Bruce Alexander - The Price of Murder

“I’ll be right here,” said she.

“Very good.”

With that, we were shown into the pantry, where a single candle burned. Sir John waited till the door was shut, then turned in my direction with a scowl upon his face.

“Now, what is it, lad? You must have something grand to tell me, for ever since you came down the stairs you’ve been hopping from one foot to the other in your eagerness to tell me this great something.”

“But-but-how did you know?” said I, flummoxed and flabbergasted “How could you tell?”

“Why, for the very reason I’ve said. You smell of sweat. You must have run a good part of the distance from Wapping. Everything about you bespeaks a bursting desire to have my attention. Well, now you have it. Speak your piece, if you must.”

And so, quick as ever I could, I gave my report to Sir John on what I had learned from Hetty Duncan, the neighbor next door, as well as a few of the supporting details from George Chesley. It was a pleasure to see that scowl of annoyance turn to an expression of keen interest as my tale unfolded. By the time I had done, he was all but rubbing his hands in delighted anticipation of the next development.

“This is very interesting indeed,” said he. “Mrs. Chesley, the very sister of Jenny Hooker, was so reluctant to let her know that another had attended the dinner in her place that she failed to mention it to her. You’ll notice, too, Jeremy, that we are beginning to get a much different picture of Elizabeth as we learn more about her-as we probe deeper-a girl who indeed has dreams of her own.”

“Yes, the cook had some very interesting observations, did she not? I can hardly wait till Kathleen has her say. You realize, don’t you sir, that she and not Elizabeth’s uncle and aunt was the last to see her.”

“Hmm. Yes. Quite.” Sir John seemed to be far ahead of me. “Let me make you an offer, Jeremy,” said he at last “Since it was you came up with this interesting bit of information, you may interrogate Kathleen, if you like.”

“I welcome the chance, sir,” said I.

“Very well, the burden is upon you then. But do keep in mind that even though she has not stepped forward with this information, she need not have done so. Do not accuse her. Simply draw her out and let her tell her story.”

“Yes sir.”

And so saying, I opened the door, and we two stepped out into the kitchen. Kathleen stood where she had when we entered the pantry. I pulled out a chair for Sir John, and I invited her to sit down there at the large kitchen table. She accepted, smiled, and dropped into a chair nearby. I sat down opposite her.

“Kathleen is your name?” I asked.

“It is, sir.”

“What is your surname, Kathleen?”

“Surname, sir?” She did not know the word. Could she read, I wondered.

“Yes, surname-your family name.”

“Ah!” said she. “Kathleen Quigley is my full name, sir.”

“What sort of name is that? North of England, perhaps Scottish?”

“Irish, sir.”

Kathleen Quigley was a pretty girl who, had she been asked, might have agreed that she was pretty but would have argued that it meant little in London in such times. Which is to say, she was a realist-as Clarissa perhaps was not.

“I want you to know, Miss Quigley, that you made a great success on Sunday.”

“Sir?”

“With the Chesleys-Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle.”

“Ah, you saw them, did you?”

“Why yes, and their neighbor, too-Hetty Duncan.”

“Oh that funny old woman who lives next door? I saw her peeking out her window at us. What did she have to say?”

“She thought you and Elizabeth looked enough alike to be sisters.”

“And what did you think of that?”

“Well,” said I, “when she said that, I didn’t know what to think, for I hadn’t met you then, had I?”

“All right, now what do you think?”

She raised her chin and looked away slightly, as if she were posing for a portrait.

“Oh, there’s no question in my mind. You’re much the prettier.”

“Kind of you to say so. We was wearing frocks that was similar. I ain’t sure how well she could see us at that distance, though.”

“Obviously not too well.” I let that hang between us for a long moment. Then: “Why did you not tell us? Or tell Mrs. Hooker when she was about asking after her daughter? Or tell Mr. Turbott?”

“Well …”

I saw that she was reluctant to answer. Why? But then did I notice that the cook had reentered with Clarissa close behind-and I understood.

“What was the difficulty? What was the problem?” I asked. “Surely it’s quite a commonplace sort of thing-Mrs. Hooker is unable to go, and so Elizabeth invites you to come along in her mother’s place. What could be more natural? You were her workmate in the day and her bed-mate at night, were you not? And after all, that walk to Wapping is a terribly long one-much too long to take alone, surely.”

“Well. . yes. .” She hesitated, then, after fighting a brief skirmish with herself, she plunged on: “What you just said was the way I thought about it when Lizzie put it up to me-especially that part about the long walk to Wapping. But it wasn’t the walk to Wapping frightened me, ’twas the walk back.”

I could tell that she was truly disturbed by something-the memory of that evening, no doubt-and I must now do or say something that would assure her that all was well, that she had only to tell her story and all would be well. I reached across the table and patted her hand.

“Whatever you are holding back,” said I, “can only help bring her back.”

She nodded, sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes with a dirty kerchief.

“All right,” said she, “I’m sure you’re right.” Then, lowering her voice, she told her tale.

Just as Mrs. Chesley had told her sister, she had warned Elizabeth against leaving so late, and had gone so far as to invite the two girls to spend the night in the spare room. Otherwise, she said, they would find themselves on central London’s wildest and most dangerous streets toward the end of their journey.

But Elizabeth was adamant: “Not if we leave now and hurry along. We shall run if we have to, won’t we, Kathleen?”

And that is just what they did-though their running was more in the manner of skipping. (I may say that with some authority, reader, for Kathleen arose from her chair and demonstrated their step.) They skipped and giggled their way across London until at last, when they came upon Drury Lane, that wicked thoroughfare that cuts so close to Bow Street, it was fair dark.

Now, Drury Lane is an exceptional street in a number of ways, yet foremost is this: at no other place in the city do those who have plenty and those who have naught, move in such proximity. There is, of course, Mr. Garrick’s Drury Lane Theatre, as there is also the Theatre Royal, popularly known as the Covent Garden Theatre, just off that thoroughfare and touching the north corner of Covent Garden; these, as well as an eating place or two, provided the attraction for the rich, and the rich attracted the poor. There is a good deal of pickpocketry and petty thieving along the way, but, most of all, prostitution and pimpery do there abound. Elizabeth and Kathleen were quite uncomfortable walking there.

It was Elizabeth Hooker’s harebrained notion that they might cut across Covent Garden and save a good deal of time, even though it be dark. And so, over Kathleen’s objections, they left Drury Lane and came down Long Acre. Then, with the Theatre Royal in sight, they made their way toward it along Phoenix Alley. They were not long on this leg of the journey before they were made aware that much went on in this alley that neither would have guessed at. First of all, what had been thought to be deserted was actually peopled by a considerable number of prostitutes. They hissed at the pair from every dark corner along the way. Elizabeth and Kathleen fair flew down the alley, driven by cries of “Git out!” “This is our spot!” “You’ve no right to be here!” And so on. They had no wish to stay and make the acquaintance of any of these dark ghostly figures.