Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

At that there was the first hint of a frown from him. “You don’t mean to say he’s got himself into trouble, do you?”

“Oh no, nothing of the kind. It is a matter concerning one of his passengers some time ago.”

“Ah — well, in that case, you’re in luck. Ben Calverton should arrive from Bristol, God willing, in a quarter of an hour or so.” He studied the clock on the wall behind me. “Yes, if nothing untoward has happened along the way, then he should be pulling in just about then.”

A short line of passage-purchasers had formed behind me. The fellow at the window signaled to him behind me that he would be done with me in but a moment’s time.

“Where might I wait for him?” I asked.

“The best for you,” said he, “would be next door at the Coach House Inn. The drivers must give their report upon arrival. But it is Ben’s custom to have a glass of ale first thing afterwards. I shall tell him you are there and waiting to talk.”

“Tell him it concerns Oliver Tolliver.”

^‘Oliver Tolliver, is it?” He laughed merrily. “Such a name! Oh, I’ll not forget that! Good day to you, young man.”

And so into the yard — coaches and horses and passengers waiting. There was a hum of excitement and expectation about the place, such as made me wish I were part of this congregation, portmanteau in hand, about to set off on some long journey to some distant place such as Bristol or Edinburgh, or even over the water to Dublin. The world was such a large place, and I was determined to see my share of it before I was done.

The Coach House Inn was but a modest place for eating and drinking, where travelers or those come to meet them might while away the minutes in a friendly setting. Though it was not near filled, the smoke of tobacco hung heavy in the place, darkening its ill-lit inside so that one might swear it were night outside rather than day. I took a place at the bar near the fireplace, and the barman approached, asking my pleasure.

“Coffee, sir, if you have it.”

“We have it. You want that with or without?”

I was puzzled. “With or without what?”

“With or without a flash of lightning — in the cup or on the side.”

“Oh, by all means without.”

He returned with a steaming cup which cost but tuppence. Indeed it was strong but potable — yet would it be so with gin, as the barman had offered it? How could one drink the two together? It seemed a confusion of purpose.

Once settled I played a game that many play in such situations — looking about at the travelers and attempting to discern who and what they are and where they might be going. All the while I kept a sharp eye upon the door, looking close at those who entered, lest I miss Ben Calverton.

When he did enter, there was no mistaking him. A great wide man was he, though not so tall. He swaggered a bit as he walked and carried a long whip taller than himself, such as all coach drivers use to urge their horses on. Two steps in the door he planted his feet and looked around. Then did he bellow forth, ”Oliver Tolliver/’ and roared a laugh so great it near shook the timbers of the place.

Heads turned, talk halted, and in embarrassment I waved him over to me. There, as if by magic, a tall glass of ale had appeared before he arrived at the bar. Alas, when he did, there was disappointment written upon his round face. I, it seemed, was the cause of it.

“You ain’t him,” said he. It came from him near in the nature of an accusation.

“No, sir, I’m not,” said I, speaking hastily. “It was about Mr. Tolliver I wished to talk to you. You see, I — ”

He held up his hand, silencing me in the instant. Then, propping his whip against the bar, he took up the glass of ale and drained it in a single draught. He held it up to the barman and another was immediately forthcoming. He seemed about to speak — but no. Again he held up his hand for a long moment, then did he belch magnificently.

“Now,” said he, “you wishes to talk to me about him. What is it you wishes to say?”

“First of all, do you remember him?”

“Course I remembers him. Great big strapping sort he is, taller than me by half. He rode up on the coach box all the way to Bristol one night about a month back. Oliver Tolliver! Who could forget a fellow with such a name?” He punctuated that with another laugh of a volume not quite so great. Then did his eyes narrow as he remembered: “That silly nit who sells tickets said it was a court matter. Is he in trouble?”

“Well, he could be, Mr. Calverton — that is, if he cannot prove he took the night coach to Bristol on a particular night and not on the next day.”

“Which night? Which day?”

“That’s as I hoped you could tell me. When did he ride with you?”

“Oh, now I must give that a bit of thought. I makes so many trips, I do.” Then did he glance down at my cup and saw it near empty. “Barman,” he called, “gives this lad another cup of what he’s drinkin’ — coffee, I s’pose it is.”

“With or without?” called back the barman.

“With, of course,” answered Ben Calverton, ignoring me as he stared off into space. “Now when was that?” he asked himself aloud.

The barman slammed down a full cup and pulled away my empty. I sipped it out of curiosity and found it seemed not so much different in taste as it did hotter in essence. It burned a bit — all the way down to my stomach. It wasn’t near as bad as I expected it to be. I took another sip.

“I remembers,” said Mr. Calverton, “he was traveling to Bristol to meet up with a lady he hoped to marry. You wouldn’t happen to know how that come out, would you?”

“Oh, he married her, sir,” I said. “Indeed he did.”

“You don’t say so! Have you seen her?”

“I have, yes. She seems … well, quite nice. She certainly pleases Mr. Tolliver.”

“Well, that’s the important thing, ain’t it?”

He took a deep draught of his ale, this time emptying no more than a quarter of the tall glass.

“What’s her name? Olivia?” He laughed again, something in the nature of a cackle. “But that wouldn’t rhyme so good, would it? Maybe call her Olivia Tollivia.” Again he cackled.

“Her name is Maude,” said I, wishing we might be past this.

“That name of his,” he persisted. “I teased him about it, I did. After he told me a little about hisself, I made up a little verse about him. I do often makes up verses in my head to pass the time on the road. I think I can call most of it to mind. Want to hear it?”

“Well, I…”

He took another gulp of ale, cleared his throat, and in a loud voice he began to recite:

“Oliver Tolliver

Rides on his way to Bristol,

And by his side he has him a pistol. Oliver Tolliver

By the light of the moon,

Off to Bristol to win him a boon. Oliver Tolliver

A butcher by trade.

He travels west to find him a maid. Oliver Tolliver

He don’t give a damn

For — ”

Then, of a sudden, he stopped and brought his fist down upon the bar.

“By God, that’s it — ‘By the light of the moon’ “Sir?” He had me confused. “I don’t quite understand.” “Why, I remembers it now like it was just the night past. There was a great big full moon that night. Oh, I remembers it well — what you call a ‘highwayman’s moon.’ That’s why I was right glad to have that big fellow Tolliver and his pistols up there beside me, with my coachman gone sick with the shits. Those out on the scamp do love a full moon, as you may know.”

“So it was the night of the full moon? You’re sure of that?”

“As sure as I can be. Not the last night of the full moon, mind. That was All Hallows Eve, as any fool knows. I don’t know the number of the month. You could get it in any almanac, but it was the night of the full moon a little more than a month past.”