Bruce Alexander - The Price of Murder

“And you did ask them?”

“Well no, not directly. I wanted to know where they were taking me, for I have a fair sense of direction, and I could tell they weren’t taking me the right way.”

“Which direction were they taking you?”

“Well, north, it seemed to me-which was just opposite of the way I wanted to go.”

“And did you inform them of this?”

“Oh, I did! I told them they were making a great mistake if they thought they could take me some other place but home. They laughed at me. I dug in my heels and told them I would go no further. They did not then laugh, but they dragged me along for thirty or forty feet until I started to scream.”

“And then what?”

“They became quite cross with me. Dick went so far as to shake his walking stick at me and threaten me, telling me what he would do to me if I did not cooperate. But I laughed at him and screamed again. That was when he belabored me about the head, and I fell unconscious.”

“You actually fell upon the ground?”

“Well, not quite, I suppose. They held me up, one each side, and I s’pose I was making my feet go. But I was dazed, unable to know where we were headed. Oh, I was in a terrible state!”

“No doubt you were, but-”

At that moment, a knock sounded upon the door to the hall. Had I not made it sufficiently plain with my threats that we were not to be disturbed?

“Jeremy, see what that’s about, will you?”

“Certainly, Sir John. Shall I send them away?”

“Let’s see who it is first, and then decide, shall we?”

(It was on such occasions as this that he often made me feel like an utter fool.)

I went to the door, opened it, and found a small woman of a size not much larger than Mr. Deuteronomy. She was old, about sixty, and swarthy of complexion.

“Tell her that Goody Moss is here,” said she to me.

“Tell who?”

“The Widow Hooker. ’Twas she who sent for me.”

“Remain here, please,” said I and closed the door.

I went back and announced the woman. Elizabeth’s mother caught her breath. “Oh, the midwife, of course! I completely forgot that I had sent for her-to examine Elizabeth. I thought you would want that, Sir John. It should not take long for her to be pronounced intact. You do want that, I assume?”

He sighed a great sigh and rose from his chair. “Yes, all right,” said he. “Jeremy, come along. We’ll wait out in the hall. Clarissa, I’d like you to remain to serve as witness to these proceedings.”

And so I opened the door once again and beckoned Goody Moss into the room. Then did I see Sir John out and into a corner some distance from the door. About half of those who listened with such sympathy to Elizabeth’s account of her escape had stayed on to hear the tale told complete; they stared at us timidly. I commented upon this to Sir John.

“Indeed they seem quite fascinated by her,” he commented. “But why not? She is quite the actress.” He hesitated, then: “And I hoped for a ‘clean’ witness!”

We waited impatiently. In particular, Sir John seemed most unhappy with the interruption and the consequent delay. He tapped his foot and sighed. At one point he did speculate: “I wonder what reason that woman, Mrs. Hooker, could have had to summon the midwife.” And then, a moment later, he answered his own question: “She must have been so certain of her daughter’s virtue that she wished to demonstrate it to me.”

And that was how we passed our brief exile in the hall-whistling, tapping our feet, asking questions of ourselves. Yet, as I say, it was but a brief exile: It was not long before the door was opened to us and Goody Moss came forth and made her way to us.

“You, sir,” said she to Sir John, “would want to know, and so I shall tell you.”

“Please do.”

“Though her maidenhead is long gone, there is no sign of entry. . recently.”

“When you say recently, what does that mean?”

A knowing smile. “Oh, a day or two perhaps-or a night and a day.”

“Is that what you told Mrs. Hooker?”

“I told her what she wished to hear. To you I tell the truth. I whispered to the girl-what is her name? Clarissa? — all the details. She’s a good girl, very smart. She can tell you all you need to know-if you need to know more.” She gave us a wink. “Goodbye, then, eh?”

She started for the stairway, but stopped, turned, and came back to us.

“You did know that she was pregnant, eh?”

“We knew nothing of the kind,” said Sir John.

“Indeed she is-about a month or two gone, I would say. Not so she would show. She may not even know. But we have ways of knowing.”

And then she left us. I watched her go, wondering what those ways of knowing were. From her dark face to her bright garb, she seemed an altogether mysterious sort. Her name did not fit her, nor did her slightly odd manner of speech.

“Who is she, sir? What is she? Her accent of speech was something new to me.”

“Goodwife Moss is a Gypsy, my lad. I do know that mode of speech, for a number have appeared before me in Bow Street, though not many are to be found in the cities. They are, for the most part, country people, traveling people. And did you notice the striking odor of the scent that she wore?”

“Now that you mention it, yes.”

“All Romany females seem to wear it-from the youngest to the very oldest. But let’s go inside, shall we? I cannot say how this bit of knowledge she gave to us will change anything, or if it will at all, but it is certainly of considerable interest, is it not?”

Without awaiting my agreement, he started to the room we had left. I offered him my arm, and in we went. Sir John entered with a question, thus beginning precisely at the point at which he had earlier been interrupted.

“As I recall, in response to your screams, you were beaten upon the head with a heavy walking stick by one of the two young men who had promised to see you home. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir.”

I know not why, but just at that moment I happened to glance over at Clarissa, and noticed that she was sending me a message. Emphatically was she shaking her head in the negative. I noted that neither of the Hooker women could see her in the place she had chosen. Answering with a single affirmative nod, I resolved to discuss the entire matter of Elizabeth’s abduction with Clarissa at the earliest opportunity.

“Then, as you said, you were in a dazed state, not quite fully conscious, yet still moving your feet and stumbling along between the two men. And you were moving in a northerly direction. Is that correct?”

“All of it, yes.”

“How long do you reckon you were going in that way?”

“Well, that’s not easy to say, is it?”

“Perhaps we can work it out. For instance, you must soon have passed out of Covent Garden and onto the surrounding streets. Think back. Do you remember walking upon the streets?”

She gave the matter some thought. “Yes, oh yes, we walked some ways upon the street.”

“You say ‘some ways,’ by which you must also mean some time. Did you hear church bells chiming the hour? St. Paul’s, I believe, strikes every quarter hour. Did you hear it strike once? twice? three times?” Again, she concentrated, pulling a suitably fierce face.

Then, nodding, smiling. “Why yes,” said she, “I believe I heard it strike three times.”

“Good! Then that means that, even considering that there are no straight streets in London, if you had been proceeding in a general northerly direction, you would have been somewhere between Holborn and Clerkenwell- that is, with at least a half hour’s walking time. Is that correct?”

“Well, I suppose so.”

“But now, what I would know from you is how you managed to travel so far in such a state and cause no notice among those you met along the way? Though it was after dark, it was not late. The area north of Covent Garden is one of the most populous in the city. You must have passed dozens along the way. Even Clerkenwell and Holborn have many afoot that time of the evening. What must it have been? Somewhere round eight, would you say? And here are two young men conveying a girl of your years between them. She is disoriented-dazed, by her own admission-so that she can hardly walk. Would you not challenge them? Would you not raise the hue and cry?”