And there it was at the bottom of the page — the spreading oak, with its trunk a full four feet round, and a suggestion of the stream which ran past it to the line of trees beyond. There was something about the drawing which lent the scene a somewhat mysterious, even a frightening, aspect. Yet I said nothing of this in my report to Sir John, for he would have naught of impressions and vague feelings. Still, each time I returned to the sketch, that slight sense of dread did come once again to me. What was it? Had young Mr. Paltrow died on this spot? Been murdered? What had happened to him?
Just as I left my personal impressions out of the report, I also spared Sir John my speculations on such matters. I had chosen to write out the report on the letters and the Journal. To him it was a matter of indifference, so long as the report was complete and accurate (for he would acquire its contents by ear in any case). For me, however, it was a far easier matter to handle the material with pen in hand than without. I had not then, of course, acquired the barrister’s ability to summarize, quote, and organize while I spoke — nor was I to do so for quite some time to come. Recognizing this, Sir John gave me near two full days to do what had to be done.
At the end of that time I descended the flight of stairs from the kitchen (where I had written the report) to the ground floor wherein the magistrate kept his court and his office, and the Bow Street Runners their headquarters and arsenal. Mr. Fuller, the gaoler, had just returned from his routine trip to the Fleet Prison, where he had left the day’s harvest of prisoners. In truth, I heard him enter as I came down the stairs. He was waiting for me as I reached the bottom.
He greeted me in his own, somewhat sullen way. Then, before I had a chance to greet him, he added in the manner of an accusation: “Where’ve you been these past days?”
“Doing work for Sir John,” said I, answering him smartly.
“Not down here you weren’t.”
“No, sir, I wasn’t. I’d a report to prepare, and I did that upstairs at the kitchen table.”
“Listen to him, would you?” said he, as if to some invisible companion. “He prepared reports now. Next thing I hear, Jeremy, you’ll be pushin’ Sir John aside and takin’ over as magistrate.”
“I’d say his position is safe,” said I in a manner right cool.
“Ah, well, I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that.”
With that, I turned sharply away and stalked off down the long hall toward Sir Johns chambers. Behind me I heard Mr. Fuller sniggering.
Though he bore the title of constable, he was seldom called upon to venture forth from Number 4 Bow Street to enforce the law or to bring to justice some miscreant. No, Mr. Fuller was the ‘day man,’1 whose duties consisted chiefly in overseeing the prisoners in the strong room, seeing them into the courtroom, out again, and then off with them to the Fleet Prison, or occasionally to Newgate. He did his job well enough, and I knew of no instances of outright cruelty to those in his charge; yet he loved dearly to inflict little indignities and injustices upon them. I had seen evidence of this and heard mutterings from Mr. Marsden. Insofar as I knew, however, Sir John was ignorant of all. I had in the past managed to get on well enough with Mr. Fuller, yet of late — since he had heard that I was preparing to read law with Sir John, that is — he had baited me often and seemed to belittle me at every opportunity. There are those, it seems, who are ever watchful that others do not rise above themselves.
I had passed the strong room, which now stood empty, and was just getting on to the alcove which served Mr. Marsden as his office, when the man himself popped out his head and beckoned to me.
“Jeremy,” said he in a whisper, “I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
I nodded and stepped back with him deeper into the alcove.
Then, still whispering, he said: “I take it you was going back to visit Sir John?”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“Well, I just wanted to put you on notice that Cowley’s with him now. “
“Cowley? “ It was but six months past that I had last seen him. Had I forgotten him so soon? “Oh, you mean Constable Cowley, of course. Well, I could come back in a bit.”
“No need to do that,” said he in a manner most serious. “I just wanted to prepare you, so to speak.”
“Why, I know, of course, that he’s lost a leg …”
“Aye,” said Mr. Marsden, “but there’s more.” He paused, hesitating, as if searching for the right words to express something altogether abstruse. “He’s. . just, well, different — that’s all. He even looks different.”
“So would we all, I suppose, going about on crutches.”
“All right,” said he, “I’ve warned you. Now you’ve been prepared. You’re better with words than I am, Jeremy, I’ll admit it. So why don’t you come back after you been in there and tell me what it is in him that’s changed.”
I studied his face and saw only sincerity in it. What he had said conveyed neither irony nor sarcasm. I could do no more nor less than answer him in kind: “Indeed, Mr. Marsden, if I recognize this peculiarity you have seen in Mr. Cowley and can put a name to it, you shall be the first to know.’’
That seemed to satisfy him, and so I took my leave, setting my course, as I had earlier, for that door at the end of the hall. I noted, as I approached, that it stood half-open.
How well I remembered the action which led to the loss of Constable Cowley’s leg! An unhealed, untended leg wound had become infected, gangrenous, though this was unknown to the rest of us. He and I had gone out together in pursuit of one villain and discovered an even greater, whom Cowley dealt with quite mercilessly. Yet the action of that night had proved altogether too much for his wound: It bled; it suppurated; its hideous condition made amputation necessary.
The two were talking in low tones just inside the door. I had just perceived that and was withdrawing, that I might not be thought to be eavesdropping. Yet quiet though I tried to be, Sir John detected my presence.
“Who is there?” said he, asking in a manner not at all unfriendly. “It is I, Jeremy.”
“Come in, lad, and see who has come to visit us. He has been singing your praises to me.”
“My praises, sir?” I stepped inside the door and had my first glimpse of Constable Cowley. I smiled at him and bowed my head politely, though I did not allow my eyes to dwell upon the tall figure leaning upon crutches. To stare thus at first sight would have been rude, it seemed to me, perhaps even cruel.
“It’s true,” said Mr. Cowley to me. “I was just tellin’ to Sir John of how you stuck by me, you and that girl, once we got out of that stinking firetrap in Half Moon Passage.”
“I’d no idea,” said Sir John, “that when you were refused by a hackney driver, you threatened to shoot his horse if he did not take you here.”
“Uh, well,” said I, fumbling for some reasonable response, “Mr. Cowley was in a rather bad way at the time, sir.”
“I was indeed,” he agreed.
“Do not misunderstand me,” said Sir John. “While I might disapprove the act, I certainly have no objection to the threat. Desperate situations call for extreme measures.” At that he laughed, and I joined in, as well.
Yet Mr. Cowley did not so much as smile. Mr. Marsden was correct. Young Cowley was indeed different in many ways. Most obviously, he was thinner. Though the youngest of the Bow Street Runners, he was one of the biggest. Yet he had been plump and boyish in his proportions and had none of the mature masculine hardness of, say, Mr. Bailey or Mr. Perkins. There was always something of the overgrown child about Mr. Cowley — and in his manner, too. He was forgetful, inattentive, and somewhat dull, the sort of lazy boy whose parents would wonder whether he might ever be prepared for the rigors of adulthood.
That was what Constable Cowley had been. What he had become was something quite different. Lean and hard he was. His cheeks had lost their chubby roundness, and the bones of his face were visibly prominent as never before. Altered most dramatically of all were his eyes, which before, often as not, seemed rather vacant. Now they moved swiftly about until they found an object to fix upon; when they did, they looked steadily, so steadily indeed that they seemed to bore in as upon a target. There was a powerful sense of concentration about Mr. Cowley now. So fascinated was I by the changes that I perceived in his face that I all but failed to notice the empty space where his right leg had been. He leaned so confidently upon his crutches that I could have sworn that he had been on them for years.