“No, but I know where he is likely to be found.”
“Excellent. After you have finished your hour with Constable Perkins …”
I looked at him questioningly. “But…,” I offered, having no idea what I might say beyond that.
“Ah,” said he, “you may have thought I knew nothing of his course of instruction, yet I do. And while I do not wholly approve, he has nevertheless made me see the sense of it. Go then, and when you two have done, I would like you both to go a bit out of your way to Grub Street, if that be where you would seek him, and bring Mr. Ormond Neville to me, that we might have a chat.”
Neither finding Mr. Neville, nor persuading him to come along with us, provided much difficulty. I led the way straight to the Goose and Gander across from Boyer’s on that street of booksellers, publishers, and the hacks who served them. It was an ordinary inn and eating place, much like the many situated round us in Covent Garden — dark, close, and at that hour of the day, quite crowded and noisy. Men stood round the bar and spilled out to the tables where they sprawled in circles and clusters, yelling out loudly at one another. There were very few women to be seen, perhaps two besides the barmaid, and they seemed as hacks rather than whores. Supposing that Ormond Neville would have been there at the Goose and Gander for most of the afternoon, I ignored the crowd at the bar and sought him at the tables. And there it was that I found him, surrounded by his fellows, the broadsheet in question spread out before him. There must have been five or six round him there, and the mood at the table was one of celebration — tankards were raised, tributes were voiced in rollicking tones, while above them all, Mr. Neville shouted out the text of the broadsheet, which he read by the candle on the table. One of them, however, seemed not so jolly as the rest.
“Is that him?” asked Constable Perkins.
“Indeed it is,” said I.
“Well, he’s havin’ a proper good time of it, ain’t he? Shame to spoil his party — but spoil it we must. Come along, Jeremy.”
He led the way. I noted that he had pulled out his crested club and held it up where it might be seen; that and his red waistcoat identified him unmistakably as one of Sir John’s force of Bow Street Runners.
As we pushed through the throng and between the tables, I shouted loud into Mr. Perkins’s ear, “There are a great many at the table. I’ll give you all the help I can.”
“That lot?” he shouted back. “They’ll give us no trouble.”
Though I was ready and felt myself capable of giving aid to Mr. Perkins, I was nevertheless relieved when he proved right. He announced our presence by slamming down his club on the broadsheet which lay upon the table. An immediate silence fell upon those ringed round Mr. Neville and spread swiftly to those seated nearby. Mr. Perkins had their attention.
“Mr. Ormond Neville?” said he.
In response, Mr. Neville simply nodded; his eyes bore a look, not so much of fear but of consternation.
“Are you the author of that broadsheet from which you was readin’?”
He looked about him. Having accepted the congratulations of his colleagues, he could hardly deny it. “I am,” said he.
I looked about the group at the table for signs of aggressive resistance — but saw none. What I did see, however, quite took me by surprise: one whose back had been turned as we approached now faced me. Our eyes met. I recognized him immediately as Thaddeus Millhouse, as he indeed must have recognized me, for he swiftly averted his face and raised a hand to shield it from my sight.
“I must ask you to accompany us to Number 4 Bow Street, sir,” said Constable Perkins to Mr. Neville. “Sir John Fielding would have some words with you.”
“Am I arrested then?”
“Only if you resist.”
“Then I have no choice?”
“None that I can see, sir.”
With that, Ormond Neville rose slowly, turning left and right to his fellows at the table. Seeing no help from them, he nodded his compliance.
“Why not take along your copy of the broadsheet, sir,” suggested Mr. Perkins, “since that is the matter to be discussed.”
Mr. Neville scooped it up, folded it roughly, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He lifted his chin.
Then said he in a manner most dramatic: “I am ready.”
Yet as we began to depart, one of those at the table took heart at last. It was him who was a bit sour-faced when the toast was drunk to Mr. Neville. Though careful to keep his seat and not rise to challenge the constable, he nevertheless spoke forth loudly and truculently. He had the look of an Irishman.
“See here,” said he, “what right have you to take him away in such style? Neville is no criminal but a poor scribbler, as are all of us here. Is it a crime to work by the pen? Is Britain not a free land?”
Constable Perkins stopped and fixed him with a cold stare.
“Perhaps you’d like to come with us and present your views to Sir John?”
“Nooo,” said the fellow, “I fear I have urgent business elsewhere. I was just about to leave.”
“Then we wish you a good evening,” said Mr. Perkins. “Come along, Mr. Neville.”
And that he did, in a most docile manner.
As soon as we emerged from the Goose and Gander into the evening darkness and began our march to Bow Street, Ormond Neville fastened upon me and made to discuss the matter of the broadsheet, whilst the constable coolly ignored him.
“Here, young sir, we two are well-acquainted,” said he to me, shining up to me a bit. “We’ve had words on a number of occasions. Perhaps you could tell me, what part of the broadsheet displeases him?”
“I believe it would be fair to say that it displeases him in its entirety.”
“The whole of it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh.”
As I recall, he had nothing more to say during the entire journey. We three simply marched on, side by side. When it became necessary to go single file, Mr. Perkins led the way, and I took the rear.
For my part, I turned over and over again in my mind the unexpected meeting I had had with Mr. Millhouse. Seeing him there at that table with Ormond Neville had surprised me, of course. What seemed far stranger to me, however, was his reaction. Why had he turned from me and attempted to hide his face? I should not have expected him to jump from his chair, shake my hand, and give me a great thump on the back in greeting. Still, to pretend somehow that he was not there seemed rather outlandish. It was as if he had been found out — that I had caught him doing what he ought not to have done. He had every right to be there, after all. Though drinking, he was not drunk. Was it his association with Mr. Neville that caused him embarrassment? It seemed very likely, seeing them together, that Mr. Millhouse had given the author of the broadsheet the name of the victim, since it was he himself who had identified her. Yet if that were so, why had he not also told him of the mutilation of her torso? I wanted to ask Mr. Neville about this, wanted to ask him what, in general, he knew of Thaddeus Millhouse, but, following Constable Perkins’s example, I said nothing at all.
Upon our arrival, we found Number 4 Bow Street quite alive with comings and goings. Sir John and Mr. Bailey were in the center of it all, assigning shifts of guards for the synagogue, revising the streets to be covered by other constables to compensate for a force reduced by two every three hours. It was quite complicated and, it seemed to me, somewhat confused, as well. Into all this we ventured, with Mr. Neville between us. He seemed quite properly intimidated by the helter-skelter; he looked as if he wished himself to be anywhere but where he was. (And he would wish that even more sincerely by the time his ordeal was done.)
“But where are constables Langford and Brede?” shouted Mr. Bailey above the hubbub. “Has anyone seen them?”
Apparently no one had. There were a few replies, but all were in the negative.