“Uh. Rabbi Gershon?”
“Yes, Jeremiah?”
“We’re here, sir.”
So consumed was he by the telling of his story that somewhere between Tavistock and Maiden Lane he had quite lost the sense of his surroundings. The synagogue lay just ahead on the quiet street. The red-waistcoated Runners hung about the place, arguing over the new routes handed out them by Mr. Bailey (thus does the human animal abhor changes to his set routine). The rabbi looked around him and. greatly reassured by this concentration of constables at his front door, he turned to me with a hesitant smile.
“So many?” he asked.
“I believe there will be but two through the night,” said I. “The others must now go off on their rounds.”
“Well, two is a great number. I shall always remember how we were saved by two from our pursuers.” He threw me a wave at the door. “Goodnight to you then, Jeremiah.”
I called a goodbye and gave him a wave as he hopped up the two steps to his door. Mr. Bailey snapped a salute in his direction. The rabbi produced a large key, which he used to enter. There were squeals of children, the voice of a wife, as the door shut; he was home and safe.
Walking over to Mr. Bailey, I presented myself to him in hopes of some further assignment. His men were leaving now, going off singly and in pairs.
“Well, look at you, young Jeremy — a brace of pistols by your side and ready for a fight, you are. All you lack is a red waistcoat, or you’d be one of us.”
Was he serious? My hope that he might be, rekindled my fanciful desire to become a Bow Street Runner at age fifteen.
“You accompanied the Jewish priest home, did you?”
“I did, Mr. Bailey. It was Sir John’s idea that I wear the pistols. He quite surprised me in that.”
”Are they loaded?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No sense carrying a gun about if it ain’t loaded. Have any trouble on the way over?”
“No, none, just a few curious looks.”
“People will stare, won’t they? But listen, Jeremy, my lad, if there’s no great demands upon your time, I wonder would you care to take a stroll with me round Covent Garden just to be sure they ain’t no great mob of them skulking about, biding their time, looking for their chance. That is sometimes the way with mobs — they go off and hide for a bit.”
I eagerly agreed to his proposal. He took but a moment to give final instructions to constables Langford and Cowley, who would stand the first watch before the synagogue, then beckoned me to follow as he started off in the direction of Bedford Street.
Going at an easy pace, we turned right as we reached it, and at that same easy pace we came upon Henrietta Street, one of those that entered direct into Covent Garden. We were at that point not at all far from the alley off Bedford where Constable Brede had found the mutilated body of Priscilla Tarkin against the churchyard fence. But here at the comer of Henrietta Street, Mr. Bailey paused to listen. What could he hear more than the rowdy noise issuing from the stews and dives on Bedford? They were not yet as noisy as they would later be, nor were the streets yet as crowded. The day-people had by then left the Garden; the vast night population had not yet come out in full force.
Mr. Bailey nodded in the direction of Henrietta Street, and we started off at that same easy pace. Since he had been listening so keenly but a moment before. I was a bit surprised when he spoke up in jaunty style once we were underway.
“You and me, Jeremy,” said he, “we make quite an army between us — you with your pistols and me with this great sword in its scabbard.”
“It’s true,” said I. “We’ve no cause to fear man nor mob.”
“Nevertheless, I can’t wait until we get back to Bow Street and get shed of this cutlass. It’s an annoyance having it rattling against my left leg.”
It did rattle a bit. To me, however, it seemed a reassuring sound. The street was dark; streetlamps were few, and few windows along the way were lit. There were no pedestrians ahead or behind us, and there was no horse traffic, so that the entire scene had a rather deserted, sinister aspect. Of a sudden, it came to me that I should not like to be walking this street alone, nor even less should I like walking down even darker, narrower, emptier streets at night with only a club to protect me. Perhaps I was not as ready as I had supposed to join the Bow Street Runners.
As if to confirm that conclusion, a call came from the far side of the street.
“Hi, you two! Are you Beak Runners? Over here!”
We looked, but we could not see. There was but a dark passage between two buildings. The cry could have had no other source. Then, as we started across the street, I dimly perceived a crouched figure in the shadows of the passage. The figure waved, then stood and stepped forward, beckoning us towards him.
“Careful, Jeremy,” said Mr. Bailey. “It could be bait for a trap. Keep your hands on those pistols.”
I did as he told me until we came quite close to him who had hailed us, for by the dim light of a streetlamp then I recognized him as none other than Mr. Tolliver.
“It’s all right,” said I to Mr. Bailey. “It’s our butcher.”
“Your butcher, is it? You’re sure of that?”
For his part, Mr. Tolliver seemed sure: “Jeremy! How lucky you should come along with one of the Runners — though I’m not sure I want you to see what lies back here in the passage.”
“What is it then, sir?” asked Mr. Bailey. The two tall men were now face to face. Mr. Bailey’s eyes shifted from Mr. Tolliver to the dark space behind him. There was something or someone lay crumpled on the ground about six to eight feet from the narrow walkway where we stood.
“Why, it’s a woman. She’s dead, rightly enough, though I swear she’s still warm to the touch. Come see for yourself.”
Mr. Bailey gave him a curt nod. “I will, sir, and I thank you.”
He moved round the butcher, who stepped aside in such a way as to block my path. I attempted to follow Mr. Bailey.
“Jeremy,” said Mr. Tolliver, “there’s no need, surely, for you to see, too.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”
Reluctantly, he gave ground, and I scrambled after Mr. Bailey.
Indeed I had seen worse. This woman — or girl, for her age could hardly have been greater than mine — was situated against the wall at one side of the passage, almost in a sitting position, sagging a bit forward in such a way that her chin rested upon her chest in much the same way that Priscilla Tarkin’s had.
“She’s dead, all right,” said Mr. Bailey to the butcher, “and still warm she is.” He stared down at her. “I wonder what killed her.” He was not by nature a detector.
“Pull back her head,” I offered, remembering the Widow Tarkin, “and see if her throat’s been cut.”
At my suggestion, he did just that. There was no wound to be seen, and no marks on her throat from strangulation, but her unbuttoned frock invited examination.
“Is she cut open?” I asked. “The last one was.”
“Well, let’s see about that.”
Kneeling down beside her, Mr. Bailey threw open her frock, exposing the girl’s small breasts — but no jagged belly wound.