“Here now,” said Mr. Tolliver, “that ain’t proper. It ain’t decent.” He seemed unduly disturbed by a process I had come to accept as quite routine.
“But, sir, she’s dead.” Did that explain it? Someone — I couldn’t then remember who — had said that the dead don’t care, a crude philosophy at best. I ought to explain myself better to Mr. Tolliver: “You see, if she died by foul means, there must be an autopsy. If she died fair, then she will be taken away for burial in the city plot — unless someone claims the body, of course.”
“I see. Well, then, I suppose it must be done.”
Mr. Bailey had looked from one to the other of us during this discussion, as if not quite understanding the sense of it. It then occurred to me that perhaps this unfortunate had been killed as Teresa O’Reilly had.
“Check just below the breastbone,” said I to him. “See if there is a small wound there.”
He did as I directed, then held his fingers up to the light. “By God, there it is, Jeremy, just as you said. There’s so little blood come out of it I missed it altogether when first I looked. She’s been stabbed by a very narrow blade — one thrust. That’s what done her in!”
I glanced at Mr. Tolliver. He was leaning forward to stare, fascinated in spite of himself.
Mr. Bailey covered her as best he could, stood up, and came back to the entrance of the passage.
“It’s murder, right enough,” said he. “Now, Mr. — what is your name again, sir?”
“Tolliver.”
“Now, Mr. Tolliver, if you could tell me, how did you happen to notice the body of this poor girl here?”
He thought about that a moment. “Why, I don’t know, exactly. I finished late tonight at the stall, washing up and so forth. I locked up and started home down this street, as I always do. Come to think of it, I always take a look down this passage when I walk this way after dark — so as not to be surprised by some villain.”
“And that was when you saw her?”
“That was when I saw something. It could’ve been a drunk collapsed from too much gin — common enough in this district. But I stopped and stared, and whether it was the head hung so low, or whatever it was, I thought it best to look. I felt her pulse — there was no pulse — but she was still warm, as you yourself discovered. Then I looked about for help and spied you two passing by. You had the look of authority, and so I hailed you.”
“And that is all? You saw nobody down the passage?”
“No. The light is poor, as you can see, but as near as I could tell, there was no one.”
“And you didn’t hear anything?”
“No, not in the passage.”
“No footsteps, nothing?”
“Not then — only your own as you came down the street.”
“Where does this passage lead, do you know?” He knew that, I was sure. I wondered why he asked.
“I think it must lead to St. Paul’s churchyard. I’ve heard that it does, though I’ve never had cause to go down it.”
That registered sharply. Polly Tarkin had been found against St. Paul’s churchyard fence in the alley that led from Bedford Street. Perhaps it had been the assailant’s intention to take this body to the fence and carve it up as he had Tarkin’s. If that were so, then it would mean he was still about — down this dark passage, or in one of the houses crowded along the way.
“If you will pardon my asking, sir,” said Mr. Bailey to Mr. Tolliver, “what is in that leather packet you have tucked under your arm?”
I myself had noticed it but thought so little of it I did not wonder what it contained.
“Why, my knives are inside. I carry them home every night,” said Mr. Tolliver.
“Knives, is it?”
“Yes, knives. I’m a butcher. They are the tools of my trade.”
“Ah yes, so Jeremy said. Would you mind, sir, opening it up so I might have a look at them?”
“Well, I…”
Clearly, he did mind, yet to show that he had nothing to hide, he brought the packet from under his arm, untied it, and carefully opened it. On the chamois leather, eight knives of diverse sizes and shapes were displayed, each in its separate pocket. Even in dim light they glinted as Mr. Bailey removed them, one by one, for inspection. Each was clean of blood, and not one had a blade narrow enough to have inflicted the sort of wound I had seen on Teresa O’Reilly’s body and the one described by Mr. Bailey on the nameless girl in the passage. Indeed Mr. Bailey must have realized that, for when he had concluded, he nodded and thanked Mr. Tolliver kindly for his cooperation.
Then, waiting until the packet of knives was safely wrapped (even offering his hand in tying the leather thongs that secured it), Mr. Bailey told the butcher that much as he regretted it, he must detain him for a bit until such time as Sir John had arrived, for the magistrate would surely have questions for him.
Then to me he turned and directed me to fetch Sir John. “But, Jeremy, I want you to go back the way we came. Stop at the Jewish church, and if all’s quiet there, tell Constable Cowley to come here to Henrietta Street. Tell him to see can he borrow a lantern from the priest there. Then I want you to go on to Tavistock Street, and if the surgeon’s about, the Irishman …”
“Mr. Donnelly,” I put in.
“That’s him. Ask him to come here, too. Then, of course, on to Bow Street to fetch Sir John. Offer my apologies for breaking into his evening, but due to the circumstances, he’ll want to be here. Got all that, have you?”
“Certainly, Mr. Bailey.”
“Oh, and have Mr. Baker give you a lantern, too. We need light here.” He nodded, dismissing me. “Off you
go.”
And indeed I went.
There was no problem at the synagogue. Maiden Lane was even quieter than Henrietta Street. Constable Cowley seemed near half-asleep on his feet.
“Go on, take him, send him away,” said Constable Langford. “If a great mob did attack us, I do believe he would sleep right through it.”
“I need to be moving around,” said Cowley.
“You need to be sleeping in the daylight hours instead of playing in bed with that would-be wife of yours.”
“We’ll be married soon. You’ll see.”
“Why buy the cow when you’re getting your milk free?” Constable Langford must have thought he had made a great joke, for he laughed most heartily at it.
I rapped hard upon the door. A minute later, shutters opened above and Rabbi Gershon’s head popped out.
“You, Jeremiah! Is something wrong?”
“Oh no, I was just wondering, sir, if you might have a lantern we could borrow.”
“Certainly! Of course! I’ll be right down with it.”
I liked not the notion of leaving Mr. Langford alone, if only for an hour, and so I offered him one of the two pistols I carried. “If you shoot into the air, we’ll hear and come at quick-time. We’re just a street away.”
He accepted it and tucked it into his belt.
Then the door to the synagogue opened, and Rabbi Ger-shon handed out the lantern. I thanked him and promised its return, but said nothing about why it was needed. It would have upset him greatly to know that another woman had died.
I gave over the lighted lantern to Constable Cowley and urged him on his way. Then on to Tavistock Street and Mr. Donnelly.
Having no idea just how the doctor spent his evenings, I feared I might find him away. Yet light shone beneath the door to his two-room surgery as I arrived, somewhat out of breath. I took a moment to regain it, then knocked upon his door.
After a moment’s pause, I heard footsteps and then his voice from the other side.
“Yes? Who is there?”
“‘Tis I, Jeremy Proctor from Bow Street.”
He slipped the bolt and threw open the door. “What a fine surprise,” said he. “Come in, come in.”
“I cannot, much as I would like. I’ve been sent to summon you to Henrietta Street. There’s been another woman found dead.”
“Ah, sweet Jesus, when will it end? Was she cut up all horrible like the last?”
“No, sir, she was not. It was done quite like the first — a small wound just below the sternum — an upward thrust through the cardiac vein.”