Bruce Alexander: The Price of Murder

“Who is she?” said he to me.

“Katy Tiddle is the name,” said she before I could respond. “And if it was up to me, I’d be anywhere but here.”

“She’s come to identify the body,” said I.

“Ah,” said Mr. Donnelly, clearly a bit confused. “Not the mother, surely.”

“The neighbor next door.”

“Well, come along then.”

He led the way back to the little apartment of rooms he kept behind the examination room. What we presumed to be the body of Maggie Plummer lay upon a table in the first of the two. A sheet covered her from head to toe. I glanced over at Katy Tiddle and saw that she had her eyes tight shut.

“What will you, Katy?” said I, chastising. “You must open your eyes for this.”

“I’ve no wish to do it.”

“Well, you must, my girl,” said Mr. Donnelly. “And there’ll be no foolishness about it.”

So saying, he threw back the sheet, exposing the face and shoulders of the child.

“There, Katy,” said I, “open your eyes and take a look. Tell us if the body upon the table is that of Maggie Plummer.”

Still she held her eyes shut. Mr. Donnelly watched her with increasing exasperation. Knowing that it could not continue thus for much longer, I simply did what had to be done: I picked the plumpest part of her upper arm, grasped near an inch of skin, and pinched for all I was worth.

“OW!” said she, a loud cry that must have resounded through every room. But her eyes popped open in surprise, and because she had held her head down in an unconscious gesture of rejection, her eyes fell quite immediately upon that which she had so diligently refused, till that moment, to see.

“Oh, my God, Maggie, it is you, ain’t it? Forgive me!” She screamed it, eyes wide open, wailing out great moans of sorrow. For minutes, it seemed, she could not be quietened. Who would have guessed that this was the sly creature who had declared that a mother had the right to sell her child? Only after Mr. Donnelly had covered over the face of the child did she at last begin to master her emotions. Then did I lead her forth from the room. Gabriel Donnelly followed, closing doors after us.

“Well,” said he, “I daresay we can now consider Margaret Plummer properly identified.”

“It was her, all right,” said Katy Tiddle. “But one thing I want you to know, both of you.” We stopped to listen to her in the empty waiting room, just at the door to the hall.

“And what is that, Miss Tiddle?”

“Alice thought she was doing Maggie a good turn, sending her off with that man. She may have sold her, right enough, but the way he told it to her, Maggie would be ever so much better off with these rich folks who couldn’t have childrens of their own. But-”

“But what?” I asked.

“But I guess he lied.”

It was not until into the evening that I recalled that I had been carrying about a pistol in my pocket for most of the afternoon. What was I to do with it? True, I’d taken it from Katy Tiddle; nevertheless, she’d doubtless stolen it from someone. I’d bring it to Mr. Baker, I decided, for he was the proper armorer for the Bow Street Runners. He could check the stolen property list and tell me what ought to be done with it. I’d abide by his decision.

Whilst attending to these matters, Constable Patley happened by, and we talked at some length of Alice Plummer, and little Maggie, as well as Katy Tiddle. I gave to Mr. Patley essentially the same report I had given earlier to Sir John.

“Well, I ain’t surprised to hear it, any of it. There’s a lot of kidnapping and child-buying goes on in this town of London,” said he. “And it ain’t for any good purpose.”

“You said, didn’t you, that you were suspicious of that woman Plummer right from the start.”

“Something didn’t seem right.”

“Sir John’s told me to bring in that Tiddle person. He thinks he might be able to get a bit more out of her.”

“If anyone can, it’s him.”

’Twas just about then that Mr. Baker came over, and in a teasing way, he said to me, “Jeremy, you ought to tell a fellow when you’re handing over a loaded pistol. You handle them a little different, you know.”

“Why, I didn’t think for a moment that it was loaded,” said I, much embarrassed. “Sorry, Mr. Baker.”

“I’ve not found it on the stolen property list, but I can tell you this-it’s a fine and expensive piece of gunsmithing you lifted off that woman. Could be one of a set of two. It looks French to me.”

That left me with something to think about, so it did. As I drifted away and up the stairs, I considered the matter further, wondering as I did, how and from whom Katy Tiddle had acquired that remarkable pistol.

And-let me see-just to bring things to a proper conclusion, I shall add one final note to this first chapter. The dinner of pot roast, which Clarissa prepared for the family that evening, was as good as any ever done for us by Molly-or, for that matter, by Annie, who preceded her. Clarissa would make a fine cook. There could be no question of it.

My arrival at Katy Tiddle’s door was delayed until the middle of the next morning. Saturday it was, and the darkest day in the church’s calendar. Yet one would not know it from the crowds upon the street. They were boisterous and jolly, most of them women out to buy for the great holiday next day. Mr. Tolliver’s warning to Clarissa, that she had best do her buying early, was well given and taken to heart by her; she was out to Covent Garden and back, begging me to look upon the prizes she had made off with. True enough, she had done well for herself. Yet by that time, spurred to action by Sir John, I was pulling on my coat and making ready to go.

“Duty calls,” said I, heading for the door.

“Can you not stay long enough to look upon this fine Easter ham?”

“I cannot,” said I, “for I must fetch a witness that Sir John would interrogate.”

“That proves it.”

“Proves what?”

“That you would rather do Sir John’s bidding than that of your very own stomach.”

“Clarissa, you have but to cook that ham and I shall do it justice. You may count upon it.”

With that, I was out the door, moving as swift as I was able through the many who seemed ever to move in the direction counter to mine. ’Twas only as I reached the Seven Dials and Cucumber Alley that I noted that it was no longer such a struggle to move ahead. The denizens of Seven Dials had little interest in the ecclesiastical calendar, nor in any other sort, for that matter. They kept their places at the bars and in the dives, sipping their gin and their rum.

I knew that it would be no easy matter persuading Katy Tiddle to open the door to me after her last experience; nevertheless, I had a plan. Having brought with me the pistol I had taken from her the day before, I had decided to use it as bait. She would certainly welcome me if it meant getting back the pistol. I had paid it little attention before handing it over to Mr. Baker. But when he gave it back and told me that he had not found it on the stolen property list, I took considerably more interest than before. It was indeed a beautiful piece, was it not? Engraved decoratively, perfectly balanced, it seemed more in the nature of a work of art than a lethal weapon. Mr. Baker had suggested there might be a twin of it somewhere about.

Still, how had Katy Tiddle come to own it? Such a pistol was not readily given away as a gift. Whether or not it had found its way onto the stolen property list, Katy had surely stolen it. Yet, until I knew that for certain, I had no choice but to return it to her. And now was the time to do just that.