending it swinging this way and that. He was naked to the waist, and in a good lather on this cool autumn day. From the look of him, I estimated he’d been working so for near an hour.

Standing to one side, we looked on till such time as he chose to notice us.

Jimmie Bunkins was much impressed. He watched the constable’s every forceful move and seemed most particularly impressed by the swiftness of his feet — the kicks, of course, but his feet seemed perpetually in motion, moving back and forth, in and out in an endless dance.

“I never seen such,” Bunkins whispered to me. “And him with only one arm. He could take any man who’s got two.”

“He could indeed,” said I.

The stump of the constable’s left arm, just below the elbow, seemed florid by contrast to his pale trunk. Yet I noted that what there was of the arm above it had not withered. He must work it hard in some special manner to keep his strength up in that arm as well. The man quite amazed me.

At last his feet came to rest. He stood quite still for a long moment, breathing deeply. Then he stepped over to a low-hanging branch of that same tree from which the sailcloth bag was suspended and pulled from it a woolen undergarment. He threw it over him in a few swift movements and walked over to us.

“Right on time for your lesson, Jeremy, like the good scholar you are,” said he. “And this must be the chum you said you’d bring by when the chance came.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Perkins. This is my friend, Jimmie Bunkins.”

They shook hands quite solemnly.

“Well, if he’s your friend, that’s right enough for me, but it does seem to me I know him from many a chase in the Garden. If he turned round I might know him even better. It was always his back he showed me.”

“And ain’t I glad you never caught me!” cackled Bun-kins. “I seen what you was doin’ to that big bag.”

“I hear you’re a reformed individual now. Sir John himself gives you a good character. And you’ve grown a bit since your thievin’ days, as well, it seems to me.”

“And thank God for it. I feared I’d be tyke-sized all my life.”

The two stood grinning at each other. I, for my part, sighed in relief. They would get on, as I had hoped they would.

Indeed, Bunkins and Mr. Perkins got on quite famously. After he had put me through my quarter-hour on the bag, which was then about my limit, the constable asked if he would have a go at it. Bunkins shed his coat and went eagerly to take my place. Perhaps a bit too eagerly, for Mr. Perkins thought it necessary to advise him in the proper method of delivering blows with his fists, just as he had done with me near a month before. Bunkins was eager to kick, yet Mr. Perkins kept him beating away with his fists upon the bag, urging him to put his body behind it, to keep moving about, et cetera. It was good for me to watch, for I realized I’d come some distance in my lessons.

It took only about five minutes to tire Bunkins, then was I brought back for another go at the bag. When I had done, Mr. Perkins brought us together for a bit of special instruction.

“Let us imagine a situation, Jeremy, of a sort that might happen to one on a dark street.”

“What is that, sir?”

“Start walkin’ at an ordinary pace, and I shall show you.”

I did as he said, moving away from him until — having heard no sound behind me — I was stopped of a sudden by a vise thrown about my throat, and that vise proved to be Mr. Perkins’s mutilated left arm. There was in it more strength than I could ever have imagined. The stump held me precisely at my throat. I could neither move, nor cry out.

“Now what can you do in such a situation as that?” asked Mr. Perkins, releasing me.

“Not much,” I gasped.

“Ah, but something,” said he. “You can always do something. Let us change places, and examine the possibilities.

And, with Bunkins looking on quite fascinated, that is what we did. The constable and I were near enough in height that I was able to throw my arm over his shoulder and give him a proper squeeze — but not upon his throat, for he had dropped his chin to protect it. Then he surprised me with a nip on the arm.

“Ow!” said I, more in surprise than hurt.

“Didn’t really cause you pain, did I? Sorry if I did.”

“No, sir, it was just that I didn’t expect it.”

“Well, neither will he. If you hear a sound behind you, or get any sort of hint that you may be attacked from the rear, then the first thing you do is cover your throat with your chin. Bite as hard as you can. If he puts his hand over your face, so much the better. Try to take his finger off — it can be done — or rip the skin right off his hand. He’ll let go of you then. You can be sure of it. Then you’ll be free to face him proper.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, throw your arm round me again, but leave it loose enough so’s I can talk.”

I did as he had directed.

“Now, let us say he has caught you by surprise — before you could get your chin down. He’s got his arm round your throat, or p’rhaps his hand, and he’s squeezing. You’ve still got weapons left. You’ve got your elbows — ”