Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

It consisted of two elements. There would be, first of all, a great bonfire lit in the middle of Covent Garden once the stalls were shut, the carts removed, and dark had fallen. It would, said Sir John, attract all the rowdy and lawless, and bring the many prostitutes off the streets in celebration of the night. “They are at bottom simple people,” said he when he announced the plan to his constables the night before its execution, “and will not be able to resist the opportunity to frolic before the flames. The last witch-burning took place early in this century. They have heard tales of such. We shall give them everything but a witch to bum — all, including chestnuts to roast. Mr. Marsden, make a note of that. There must be an abundance of chestnuts. A great many of you will be needed to keep order at this event. I have arranged for a fire brigade to be present to keep the fire properly under control. A windy night, unfortunately, must cancel our plans. But I expect a clear, still night.”

A murmur of approval went round the group which crowded Sir John’s chamber. However, the next part of his plan received no such approbation. It would require certain constables to go out armed, yet dressed as women, and another small force to follow them in stealth so that they may come swiftly should the decoys be attacked. ‘The idea, you see,” said Sir John, “is to take the potential victims off the street, or significantly reduce their number, and put our own men there dressed as women, so that they may meet the murderer and subdue him.”

Sir John was then met by absolute silence. It soon developed that none among them cared to volunteer to dress as women. When he made the call, not one stepped forward.

“Come now, gentlemen. This is no time to play shy. Decoys are called for, and decoys we must have.”

Again, there was only silence. I felt embarrassed by the lack of response — whether for Sir John or on behalf of the constables I was uncertain, yet nevertheless embarrassed.

Mr. Benjamin Bailey, their captain, then spoke up. “Sir John,” said he, “beggin’ your pardon, but I don’t think there’s a one of us would properly deceive your man, no matter you dressed us up in silk and laces. We’re all just too damned big.”

I looked about me. In truth, he was right. The men in the room all seemed to stand six feet or more — with perhaps two exceptions, and I was one of them. I knew it to be true that Mr. Bailey took size into consideration in choosing his constables. Hardly thinking more upon it, I myself stepped out from my place against the wall.

“I will volunteer,” said I, “for I am of the right size.”

“That was you spoke up, Jeremy,” said Sir John.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then step back,” said he. “This is no task for a lad.”

“I will not withdraw, sir. I am as capable of handling myself in an attack as anyone here.”

There was a bit of scoffing laughter at my boast. But one did come forth in my defense.

“Sir,” said Mr. Perkins, “the lad has not been tried as yet, but he’s learned well as any could. Take him, and you’ll have two, for much as I hate the notion of going about in skirts, I would wear them to see that no harm came to him.”

“And you would be Mr. Perkins, would you not?”

“I am, sir, and I am of a height might deceive an attacker. The Irish woman who was the first victim was no shorter than me.”

Sir John sat quiet behind his desk. Then, of a sudden, did he slap the top of it with the flat of his hand.

“By God, I like it not, for I had hoped to put five or six out on separate streets. And most particularly do I not like the idea of using a boy of fourteen in such a way. Yet there are times when necessity forces us to make do with what is given us. I accept Mr. Perkins and Mr. Proctor as my decoys — though against my better judgment.”

At that there were no ringing huzzahs and no applause. The only response from the constables was an uneasy shuffling of feet. Yet I chose that moment to speak forth.

“Sir John?”

“What is it, Jeremy?”

“I wish to correct you, sir. I am not fourteen years old. I am fifteen.”

There comes a time when one may regret one’s impulsive actions — or if not exactly regret, then to question them. That time came for me when, alone in my attic room, I donned the old frayed frock supplied by Lady Fielding from the store collected for the residents of the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes. It fit well enough, except in the shoulders, which had been altered to suit me better; the hem of the skirt had also been let down to cover my ankles and hide my feet. As I moved about the room, testing the shoulders which were still a bit tight, and noticing that the skirt impeded my stride somewhat, I truly had second thoughts about Sir John’s plan and my part in it. Yet I knew such thoughts would change neither. Night was falling; the great bonfire in Covent Garden was about to be lit; the crowd would now be swiftly assembling. There was naught for me but to descend the stairs for the next step in my disguise — that which I dreaded most.

The length of the skirt proved a hazard on the stairs until I remembered the device by which women dealt with them and raised the skirt daintily to my ankles. Thus I arrived in the kitchen where I was met by Lady Fielding, Annie, and Constable Perkins.

I saw in him the fate that awaited me. Not only had his cheeks and lips been rouged, he had also been adorned with a cotton cap of the kind worn by women in that day, now a bit out of fashion. Yet what had been done to him had in no wise softened his strong, emphatic features. He looked, truth to tell, simply like Constable Perkins in rouge and a silly cap.

“Oh, Jeremy, sit down.” said Lady Fielding. ‘T’m told we must hurry. Annie will apply the rouge.”

“You’ll not know yourself when I finish,” said Annie. It sounded to me quite like a threat.

Mr. Perkins said nothing. He averted his face, pretending to look out the window, where there was naught to be seen but the rising orange moon.

As I seated myself uneasily, Annie dipped two fingers in the tinned rouge container and set to her task. After a moment she gave me an annoyed tap on the top of my head.

“Don’t fidget so,” said she. “I’ll never get this on you proper.”

I remained then obediently still. I wanted only to get this done as swift as might be.

“Constable Perkins presented quite a challenge,” said Lady Fielding. “The poor man has hair all the way up to the hollow of his neck. We had to shave it off.”

“And they cut me up proper doin’ it,” he grumbled.

“We couldn’t let him out like he was,” said Annie. “He’d fool no one.”

One way or another, Annie completed her task. She offered me a mirror, but I declined.

“You look a proper bawd,” said she to me. “A bit husky, like a farm girl, but many such are known on the street.”

“Now this,” said Lady Fielding, holding out a cotton cap like the one worn by Mr. Perkins, “should crown you properly.”

She placed it on my head and tied it beneath my chin.

“I think we’ve done all that need be done, don’t you, Annie?” said she.

“Yes, mum,” said Annie, with a glance at Mr. Perkins, “or could be done.”

Then did Mr. Perkins speak up rather gruffly: “All right, Jeremy, let’s get on with it.”

And so, with a nod to the women, I followed the constable down the stairs. There waited Sir John and the team of four Runners who were to follow us at a discreet distance.

Though I saw surprise and amusement in the faces of the four, not one word was said, and not so much as a giggle was heard. Silenced they were utterly by the furious, threatening look given them by Mr. Perkins.