Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

Bailey would have to protect him against the fury of the mob. I was determined to lend him my help in this, and so I pressed on, gaining step by step.

We ran the length of Fleet Street. I was close upon Mr. Bailey and a few others, when something altogether strange occurred. I had but for a moment taken my eyes from the object of the chase when, as I looked back, I found I had lost him completely. I was not the only one. Mr. Bailey slowed, as did the three or four others with him. I caught them up. More followed behind me.

We were just at the site of the old Fleet River Bridge. A proper bridge it had been until, but a few years past, the river had been arched and paved over all the way to the Thames; it was now not much more than a rise in the road. It was here the fugitive had disappeared. The men stood panting, looking in all directions. I went to Constable Bailey.

“Jeremy!” said he, startled, when I tapped him on the back. Fighting to catch his breath, he managed to tell that there could be no doubt that the man we had pursued was the Covent Garden murderer. “He was seen in the act in an alley off Catherine Street — ” He took a gulp of air. “I left Constable Cowley with the body and joined the chase.”

“Where could he be?”

“No idea … He … he was lost once on the way … then seen again. He cut him who tried to hold him and escaped … right down the Strand.”

“Who is he? Do you know him?”

“Never got close enough to — ” He broke off, having got his bearings at last. “Where are we?”

“The end of Fleet Street.”

“At the old bridge, ain’t that it?”

“Why, yes, sir.”

“Then could there be only one place he had got to. Come along.”

I followed him through what was now a growing crowd; they milled about, muttering, grumbling, and quite without direction. He led the way down Fleet Market, which ran the course of the old river as far as Holbourn, and as he went he kept his eyes cast down to the ground. There, among the shuttered stalls, he found what he sought — a trap door situated tight in the street with paving stones all about it. He looked up at me and nodded, having tried it just enough to know that it would open without resistance.

“Jeremy, you see that woman over there with the lantern? See if you can bring her over without causing much notice.”

I went to her and recognized her from the Garden, a greengrocer from whom I’d bought in the past. She acknowledged me.

“Terrible thing, ain’t it, young sir? He do seem to have got away.”

“Well, we shall see,” said I. “Perhaps you could step over this way? Constable Bailey would like to speak with you.”

“With me?”

“Just for a moment.”

She nodded and made no argument as I brought her to Mr. Bailey.

“Madam,” said he with a polite bow, “I am Constable Benjamin Bailey of Bow Street.”

“I reco’nize you,” said she.

“I have need of your lantern.”

“You’ll not have it. It’s my on’y one.”

As if to make plain her refusal, she swung the lantern round and held it behind her back. Yet she did not walk away.

“Madam,” said he, “it is only for to borrow, and if it is not returned, you may have a better one from Bow Street.”

“A better one?”

“Larger, anyway. You have my promise on that.”

“Well…” She hesitated. “Awright.” And she handed it over.

He took it, a small hand-lantern that in truth shed little illumination, and handed it to me. Then he threw open the trap door and let the light shine below. I heard the flow of water.

‘it ain’t much,” said he, “but I be damned if I’ll go down there with no light at all. I left my lantern with Cowley. Now, Jeremy, I’m going to climb down there — it’s the Fleet River is what it is — and when I reach the last rung on the ladder, you hand me down the lantern. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said I.

He pulled out both pistols and handed me one. Then he took his club and clamped it between his teeth. Holding one pistol in his hand, he fitted himself carefully through the trap door, found the ladder with his feet, and began his descent. Then did I come to a most impulsive decision. Laying down pistol and lantern, I tore off my fine bottle-green coat and tossed it to the woman who watched all quite fascinated.

“Take this coat to Bow Street,” said I to her, “for I am going down there, too.”

Mr. Bailey shook his head emphatically, unable to speak for the club in his mouth, yet I followed him down. I hooked the lantern with the thumb of my left hand; only so was I able to proceed with the pistol in my right. I went down as careful as could be, yet when I descended below the level of the ground, and the mephitic odor of the river rose about me, I was near overcome. Whether my hand or my foot slipp)ed, I know not, yet I landed with both feet and a splash into the water below. I held tight to the lantern, but in righting myself with my other arm, I wet the pistol.

It was quite like I had jumped into a chamber pot. Thank God, it was not over my head, but high enough. The water was well above my waist, nigh to my chest. To Mr. Bailey, who was much taller, it came only at waist level. He sloshed over to me, club and pistol now in each hand.

“Let’s be thankful you didn’t douse the lantern,” he whispered. “You’re down here, so let’s proceed. Before you hit the water, I heard splashing up in the direction of Holbourn. Come along. You hold the lantern high.”

There were now no sounds of splashing, no sounds of any sort except for the soft scurrying of rats. I looked about and detected movement on a kind of shelf that ran along the narrow course of the river on either side. We moved down its center w here it was deepest. Though the Fleet was a sewer, it was also a river, and we struggled somewhat against its current.

Along the way, at intervals of about three rods, there were large columns on either side, abutments which supported the arches overhead. It became evident that it was behind one of these that Mr. Bailey expected to find our quarry. He slowed at each one, and was most especially watchful, directing me silently to swing the lantern left and right to illuminate the dark shadows at the far side of each of these columns.

So we had come to ten or perhaps a dozen of these but, more importantly, had just left one behind us. when close to our rear I heard a sound, though not a great one. and I whirled about. There, no more than six feet away, was the figure of a man, rising from the water. He stumbled towards me. I got my pistol up and fired point-blank. It flashed weakly, misfiring from its dip in the water. Yet he faltered before he lunged at me with his hand forward — though I cannot say I saw it, I knew somehow that it must hold a knife. I leapt back and to my left, away from Mr. Bailey, and the blade did miss me. though by no more than the width of three fingers. At just that moment Mr. Bailey delivered him a great clout on the back of his neck: it should have laid him low. but it did not. He turned to the constable, and jabbed with the knife in his direction, which left his hand exposed. Mr. Bailey brought his club down upon his wrist, knocking the knife from his grasp down into the water. Still he came forward like the madman he was. seeking to overwhelm that much larger man with no more than his bare hands. His back was to me. I struggled forward against the current, thinking to bring down the pistol barrel upon him. Yet before I quite reached him, Mr. Bailey delivered one final, skull-crushing blow to his head. The man fell flat into the water and sank beneath it.

”Jeremy,” cried the constable, “are you safe? Did he cut you?”

“No, I’m right enough. He missed close, though.”