Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

Mariah looked round her in confusion, eyes wide, saying nothing.

Jackie Carver understood his situation ‘most immediate. “Aw, now, gents, leave off, leave off. Just a bit of a misunderstanding, as you might say. I thought this here blowen was out on the stroll. If it’s a Beak matter, I’ll have no part. Just leave me be.”

“Get along with you, Jeremy,” said Constable Cowley. “We’ll take care of this one.”

“Come along, lad,” said Mr. Perkins. “Perhaps we should walk together.”

“I think not, sir. But let us stay closer.”

“You walk too slow.”

“No, sir, if I may say so, sir, you walk too fast — as a man would. Could you try to be more … more womanly in your walk?”

He looked at me angrily and seemed about to speak. But then, for a long moment, he held his tongue. “I’ll try,” said he at last.

Turning away, he went swiftly to a point fifteen or twenty yards down Bedford Street, stopped, and waved me forward. I followed, walking much as I had before, keenly aware that I was being watched by Mariah and her protector. I felt shamed at the thought, yet I continued, for this was, after all, a Beak matter.

Poor Mr. Perkins, he did his best. He could not mince, for I doubt he knew how, yet he did take shorter steps and not full man-sized strides. The gait that resulted was something in the nature of a shuffle — certainly an improvement. Yet he was impeded further by the shawl he had been given by Constable Cowley, for he sought to cover the pistol with it. He stopped and bent to it, seeking to use his stump to wrap it — quite impossible, of course. I hastened forward to help, but he waved me back. In the end, he simply allowed the shawl to dangle over the pistol. Covered it was, but it might not stay so for long. Yet we proceeded.

I wished powerfully that I had dealt swifter with that fellow Jackie. Why had I stood there dumbly and let him hold me? Why had I allowed Mariah to laugh at me? Why? Why? Why? I found myself trembling with frustration at the incident that was now minutes past. It was, I decided, best to put it out of my mind. Later, when I had the opportunity, I would think it through as best I could.

Looking about me as I passed the alley that led to St. Paul’s churchyard, I saw the yellow-red glow of the great bonfire in Covent Garden, and I heard the roar of the crowd made greater there. And, as I looked, I was surprised to see a wagon stopped in the alley with no driver about — something not surprising in itself, but this wagon was unmistakably the Raker’s own. Of that I was sure. Though I could not see the crude death’s head painted upon the side of it, I would have recognized those skeletal, somnolent horses anywhere. Each was a spectral gray, and each stood, head bowed, on trembling legs. I wondered where the Raker himself might be, though of course I knew his errand. Perhaps he was in that very building where his wagon was halted. Perhaps some poor soul who had lived behind one of those windows had expired from sickness or poverty. Better that, thought I, than dying the victim of a murderer. And then did a shudder pass through me.

At the end of Bedford Street, Mr. Perkins crossed into King Street. I slowed, for I saw him stop directly in front of Number 6 — Queen’s Court, the site of the last and most inhuman homicide. I wondered if he intended to enter the court to search it through. Had he heard something? Seen something? No, again he was trying to wrap that shawl round the pistol — this time using his teeth. I came up closer behind him, intending to insist upon giving him my help.

I was just at the passageway leading to the adjoining court, which was known as Three Kings, when I was pulled bodily into the passage by an assailant who had been altogether invisible to me — as indeed he remained invisible to me as I was dragged back into the dark passage.

One hand was clapped over my mouth so that I could not cry out. My right arm was twisted behind my back. It was a foul-smelling hand, and it tasted even fouler when I bit down upon it. I bit hard on one finger. I grinded and chewed, never letting it loose from my teeth. And as I did so. I beat hard as I was able with my left elbow upon the ribs of my attacker. He was large, as I could tell from the strength of him, and he was near as wide as he was tall. My feet were of no use as he pulled me back and back towards the court, but I tasted his blood in my mouth, and I knew he could not keep his hand there much longer. We stopped, and I slammed the heel of my shoe down onto his foot. With that he let go all but my arm, and I squirmed round to face him.

By God, it was the Raker! I saw him plain in a patch of moonlight.

”Perkins!’ I shouted out, loud as ever I could.

I heard footsteps from the street as he let go my arm, and a blade glinted in his right hand. He came lumbering at me, and I dodged him as we circled. He now had his back to King Street as Mr. Perkins appeared in the entrance to the passage, the pistol in his hand. I backed up.

The Raker must have sensed him there, for then did he come running at me down the narrow passage as fast as those bandy legs of his could move him. I saw he had no intention of stopping. I feinted left and jumped right — away from the knife. But as he passed, he threw me against the wall of the passage. Just as I heard Mr. Perkins fire his pistol, my head hit the brick wall, and I slipped into the black void of the unconscious state.

When next I came to myself I was quite alone, though no longer in the passageway. Of that I was sure, for I ran my hands over the space where I lay and found I was in a bed. My bed? With some effort I opened my eyes and found, casting them about, that yes, I was in my own bed in my own attic room. I made to rise, but the sudden pain at the back of my head sent me back ‘most immediate to my pillow. I touched my aching head and found it wrapped round in a great bandage.

How long had I been here? How long unconscious? How even had I got here?

I concentrated upon the events just preceding my loss of consciousness. They were clear in my mind, and for that I was grateful for I had heard that a knock on the head can sometimes cause a loss of memory, sometimes complete. I remembered it all too well — being dragged into the passage, fighting back as best I could, the taste of blood in my mouth, then breaking away and finding, to my astonishment, that it was the Raker who was my assailant. I remembered also being thrown against the wall by him as Mr. Perkins fired his pistol. Could he have hit me? Was that what caused this awful pain at the back of my head? No, more likely my head had hit some sharp brick, a place where the mortar had crumbled away. Perhaps my poor head had been broken. It felt quite so.

So Mr. Perkins had shot the Raker. The murders were done. I was content in that, and thus content and glad to be in my own bed, I fell unconscious again. Yet it was sleep that came, and quite welcome it was. My dreams were most plea.sant. I was on shipboard, a sturdy vessel with billowing sails which cut through the waves as smooth as a coach-and-four on a well-paved road. Mariah was beside me. We walked the decks together, fore and aft, feeling the wind in our faces. She did not laugh at me, but earnestly told me of her love for me. The seamen treated us with great respect, doffing their hats to us. And the captain of the ship, who was my near-brother, Tom Durham, invited us to the poop deck where he stood in his place of command. He opened a great, long telescope and took a view of what lay ahead. ”Land ho!” said he. “I see the Massachusetts shore.” Then did Annie Oakum appear.

Yet it was truly her and not a part in the dream. She had entered the room. My head was turned to her, and my eyes had opened; there was still moonlight enough for me to know her for who she was.