“And so,” said Sir John, “where does that leave us?”
“In a rather awkward place,” said I.
“And what place is that, Jeremy?”
“Sir, I explained all this to Constable Patley — well, you might say that I confronted him with it.”
“With what result?”
“He admitted that he had made up the name.”
Sir John popped up in his bed to something near a seated position. For a moment he was speechless — but only for a moment, for he bellowed loud and deep, “He what?”
“That’s right, sir. He was, in the end, quite apologetic, but at first he insisted that it could make no difference anyway, since the information given was quite accurate. After all, there had been a robbery at the Lilley residence, hadn’t there? That sort of thing. He couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why you had to have the name of him who had brought the report. But since you had to have a name, he supposed that William Waters would do as well as any. The truth was, he admitted at last, that he had not asked the messenger his name, but simply given him directions to Bow Street.”
“Shall we discharge the fellow now, do you think, or wait until he does serious harm to person or property? “
“I think it best to wait, Sir John, as you will, too, once you have overcome your anger. Yet I have still more to tell.”
He sighed. “Go ahead then. I would have it all.”
“Well and good/’ said I. “The mysterious messenger went on, as we know, and arrived here at Bow Street. He knocked upon the door, and Mr. Baker came to answer it. The fellow, whoever he was, gave him the particulars in a great rush and said that he must get back to the Lilley residence, for he would be needed there. Mr. Baker asked only that his informant wait while he might fetch paper and pencil and jot down the important details. Yet the man refused to remain and ran off, shouting the number of the Lilley house in St. James Street. Constable Bailey happened to be bringing in a prisoner, and so he went off to St. James and collected Mr. Brede along the way. And, as you know, Mr. Baker — ”
“Came upstairs and informed me of what had happened,” said Sir John, completing the sentence. He thought a moment upon it, then said, “And so I doubt Mr. Baker managed to get his name, either. Was there any sort of description of the fellow?”
“About all they could agree upon was that the man was uncommonly tall. But Sir John, I do not believe that it would have mattered had either Mr. Patley or Mr. Baker managed to get his name, for it would probably have been a false name, in any case.”
Suddenly alert to possibilities, Sir John mused aloud: “I believe I follow your train of thought. It had occurred to me, after all, that if no one from the Lilley residence went out for help, only those who had caused the trouble — which is to say, the robbers themselves — could have delivered the news. The point is, why should they have wished to do so? Were they so proud of their work that they wanted to invite the constables and the magistrate to come and admire it? I think not, Jeremy.”
“I have an idea, sir,” said I. “By turning in a report on so great a crime as this — robbery on such a grand scale and murder, too — they could indeed be certain that you would be summoned. In fact, they went to some pains to be sure you were.” At that moment I paused for effect, took a deep breath, and continued: “Could it be, Sir John, that all that happened at the Lilley s was an elaborate trap which, baited, was set to bring you — specifically you — out where you would present an easy target?”
“A conspiracy? “
“Something of the sort, yes.”
It was then that Lady Katherine entered, bearing his dinner upon a tray. It was more than a mere dinner — a sumptuous feast, rather.
“There now, Jeremy,” said she, “you’ve had him long enough. I’ve brought him something should take his mind from those dreary court matters.”
He whispered to me: “We shall speak of this later — tomorrow perhaps. But go now, lad. You’ve done a good day’s work.”
THREE
Next morning early I set off for Covent Garden. The greengrocers were freshening their stock to make it look like it had come in new from the market gardens. A few drunken blades staggered out of Carpenter’s coffee house, ending their night of revels in sullen silence; I passed them warily on my diagonal route across the piazza. My goal was prominent from almost any point in the Garden — not for its size nor garish decoration (it was neither large nor colorfully painted), but simply because it was the only one of its kind this side of Smithfield Market.
Mr. Tolliver was a butcher, one who had violated tradition and perhaps broken a long-forgotten rule or two by opening his stall in one corner of London’s grandest vegetable market. There he had prospered. And if not always so popular with his neighboring stall-keepers, who envied him his customers, he was nevertheless well-liked as a man and well-respected for the quality of his meat by those who bought from him. And not least in that matter of liking and respecting him were we who lived at Number 4 Bow Street.
He was a big man, as are so many who take up the butchering trade, and he had a big voice of a strength and volume which would carry it clear across Covent Garden, as he demonstrated that morning.
“Hi, Jeremy,” came the shout. “And what brings you out so early?”
I waved in answer, knowing that my voice would not carry so far. But once I judged myself near enough, I called out, “I’ve come for another beef chop!”
At that, the heads of hungry men and women around me turned; they were laborers in the green market who had no more than heard tell of such cuts of meat. Not wishing to draw envious attention to myself, I was somewhat chagrined at that. I vowed to say no more until I reached him. When I did, I spoke at little more than a whisper, for Sir John was the subject of our discussion.
“Was it Annie chose the last?” I asked. “It was a great success with him who ate it.”
“No, it was Lady Kate herself,” said Mr. Tolliver. “She had me pick it and cut it, as she’s always done in the past.”
“Then I’ll do the same.”
Hearing that, he hauled a whole rib section of beef from the locker and tossed it on the chopping block. He took a moment to check it over, then selected a cut somewhere near the middle. With a cleaver and an unerring eye, he broke the bone in two places, then took out his saw and began cutting away. “How is he?” he asked. “Kate said he’d collapsed yesterday after his court session.”
“True enough, but he seemed much improved even before he ate your chop.”
“Well, there’s nothing like beef for putting blood back into a man. He must’ve lost a good bit.”
“Oh, he did. The ball taken from his shoulder must have been forty caliber or better.”
“I’d assume then that he’ll need more time in bed. He better not try to hold court every day. No telling what could happen.”
“We’re quite in agreement on that, sir. I’ve a plan. I may be able to persuade him.”
“Well, good luck to you on it. Once he gets his mind made up, he’s a hard man to get to change — as we both know.” Then, having finished, he held the chop high. “There, Jeremy, what do you think of that?”
Returning, I found that Annie had prepared a breakfast tray and was ready to depart for her reading lesson at the Bilbo residence.
“He’s awake,” said she. “I heard him stirring and coughing, and then he started calling for his breakfast.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I said that it would be there directly. It’s ready for him now. You can take it up to him, the way you wanted.”