“Tell me, Jeremy,” said he mildly, “do you see him now?”
“I’m afraid not, Sir John.” Ah, but I had spoken a bit too early, for there he was, pulling himself away from the flirtatious Mistress Pinkham. They had just stepped from behind the wide, winding staircase which so dominated the room; they had thus been hidden from view. “No, I was wrong, sir. I see him now. He’s coming this way.”
Constable Patley presented himself at attention and brought a stiff hand to his brow in a military salute. (He was said to have been a soldier in the colonies.) “Here I am, sir!”
“Constable Patley, is it?”
“Yes sir!”
“I have a few questions for you.”
“And I am pleased to answer them, sir.”
“That is gratifying,” said Sir John. “Now tell me, Mr. Patley, where were you when you were notified of this felonious invasion of the Lilley residence?”
“Quite close by, sir, walking the Pall Mall, I was.”
“And who was it approached you? Which of the servants?”
“Why, I don’t remember his name, but he come running up to me, and he said there’d been a terrible robbery and murder at Lord Lilley’s. I sent him on to Bow Street and come here myself. Did I do right?”
“You did right enough, but I wanted to talk with whomever it was brought word to Bow Street. Do you see him here?”
Mr. Patley, a reasonably tall fellow to begin with, went up on his tiptoes to survey the faces of those in the room. There must have been more than a dozen there in the entry hall, but most of them were women — upstairs maids, downstairs maids, cooks, kitchen slaveys, et cetera. After studying them carefully, he came down to our level, shaking his head in a negative manner.
“No sir,” said he, “I don’t see him anywheres.”
“Well, next time, when such a crime is committed, you must at least get the name of him who reports it.”
“I promise to do it that way in the future,” said Mr. Patley.
“See that you do, sir, for you will need names and facts for the report that you must write.”
“Report, sir? What report?”
“The one that you will write and give to Mr. Marsden, the court clerk, in the morning. Didn’t Mr. Bailey tell you that when you are first on the scene of any serious crime, then you must write a report on it?”
“He said something about that, sir.”
“Well, it seems your turn has come, does it not?”
“As you say, sir.”
“Oh, and by the bye, you must have in it some estimate of the value of the goods stolen. It need not be absolutely accurate; it can later be raised or lowered. That you can probably get from the butler, Mr. Collier. If not, then tell him I said that we must have it. Is all that understood?”
Constable Will Patley sighed a deep, unhappy sigh. “All understood, sir,” said he.
“Is there some part of this you wish to discuss?”
“No sir, it’s just … I didn’t realize there’d be such a lot of pen work to be done. I ain’t very good with a pen.”
“Well, do as well as you can. Mr. Marsden will evaluate it in the morning.”
“Just like school, sir?” There seemed to me to be a bit more than a hint of impudence in that.
“No, not quite.” Sir John paused and rubbed his chin in thought before proceeding: “Mr. Patley, you have not been with us long. You are not yet accustomed to our procedures, but once you are, I believe you will understand their usefulness.” Then, with a nod: “That will be all.”
The constable saluted in the same military fashion as before and barked out a “Yes sir” before turning and marching off, more sober-faced than when he had come. He attracted a good deal of attention to himself with these exaggerated movements. Mistress Pinkham, for one, stared with such intensity at him that she seemed almost to consume him with her eyes. Only then did it occur to me that women, especially young women like her, would no doubt find him quite handsome — “a rum cod,” as Jimmie Bunkins would have it — “dashing,” as you might say.
Then did Sir John bend toward me and whisper: “Did he salute me again I
“Twice, sir,” said I, “once at arrival and once at departure.”
“I wish he wouldn’t do that. Perhaps you could mention it to him. Tell him that something more … oh, I don’t know … informal might be better.”
“Well,” said I, “I’ll try.”
“Jeremy …”
“Yes, Sir John?”
“Let us leave here. I am suddenly grown weary.”
“Did you not wish to wait for Lord Lilley?”
“No, there is no telling when he will return. He is, as I have heard, socially timid, and he might consider it too great an insult to the Dutch ambassador if he and Lady Lilley were to leave early. He may be prepared to wait, no matter what disaster may befall his house.”
“Then by all means, let’s be gone,” said I.
“By all means, let’s,” said he.
Sir John left word with Mr. Brede, nevertheless, that when Lord and Lady Lilley were to return, he was to tell them that Sir John would come tomorrow in the morning that he might discuss with them details of the crimes committed in their home. In the meantime, Sir John requested that none of the household staff be discharged or penalized, for he had not finished his examination of them. As we left, the constable instructed us to walk to Pall Mall if we wished to engage a hackney.
“A hackney,” said Sir John, “by all means.”
And so we set out, the two of us, at an easy pace for Pall Mall. Though visible to me down at the end of the street, it was, as I well knew, some considerable distance away; I offered to run down to the corner and bring back a hackney coach.
“They come by with great frequency,” said I. “Indeed, I shouldn’t be but a few minutes gone.”
“No,” said he, “I find the night air rather refreshing. It has restored me somewhat.”
And so we continued along St. James Street, and as we went I looked left and right at the great houses. Even in the moonlight they looked impressive — or perhaps especially then, for the night shadows seemed to cover over the imperfections and worn spots that were visible during the day. (Not all the houses in this district were in the same excellent state of repair.)
As we approached Mr. Bilbo’s residence, I saw that lights burned in a number of the windows. It was indeed one of the grandest in this street, having formerly belonged to Lord Goodhope. Mr. Bilbo, the owner and operator of one of London s most popular gaming houses, took the house in settlement of the nobleman’s gambling debt. Since then, I had been there often, for my friend, Jimmie Bunkins, had been taken by Mr. Bilbo as his ward; and through my intercession our cook, Annie, had been accepted as a scholar by Bunkins s tutor, Mr. Burn-ham. All in all, I was well-known there, though no better than Sir John himself, who maintained a curious relationship with the head of the house, Mr. Bilbo. As a gambler and the proprietor of a gambling establishment, he could never be accepted as a respectable gentleman in London society. There were those who tut-tutted at Sir John’s friendship with such a man. To them, the magistrate would say gruffly, “I like the man, and there’s an end to it.”
As we passed the house in question, I mentioned it to him and noted the smile spread across his face.
“Ah yes,” said he, “it is here on the same street as the Lilley residence. I’d nearly forgotten. I daresay Black Jack is counting chips at his club at this moment.”
“There are a few lights lit,” said I. “Bunkins and Mr. Burnham, no doubt.”
“No doubt. It is quite late, though. Why, it must be well past midnight.” We walked on in silence, past the neighbors to the Bilbo residence; Pall Mall was then much closer — or so it seemed.
“I wonder what Mr. Bilbo will do when he hears a house on his street has been robbed,” said I.
Sir John thought about that a moment, and then chuckled, “He will probably distribute pistols and cutlasses to all in the house. Or perhaps construct a redoubt before the front door. Or both.”
We laughed together at that. The idea of fortifications built in St. James Street seemed especially rich. What would the neighbors say? Indeed what must they have said when Mr. Bilbo moved in, followed by those persistent rumors that he had made his first fortune as a pirate in the Spanish waters of the New World.