Bruce Alexander - The Price of Murder

There were firm steps upon the floor of the room just beyond the south wall. The door had been left open. That meant, perhaps, that whoever had entered had no intent to stay long. If I wished to detain and question that person I had best act quickly and decisively. I tiptoed quickly to Tiddle’s door and opened it. Stepping out into the daylight, I was immediately aware that all my efforts at quiet had been quite unnecessary, for the person in the next room was making a great racket on his own. It was a man. I was near certain of it. Only a man would throw things around and stamp about in such a way. I was in no wise prepared for this sort of interruption and would have liked the opportunity to think through my course of action, but, of course, there was no time for that. If I were to act, I should have to do so immediately.

I drew the pistol from my pocket and pulled back the hammer. Taking a deep breath, I counted to three and threw myself through the half-open door and then took a couple of running steps into the room. I came to a halt just as quickly when I saw who-or what-it was awaited me.

One could have called him a dwarf, I suppose, yet there was naught misshapen about him. Leave it that he was a small man, quite small, no more than child-size, yet fully a man. There could be no doubt of it, for, in defiance of custom, he wore a short beard, and, when he spoke, his words came out of him in a growling, rasping baritone.

“Who the Goddamned bloody hell are you?” he demanded.

He threw the bedclothes he had jerked from the bed down upon the floor. Then did he stand, hands upon hips, glaring up at me. Behind him, and to the right and left of him, was the chaos he had created in about two minutes time. Drawers had been pulled from a bureau, and clothing was scattered across the floor. In one corner, there was a jumble of toys, crudely carved dolls and the like, all of them Maggie’s, which, I was quite sure, had not been touched.

“Must I repeat myself?” he shouted out louder than before. “Who the Goddamned bloody hell are you?”

I fear that I stared at him, so far was he from what I had expected.

“I was about to ask you the same,” said I at last.

“Well, I ain’t afeared of giving my name, and I ain’t ashamed of it, neither. Deuteronomy Plummer is what I’m called, and I am cursed with the burden of a sister.”

“Alice Plummer?”

“Just so. And she is the sole excuse for my presence here-her and the daughter she don’t deserve.”

“You have a key,” said I, bringing attention to the obvious.

“So I do,” said he.

“How do you come by it?”

“How do I come by it?” He burst forth with a great booming laugh at that. “How indeed! I pay the rent on this hovel. Ain’t I entitled to a key?” Pausing a moment, he looked me up and down and allowed his gaze to linger upon the pistol in my hand. “Now that I’ve accounted for myself, why don’t you put that bloody big pistol away and return the favor.”

Though I did not immediately dispose of the pistol, which did clearly make him uneasy, I complied with his request and introduced myself as Sir John Fielding’s assistant at the Bow Street Court.

“What trouble has she got herself into now?” asked Mr. Plummer.

“Well, she may have got herself into a bit of it, but we won’t be sure till we find her and have a chance to talk with her.”

“What sort of trouble?” he repeated in a tone of quiet urgency.

I decided then and there that it would be best if he discussed that with Sir John. “I tell you what,” said I, “it would be best, I’m sure, if you were to ask that of the magistrate himself. He will tell you all that need be known and no doubt he’ll have some questions for you, as well. You see, it’s all a bit too complicated for me, I fear.”

He seemed to accept that: “Well, all right. Ain’t that Sir John Fielding the one they call the Blind Beak?”

“Yes,” said I, “that is how they call him-though not to his face.”

“Oh, right you are. I’ll not make that mistake. Just give me a little time to straighten up here. I’m afraid my temper got the best of me, and I threw things round a bit.”

“Right,” said I, “and I’ll lock up next door.”

I learned a bit more about him as we walked back to Bow Street. Indeed, I learned a great deal, for small though he be, Deuteronomy Plummer was a great talker.

“Now,” said he to me as we trudged together along Cucumber Alley, “you might wonder how a fella such as I makes his money.”

“Oh, well, I. .”

“Let me tell you about it.”

That he proceeded to do, telling from the beginning and at great length how he had come to London from some town in the north in pursuit of his sister. He found her in Seven Dials, pregnant and whoring and unwilling to return home with him. In the course of his searches for Alice Plummer, he had strayed as far as Shepherd’s Bush. It being a Sunday, he happened to visit upon the day of the horse races at Shepherd’s Bush Common. Now, Deuteronomy Plummer was no stranger to racing of that sort-the hell-for-leather, rough-and-tumble, dirty-tricks kind of racing.

“I growed up on it,” he boasted. “From the time I was just a babe, I had me a way with horses, and when I started race-ridin’, I found I was just small enough to duck most of the nastiness they’d put my way, and just smart enough to come up with nastiness all my own.”

That Sunday in Shepherd’s Bush he made a spot of cash, using his horse sense, and betting on sure winners. More important, he got acquainted with owners and saw that there were few riders in his class. And he proved it to the satisfaction of all when, just at the start of the last race of the day, a horse threw its rider, and, knowing full well it was allowed, he jumped into the saddle, gave his heels to the horse, and won the heat and the race. He won the heart of the crowd because of his daring and his diminutive size. And the fact that he had bet heavily on that same horse made him doubly a winner. Ever after, he rode for the owners at Shepherd’s Bush, Blackheath, and all the rest of the major race meets round London. Betting on himself, and only on himself, he had made himself a small fortune.

“Racing, lad,” said he to me, “ ’tis the only way a fellow small as me has the advantage.”

I recall that we two were walking cross Covent Garden when he did speak these words, and it was there in the Garden, as well, that I took proper note of the reaction of the crowd to him. Early on, out in the street, I had seen the young, the ignorant, and the rude point at him and giggle at his size. He gave them no heed whatever, so well accustomed was he to such treatment by such ne’er-do-wells. Nevertheless, it was in Long Acre, or perhaps James Street, that I first noticed a different sort of reaction to my companion-and always from men. They noticed him most respectfully. A few did pass us with a smile and a nod; another, just at Mr. Tolliver’s meat stall in the Garden, stepped aside and removed his hat; and indeed, he all but bowed to Deuteronomy Plummer. Previous to this fellow, little attention had been paid to them all by Mr. Plummer. We were not yet past him when the man beside me offered a dignified smile and touched his own hat in response. Then did he wink at me.

“Who are these people?” I asked. “They seem to know you.”

“In a way, I suppose they do. That last fellow, the one who took his hat off to me, I see him at every race meet I run. He seems to follow me round, he does. Probably made a good deal of cash just betting on me.”

“Then you’re a sort of hero, a champion to him,” I suggested.

“Something like that,” said he pridefully yet modestly.

“Hmmm,” said I, considering what he had just said. It was an odd idea to me, this notion of fame. In a sense, Sir John had fame, yet his face was so familiar here in Covent Garden that his appearance hereabouts was unlikely to cause the sort of notice that Deuteronomy had caused already. Deuteronomy? Indeed, I must ask him about that.