“Because I did not wish to be seen as one of those men who passes his time idly talking to whores! I cannot make it more plain than that!”
Sir John allowed Mr. Millhouse to calm himself a bit. Indeed he did need calming. His face had reddened. For a time I thought that he kept himself seated by pure force of will. His legs twitched. He seemed to wish to leap to his feet and run from the place. But at last Sir John resumed:
“But a moment ago you asked me why I should ask you such a question. Let me tell you, I ask you such questions as these so that I may know your relation to the victim. Your wife made hers plain. Yet I have yet to understand fully your own feelings towards Priscilla Tarkin — and, for that matter, hers towards you.”
At that moment Mr. Millhouse threw a rather desperate look in my direction. He caught me staring. I had given up all pretense of separating the ancient court records into piles, so fascinated was I by the progress of Sir John’s interrogation. Mr. Millhouse turned back to Sir John then, yet for a moment he seemed quite unable to respond.
“Well, I…,” he began uncertainly. “I pitied her, of course, but I …”
We waited. But having begun, he seemed quite unable to proceed. Nothing was forthcoming. He sat dumbly for near a minute.
“Let us put that aside for a moment,” said Sir John. “Another question for you — one that should be easy to answer. And that question is this: Did you see Priscilla Tarkin alive on the night she died?”
He sighed. “Yes, she made an appearance in the Dog and Duck on Bedford Street where I was drinking with my friends. She walked through the place, seeking custom.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“She said hello.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No.”
“Who were those with whom you drank that night?”
“Mr. Oliver Goldsmith, poet, historian, romancer, and once, as I understand, physician, as well.”
“That is one. Were there others?”
“Mr. Thomas Davies, actor, author, and editor, and briefly, a Mr. Ephraim Butts, a friend of Mr. Davies, of whom I know little, having first met him only on that occasion.”
“Very good. Now, I have something here.” Sir John opened the drawer in his desk and felt about in it for a moment. He brought out a key and placed it before him on his desk. “Yes,” he continued, “this key. Do you recognize it, Mr. Millhouse?”
“Why, it looks quite like the key to our room.”
“No doubt it does. It is, I take it, the key to Polly Tar-kin’s room, for it was found in her pocket by Mr. Donnelly, together with a shilling and a few pence. Jeremy?” He turned in my direction. “I hear papers shuffle from time to time, so I assume you are still with us.”
“I am, sir,” said I.
“Would you go now and fetch your hat and coat to accompany Mr. Millhouse to Half Moon Street that he may point out to you her room. I wish you to search it, Jeremy. Learn what you can of her, those she may have known, and anything else that may be helpful to the inquiry. Feel free to bring back to Bow Street anything you deem of particular interest.”
I jumped up quickly from the station I had taken in the comer. “1 should be happy to do so, sir.” And I made to go. Mr. Millhouse gaped.
“Close the door after you,” Sir John called after me, “and wait in the hall.”
This was, for me, quite an unexpected turn. First to be given the opportunity to put questions to a witness, as I had done with Mrs. Crewton, and now to be asked to search for clues in the domicile of the victim — it was clear that Sir John was offering me greater responsibilities in the conduct of his inquiries. The prospect excited me as no other since I had been accepted as a member of his household.
My hand fairly shook with anticipation as I attempted to insert key to lock. Yet with an effort, I took hold of myself and rammed the thing home. At that point, before turning the key, I faced Mr. Millhouse, who had been hovering over me there on the narrow porch.
“Sir,” said I to him, “I must now ask you to go about your business.”
“What? Why, see here, you young — ”
I interrupted him firmly: “You heard, as well as I, that Sir John Fielding assigned this task to me and to no other. If you insist on accompanying me, I shall have to return tonight with one of the constables, who will assist me. I hope I have made myself clear.”
It seemed that I had. Mr. Millhouse drew himself up as if about to unleash an harangue, then stood baffled, quite unable to speak. I waited a decent space. Then, with a firm nod and a “good day,” I turned the key, swung the door open, and stepped inside. Then I removed the key, and closed the door firmly behind me.
The place was quite dark. I went to the windows and threw back the heavy curtains. The sudden light revealed a room of medium size, certainly larger than my own at Number 4 Bow Street, one with a small fireplace, complete with a small cookstove, at the far end. It was altogether better furnished than I had expected. The bed was good-sized and laid-over neatly with a comforter. There was a chest three drawers high, a writing table with a straight chair, a wardrobe, and two comfortable chairs for sitting, even a small rug upon the floor. All these bespoke an earlier life of some comfort. It was indeed far from the squalor of the room described by Private Sperling to which he had been taken by Teresa O’Reilly. How had “Tuppence Poll” managed to live in such a manner as this? I set about in my search to discover the answer to that question.
The wardrobe yielded nothing but clothes. There were a great many of them, more by far than I would have expected. Some were obviously old and threadbare, some were not. Of a sudden I recalled the frock she wore at her death. It was of good, heavy wool stuff which, with the shawl she wore, would have kept her warm even at the late hour at which she was found. Surely that was new, was it not? How had she managed?
Through the chest I searched, but the drawers I ransacked contained naught but undergarments and stockings and keepsakes of various kinds. These last I examined closely. There were a great many — ribbons in abundance of every color, combs which were crested and plain, rings. I examined them closely; a few appeared to be of gold; others, not of gold, were of intricate design; and there were two in which were set stones of some worth. Most striking of all were two cameos, which I guessed to be of considerable worth. This, it seemed to me, was too grand a store for any single woman, much less one who pretended to great poverty.
I found something of great interest in the single drawer of the writing table. It was an account book or ledger — I was not sure how to call it, for I had then no experience of commerce — but I saw that it was a dated list of transactions which went back some three years into the past. There must have been some twenty pages filled, with thirty entries to the page. Though the items sold were in some manner of code, as were the listed buyers, the amounts were given plainly in shillings and pence. This must certainly go back with me to Number 4 Bow Street. If she were so active in selling as it appeared, then she must have had a treasure trove hidden away in some secret place. I looked around me. It was not a large room. Surely I could find it. And so I began my search in earnest. I pulled out the drawers and looked behind each of them and found — nothing. There were a few incidental discoveries: when I threw the bed apart, I found a dagger tucked in easy reach beneath the mattress, and under the bed was a loaded pistol. Had she them with her the night she was murdered, she might be alive in this very room today.
Remembering my efforts in the Goodhope residence two years past, I look out my tinder box and lit a candle. Thus readied, I carefully examined each and every brick in the fireplace. It took me near an hour to do so. Yet none had been loosed. All were firmly set. Not a single brick rang hollow.
By the time I finished, I was soot-stained to my wrists; my clothes were also streaked; and I was so vexed at my failure that I retreated to the middle of the room and stamped my feet in a little dance of frustration.