Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“Are you ready?” asked Sir John.

“Ready as we’ll be,” said Mr. Perkins.

“But you must be armed in some way. Mr. Baker?” Sir John called to the night resident. “Give each a loaded pistol and a club — or you have your own club, do you not, Mr. Perkins?”

“Tucked in my belt under the skirt. Never without it, sir.”

“Well and good,” said the magistrate. “But I had thought it best if you were to carry the pistol in your hand. Constable, since we see your task primarily as guarding Jeremy.”

“I ain’t likely to attract any, not even one who wishes me murder. But I can’t go about with a pistol in m’hand.”

“You can if it is well covered. Constable Cowley? Do you have that shawl your lady friend lent us?”

Young Mr. Cowley came forward and offered an old blue shawl; it was tattered at the edges and raveling, yet large enough for the purpose Sir John had in mind.

“Mr. Baker, you have the pistols? Give one to Mr. Perkins. Now, Mr. Cowley, wrap the shawl around his hand and the pistol and cover as much as you can of the stump of his left arm.”

I watched, fascinated, as the pistol disappeared in a roll of blue wool.

“Tuck in the end securely,” said Sir John to Mr. Cowley. “We cannot have it come undone unless by the constable’s choice. Can you get the pistol loose if necessary, Mr. Perkins?”

“Oh, I’ll manage, sir.”

“I’m sure you will, but, Mr. Perkins — you, too, Jeremy — please bear in mind that when I say if necessary, I mean precisely that. Think of the pistols primarily as signaling devices. We cannot have you shooting down the first drunken sailor who grabs at Jeremy. You men who will follow, when you hear a pistol shot or a shout from either Mr. Perkins or Jeremy, you will come as swiftly as ever you can, for you will know it is in earnest. Stay fifty yards behind — but no more than that. And try as best you can to keep unnoticed — though fitted out as you are, that may prove difficult.”

Indeed they were fitted out in full gear; each wore a brace of pistols and had a cutlass in its scabbard by his side.

As Sir John made his concluding remarks, Mr. Baker gave to me both pistol and club. I hiked up the voluminous skirt and tucked them into the belt I wore round my breeches, then dropped the skirt again. They were well hidden, but I wondered that I would be able to reach them with ease. In any case, I reflected, I had five constables to protect me.

“So go now, all of you,” said Sir John. “The fire is lit in Covent Garden. They will now be streaming in to dance and sing. The streets should be empty to you. May God grant us good fortune in this.”

With that, we filed out to Bow Street.

The stream of humanity into the Garden which Sir John had predicted was more in the nature of a swarm. Turning towards Russell Street, we were buffeted and pushed by those eager to get on to the festivities. They paid us no mind at all. We saw no need to separate while the streets were yet so crowded, and so we moved on together, we six, and waited at Russell Street, one of the main entrances to Covent Garden, for the rushing tide of humanity to abate somewhat.

From our position at the cross street we could see the fire burning. It was a grand fire, but not near as grand as it would soon become. Wood was piled high, whole logs in the stack as yet untouched by the flames. And there was more wood to be tossed on to keep the fire blazing steadily. None that burned on Guy Fawkes Day in the coming week would be likely to surpass it, nor would any be able to attract such a crowd of people. They milled about; they stood staring; a few had begun to dance. How folk do love a fire!

Eventually did the rush cease. We crossed Russell Street together, but then, seeing Charles Street near empty before us, we spread out in the manner suggested by Sir John. Constable Perkins took the lead, and I followed some twenty yards behind. The four constables trailed not quite fifty yards to my rear, two on either side of Charles Street.

Our plan was to make a square about Covent Garden, and if nothing untoward occurred, we should then make another square, but again, if nothing were to have happened, we would concentrate our attention upon those places that were deemed most dangerous — tempting fate, as it were.

I looked ahead. Even at a distance, Mr. Perkins seemed nothing more nor less than a man in skirts. Not only had the rouge applied by Annie failed to disguise and soften his mannish features, he himself did nothing to alter his bearing. He moved along Charles Street in lengthy strides, turning watchfully right and left exactly as any constable might have done. Surely if the murderer saw him, close up or even from afar, he would know that something was amiss.

Behind me, the escort played their role a bit better. Their movement could be detected, and brief glints from their scabbards, but they went silently in the shadows, wholly visible only beneath the streetlamps; the light of the full moon had not yet touched Charles Street.

And I? I minced a bit as I walked, moving not too swiftly, seeking to appear in some sense available as I had observed such women to do.

In just such a manner did our strange procession turn down Tavistock Street, walk its length, cross Southampton, and proceed down Maiden Lane: The moonlight hit more direct in these quarters. The constables to my rear could no longer seclude themselves as they had, moving from shadow to shadow. Yet they managed to disguise their purpose by strolling, as one might say, in a way quite indifferent to me and Mr. Perkins, There were a few pedestrians on Maiden Lane; they seemed to take no notice of us, passing without suspicion, or even curiosity.

Then on to Bedford Street, which seemed to offer some threat, as it was off that wide way, with its stews and taverns of bad repute, that the mutilated body of Poll Tarkin had been found. Mr. Perkins seemed to be pulling away from me with his long strides and was now near as distant as the team of constables behind me.

I recall that I had gone no more than twenty paces down Bedford, having left my escort temporarily back on Maiden Lane, when a couple came blindly out of one of the gin dives and collided with me. I made to walk on, but of a sudden was jerked roughly back by a male hand.

“Here you! What kind of a blowen are you that you don’t say you’re sorry when you knock into a joe? I’ll give you a proper kick in the arse, I will.”

I knew that voice. Those words, delivered in a shower of spittle and a fog of gin breath, could have come only from Jackie Carver. I needed only to glance at his face to confirm that. I shook loose from his grip, but he grabbed at me again.

“Now, just where — ” There he stopped and let out a sudden giggling laugh. “Just look, look who this is, Mariah! It’s your joe from the Beak. He’s all done up like a moll, he is — lispers and cheeks all painted in rouge like yours.”

It was indeed Mariah who was with him. Having hung back, she came forward, staggering slightly under the weight of gin she had drunk. She thrust her head at me, with some difficulty focused her eyes, and laughed at me.

“ Dio mio, e vero! Is true, is him!” And she laughed again.

She reached at my face, as if to smear the rouge away. I pulled back. He jerked at my arm, and I, moved to action at last, delivered a stout blow to his chest and sent him reeling back. He looked at me quite in disbelief.

“You know who I am, chum?” he shouted. “What I could do to you?”

And just as he was reaching behind him, ready to propel himself at me, he found himself in the grasp of stout arms, several of them, for my escort had caught up with me at last. And just as sudden was Mr. Perkins beside me, asking if I were all right. The pistol he carried was out from its wrapping.