Bruce Alexander - The Price of Murder

“Oh?” said he, now quickly on guard. “And what was that?”

“She told us that while it was true that your sister had probably taken money for little Maggie, it was also true that she was told that he would be bringing her to wealthy parents who would bring her up as one of their own. He told her Maggie would be happy with them, and Alice believed him.”

“And what did Maggie say?”

“That we were not told. But see here, Mr. Deuteronomy, why not give your errant sister the benefit of the doubt? Perhaps she was aware of her shortcomings as a mother. Perhaps she did truly believe that Maggie would be better off with others. Perhaps-”

He cut me off: “Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Say whatever you like, but the child is still dead, ain’t she?”

“Yes, but not at her mother’s hand.”

To that he had no response.

There were but three pawn shops in the vicinity of Seven Dials, yet by the time we had visited all three, we had disposed of all but one of the numbered bits of paper; there must have been about thirty in all. Though, as we learned, some (a very few) of the items pawned by Katy Tiddle had been sold to buyers off the street, the greater number were still available and in the shops. By invoking the name and authority of Sir John Fielding, I forced them to bring forth the items the woman had pawned. We examined them and found them to be, with only a few exceptions, the sort of treasures that might be fetched forth from a gentleman’s pocket-watches, watch chains, kerchiefs of silk, cameos, et cetera. So, it seemed that Katy Tiddle was more skilled as a pickpocket than as a prostitute. The exceptions-items too large to be carried about in a pocket-clocks, a looking glass in a gilt picture frame, a jade chess set, et cetera, left me wondering if Tiddle were not perhaps a burglar, as well. But perhaps not, for the few clocks were quite heavy-at least a stone each. She may have bargained her quim with a proper burglar for such as that.

I learned much about the economics of the place. Seven Dials, it seemed, was supported by petty theft, for the most part. Bedford Street, by contrast, lived off grand theft, gambling, prostitution, and pimpery, and a hundred other more sophisticated and less legal enterprises; theirs was the more diverse economy.

Then, by earlier agreement, we moved on to what Mr. Deuteronomy assured me were his sister’s favorite drinking spots; each, it turned out, was more dreary than the last. When I called this to his attention, he puffed his cheeks and blew air dismissively.

“They all seem the same to me,” said he. “But then I ain’t no gin-drinker, and gin is what them in such places crave.”

And they craved little else, it seemed, for when we began our canvass of Alice’s haunts we were struck most immediate by the quiet that pervaded them. There was little talk or laughter to be heard-a few mumbles from the tables, perhaps-but nothing so demanding as a conversation. That awful silence is what I recall most vividly. And again, how different this was from those rowdy dives in Bedford Street. There one could barely hear his own voice from the roar of the crowd, day or night. A few even offered music of a sort.

Why, I recall the last such place we called at in Seven Dials-and well into the afternoon it was. The place had no name, or at least none that I can remember-and no sign or decoration of any sort; all that I can recall is the single word, GIN, painted in bold letters upon the door.

We entered, and for a moment we were blinded by what at first seemed a total absence of light within the place. Yet the absence was not complete; a few candles burned inside, and as our eyes customed to the dimness, we did at least perceive the size and shape of the world we had entered. And yes, a “world” was just what it seemed, so distant and different was it from that we had just left. There must have been twenty-five or more seated at tables and standing at the bar. A few of them looked our way, staring at two who plainly did not belong. We were intruders, no question of it. Slowly, still surveying the dark interior as best we could, we made our way to the bar. (I noted, by the bye, that none made comment upon Mr. Deuteronomy’s size at that location, nor had they in such places as we had visited earlier.)

The innkeeper climbed down from the stool upon which he was perched and came over to us.

“Which will it be?” he asked us. Then did he point to a sign up above his head. The sign did read: DRUNK FOR A PENNY/DEAD DRUNK FOR TUPPENCE.

“Neither one,” said I. “Sir John Fielding did send me here to Seven Dials to ask a few questions of you. We’re curious what’s the last time you might have seen Alice Plummer?”

“Who’s she?”

“Well, you ought to know her,” said Mr. Deuteronomy to the innkeeper quite sharply. “She would come round here for her first glass of the day.”

“That so? Well, we ain’t too good on names round here. You take all what’s in here now, about half of them couldn’t tell you their own names, much less anyone else’s. What’s she look like?”

I, who had never seen the woman for whom we searched, could only shrug and gesture toward her brother. Yet, he provided quite satisfactorily.

“She’s taller than me by near a foot,” said Deuteronomy. “She’s got kind of mousy-colored hair, blue eyes, and wears a blue cape that I gave to her.”

“That ain’t much of a description.”

“Well, it’s the best I can do.”

“What about this?” said I. “She had a daughter about seven years old-but small for her age-name of Maggie.”

“We don’t serve them that young around here,” said the innkeeper sternly. “You got to draw a line somewheres.”

“I didn’t say you did serve the little girl,” said I. “I meant only that she might have been along.”

“Oh, well, let’s see.” He concentrated visibly, a hand to his forehead, a pained look upon his face. “Wasn’t there a Beak Runner come around a couple of times, asking after her? I mean the little girl, of course. He said she’d been stole. Now I recollect her and the woman who used to bring her in.”

“That’s her, all right,” cried out Mr. Deuteronomy as loud and jubilant as if she had thus been brought back to life. “That’s the both of them!”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I told that Beak Runner. I ain’t seen either one of them for near a month.”

Had there been mourners in attendance, the funeral of Margaret Plummer would have been grand as any. Strange it was to hear choir and organ in the nearly empty nave of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. They thundered forth in that early morning hour, yet only Deuteronomy Plummer, Clarissa, and I were present to hear. Mr. Deuteronomy sat front and center in the first row, and we two but a few rows behind him. The vicar said a proper funeral mass, at the end of which he ascended to the pulpit and preached a brief sermon.

Sermon, did I say? It was hardly that. There was little could be said as eloquently as was stated by the mere presence of that sad, small coffin before the altar. Yet it was, I suppose, a sermon right enough, for the vicar quoted St. Matthew, chapter 18, verse 6.

“But who so shall offend one of these little ones which believe,” said he in a voice that rang forth strongly and filled the great church, “it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.”

Then, pausing but a moment to look each of us in the eye, he continued, signaling by some lightening of his tone that he no longer quoted scripture but spoke now as himself: “It should be understood that this is the most frightening passage of any in the gospels. I know of no harsher words to come from the lips of our Lord than these. Why then did he save them for those who commit crimes against children? The answer should be plain to us all. Because such as they are quite unable to defend themselves. They must depend upon the generosity of others for their defense. I am told that this child, Margaret Mary Plummer, had no chance at all-that she was sold into a life no better than a form of slavery, which quickly ended her, and. .”