Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“It sounds to be the work of a butcher.”

“Perhaps quite literally that, for one in Covent Garden is suspect. He has disappeared.”

My heart fell. Sir John had never named Mr. Tolliver as such to me.

“Good God,” said Mr. Goldsmith. “Disappeared, has he? Perhaps that will be the end of it.”

“One can only hope. But by the bye, here’s a matter you might be interested in as a physician. Do you know a fellow named Carr? Retired Army surgeon, I believe.”

“Heard of him, never met him.”

“He came to me again — the second time, mind you — urging me to examine the eyes of the victim under my microscope. He’s convinced that the image of the murderer is etched upon the pupil.”

“That old wives’ tale — amazing! A physician!”

“I had to tell him that the eyes, too, had been removed and probably burnt in the fireplace. He seemed gready disappointed to hear it.” Mr. Donnelly hesitated, as if debating with himself for a moment what ought be said next. Then:

“I notice signs in him of the onset of the late stages of the pox — the chancre. I fear his mind has been affected, too.”

“No doubt it has. But…” Mr. Goldsmith offered his hand to Mr. Donnelly who grasped it in farewell. “I must be off, for I’ve work to do. Come see me, sir. My door is open to you, though I must tell you that late afternoon and early evening are my best times.”

Then, with a wave, he departed. Mr. Donnelly turned to me and, in turn, offered me his hand.

“Sorry to have kept you here at the door, Jeremy. A goodnight to you, and my thanks to all above for a wonderful evening.”

“But, sir,” said I, “is it true that Sir John counts Mr. Tolliver suspect in these murders?”

“The butcher? I take it you know him? Ah well, I fear Sir John has said as much to me. A sad matter, eh? Well, I must be off.”

And with that he stepped off sharply in the direction of Tavistock Street, swinging his stick and whistling as he went. I watched him to Russell Street, then did I return up the stairs and the mountain of dishes and pans that awaited me in the kitchen.

During the next few days, I carried about with me a slip of paper on which I had printed out in block letters the names of Mr. Bilbo and Jimmie Bunkins and their address on St. James Street. The day following my talk with Annie on the way back from market, I had talked with Bunkins after our lesson with Mr. Perkins. Telling him all, I asked if a place might be found for Mariah in their household, if only temporarily. He brought back word the next day from Mr. Bilbo that she could come ahead, but while she was with them she would have to earn her keep. I thought that fair enough, yet if for any reason she feared the name of Black Jack Bilbo (as some indeed did), I also wrote down Lady Fielding’s name and the address of the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes.

With that slip of paper in my pocket I searched the Cov-ent Garden district for Mariah. I had not seen her the better part of a month. She had disappeared, as had most of those who practiced her trade when news of the death of Libby Tribble spread through Covent Garden. Yet as the days passed without incident, necessity drove them out into the streets again. Some may have taken hope in the fact that for near three weeks there had been no murders and decided that there would be no more. Others were quite fatalistic. Annie told me of meeting an old bawd of her earlier acquaintance out once again on the stroll. When Annie asked her if she were not afraid that she would be the next victim, the woman replied, “Dearie, it’s one or t’other with me. If him that does the hackin’ don’t get me, then the river will. In the meantime, I need money for gin.”

Thus apathy or unfounded hope were the prevailing emotions out on the streets as I searched for Mariah. I looked most often where I had seen her often in the daylight and early evening hours. Yet time after time I came away disappointed from my walks up and down Drury Lane and New Broad Court. I walked the perimeter of Covent Garden at the twilight hour — to no avail. I searched Duke’s Court, Martlet’s Court, even Angel Court, and such places as it might be foolish to go alone and unarmed and in failing light. At last, I put my problem to Bunkins; and he, ever practical, pointed out that it was on Bedford Street we had seen Jackie Carver, and so it was more than likely I would find her somewhere nearby. “The pimps like to move their molls about, try out new patches, like,” said he.

And so it was that on the way back to Bow Street from Mr. Perkins’s place early that evening, I went out of my way a bit and walked Bedford Street up and down. It was on my way back that I glimpsed her and hastened to where she stood, near the entrance to the Dog and Duck.

“Mariah!” I called to her as I came closer — immediately fearful that I might frighten her off — yet it was a cry of joy at having found her at last.

Yet she saw me, recognized me, and did not start away. She seemed to force a smile as she waited my approach.

“Hello! What is your name? I forget.”

“Jeremy,” said I. “Jeremy Proctor.”

She nodded a firm affimiation. “Is good — Jeremy. I remember it now. Did you bring the money? You give it me, and I bring it to him.”

“No, Mariah. I did not bring the money for Jackie. I brought something better — for you.”

“For me?” She turned away. Then, making no effort to disguise her exasperation, threw her hands up into the air and gave vent to her disappointment. “What could be better than I get away from this? He say if you don’ have the money, you can steal it. Why don’ you steal it?”

“I could not, I would not,” said I. And seeking to explain: “Even if I could pay him what he asks, I would have no money to keep you.”

“You could steal more.”

Had the girl no sense of right and wrong? I could only suppose that in her trade it was swiftly lost. Now was the time to explain the plan to her — and quickly, lest Jackie Carver be near. I whipped out the slip of paper I had been carrying in my pocket. I explained that there were two houses that would take her in and feed her. In the first, said I, she would work as part of the household staff. In the second, she would be taught a suitable trade — as cook or seamstress, or some such.

“But the important thing,” said I, “is that you will be off the streets in a place where Jackie Carver cannot get to you.”

“How you know his name?” she asked, downright suspiciously.

“A friend told me.”

“He don’ like people at Bow Street know his name.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said I. “All this will cost you is cab fare — no more than ten pence to the first, and no more than a shilling to the second. You have that much with you now, don’t you?” I reached into my pocket again. “I can give you that.”

“You give me twelve ned for him. That’s all you give me.

“I thought it was ten.”

“The price gone up.” She faced me angrily. “You think I wash floor for people? You think I sew for people? Here, take your paper back.”

With that I left her, her hand outstretched to me, the slip of paf)er in her hand. As I walked swiftly away down Bedford Street, I consoled myself that at least she had the paper with the two addresses in her possession. I prayed she might not cast it aside but keep it and perhaps later make use of it. I had done what I could, had I not?

That very night I sought out Sir John in the little room next his bedroom which served him as a study. As he had in the past when troubled or hatching a plan, he would sit there alone in the dark behind his heavy oaken desk for hours at a time. Lady Fielding had retired early on the night in question. Annie was in the kitchen below, amusing herself as she often did by singing ballads of the day she had picked up on her wanderings through Covent Garden. Thinking back upon my short visit that evening, I recall not only what was said, but also the little wisps of song that floated up from below during the frequent gaps and pauses in our communication.