“‘But you are most uncomfortable telling me here,’ said I. ‘I clearly see, dear girl, the fear that halts your speech. Would you have an objection, then, to speaking of it somewhere else? Someplace where you will neither be seen nor heard by those not of our own choosing?’
“‘I have no such objection,’ the girl replied in a suddenly calm and collected voice, as if the opportunity to disclose all that she knew to those who would not do harm to her by it was that very thing she most desired. Now I have suggested to Tatty that she should meet you and me and, of course, Sheriff Muntle, at two o’clock this afternoon. There are unlet rooms above my stationery shop that should serve. And you’ll bring Muntle with you?”
“I shall make every effort to get him there.”
“Excellent.”
And with that, my investigative friend Antonia Bocker rose to her feet and brushed her hands together to put an abrupt cap upon our exchange. “That is all for now, Trimmers. Go inside and solicit prayers for your nephew. I personally find prayers to be a waste of time, but then I am a lost, heathen soul, so you would be advised to follow your own conscience in the matter.”
Antonia gave my hand a powerful shake, the hardy grip more befitting that of a man than a woman. Then she turned and strode briskly away. I respected my friend Antonia even as I found myself a bit intimidated by her. I had never before known such a woman as she. To be sure, I was acquainted with several women who very much knew their own minds and would never be deterred from doing what they felt to be right and just. My landlady Mrs. Lumbey was just such a woman. But there was a softness to the demeanour of my landlady that was quite missing from the appearance and comportment of Antonia Bocker, her short, wiry iron-grey hair appropriately suggestive of the steel will that strengthened her mettle.
Antonia hadn’t time for tender feelings. There was too much work to be done to allow for any trait that might hinder her from her duties. Perhaps it had not always been so; perhaps in time she would soften in her mien, but for the present, my friend Antonia Bocker was cuirassed in the heavy mail of serious purpose, and it was neither my place nor my intention to seek fault there.
I found Muntle playing quoits with three of his young deputies upon the green of Regents Park in the West End of Milltown. The park was one of Muntle’s favourite leisure spots and an especially desirable one on Sunday mornings when the more pious Milltowners attended services, and left the skittle, quoits and croquet grounds enticingly empty. “I think that I should like to pitch a tent and live out the rest of my days in this verdant setting,” said Muntle in a comically confiding whisper, “would that the weather remained clement. The cemetery is quiet and serene, but there are ghosts there and not a single hob with which to make a ringer.”
I led Muntle away from his playfellows so that I might speak to him without our being overheard. One of the deputies, a redheaded fellow, ridiculously over-freckled, eyed us with interest as we strolled away.
“Is he the one?” I asked in a low voice, whilst making a slight nod with my head in the direction of the juvenilely mop-topped young man.
“Aye. Boldwig. Billy Boldwig. It wasn’t even a month ago that he was thrust upon me. I didn’t hold out great hopes for him, but I had no idea that he would shew not even an ounce of promise whatsoever. He is by turns disruptive and indolent, and he all but slept through his truncheon training, in spite of the fact that his mates have nicknamed him ‘Billy Club’ for the obvious reason. I fear he’s going to be a problem and there’s really not much that I can do about it.”
“Because it was an M.P.P., his own father, William Boldwig of the General Agency Office, who insinuated him upon you.”
Muntle nodded, stopping beneath a large oak tree that gave adequate shade and an accommodating degree of privacy. “You would think that having a father with the power to put you into whatever situation you desired, ‘deputy sheriff ’ should appear nowhere upon a list of prospective occupations. Whilst respectable, the job offers little or no cachet of which I’m aware.”
“Perhaps Billy hopes eventually to steal your job away from you, Muntle. I would keep a careful eye on him were I you.”
I smiled, but Muntle did not. It suddenly became obvious to me that this wasn’t the first time that the thought had entered his head.
“Now to my reason for this impromptu visit, Muntle: your presence is requested in rooms above Bocker’s Fine and General Stationers at two o’clock this afternoon.”
“For what purpose?”
“An interview. Will you be finished with your game of quoits by then?”
“Who is to be interviewed and for what reason? It’s my day off, you know.”
“Her Christian name is Tattycoram. I don’t know her surname. She’s one of that small flood of char-girls and bottle washers from Blackheath that are making life so much more pleasant and convenient for our moneyed Bashaw class. She has information that should shine a brand new light upon what happened to her mistress, the unfortunate Mrs. Pyegrave.”
“By the bye, the poor woman finally succumbed to her injuries this morning. I just received the report of her demise not twenty minutes ago.”
“And is there to be an investigation into its cause?”
“We have the cause of death: fall from a great height.”
I frowned. “You know what I mean. Was it an accident or was it not an accident?”
Muntle sighed, then turned in such a way as to put his back to his new redheaded deputy who seemed to be edging closer to where we stood, his large floppy ears apparently straining to hear everything that was being exchanged between us.
“Lord Mayor Feenix has nudged me off.”
“But why?”
“He contends that there is nothing to be found out, and that any degree of delving should constitute a great waste of my time. There is not even to be an inquest. Pyegrave said that his wife had been drinking, stumbling about, and knocking things over. He put her to bed and thought that she would stay put until morning. It is his assertion that she didn’t stay put, Trimmers, but rose in the night, tripped over a hassock and went flying out of the open window.”
“Do you not find that story to be a bit far fetched?”
Muntle half-shrugged. “A bit…and perhaps a little bit more.”
“Tattycoram would think, I warrant, that this account was beyond far fetched. As it so happens, she heard the whole thing, listening most attentively outside the door to Mrs. Pyegrave’s bedchamber.”
“That’s what she wishes to do? Offer an earwitness account of what took place in that room?”
I nodded. “Is it required that you seek the Lord Mayor’s permission to speak to her?”
“Of course not. It may be a fact that I’m nudged and leaned upon with far more muscle these days than I have been in the past, but I do maintain some small vestige of independence in my office, Trimmers. At least for the time being.”
This last statement was made in a most circumspect undervoice, for the new redheaded deputy had fully completed his incursion and was now standing only a couple of feet away, signalling Muntle’s attention with an “ahem” and a raised, soliciting forefinger.
“Yes? What is it, Deputy?”
“Speaking on behalf of the other players, I was wondering how much longer you wished to delay the game. The tavern is open now and there has been some discussion as to whether or no we should take custody of the tap before the pew-sitters make their thirsty onslaught.”