“Well, it seems then that we have a killer who uses two weapons.”
“For two methods of murder. But there is another possibility, of course.”
“I think I know what you are about to suggest.”
“That there are two murderers abroad in Covent Garden.”
“I must reject that for the moment,” said Sir John, “as too dreadful a prospect even to contemplate.” He sighed and offered his hand to Mr. Donnelly, who shook it warmly. “I thank you, sir, for coming, yet I need not ask you to do your work on her this night. I shall hold an inquest at nine tomorrow on the Tarkin woman. We need to know more about this latest victim before convening a jury — her name, at least.”
“I’ll be there in the morning with my notes.”
“I’m sure you will. The Raker should give you no more difficulty. Let me know if he does.”
I hoped Sir John would prove correct. Mr. Donnelly left us to find him.
Then did Mr. Bailey bring Mr. Tolliver to the magistrate and introduce him as “the one who found the body and hailed us as we was passing by.”
“Well, Mr. Tolliver,” said Sir John, “you come with a very fine character from Lady Fielding. Jeremy, too, has spoken highly of you, and I myself have supped on your meats with great pleasure. In the light of all this, I can only offer my apologies to you for having detained you so long. You may have heard my efforts to play Solomon in the dispute between the medico and the corpus collector — the Raker, they call him; I know not his proper name.”
“I did hear, yes,” said Mr. Tolliver. He sounded a bit grudging, a bit hurt.
“It delayed me, took time that I no doubt owed to you as the first upon the scene of this lamentable crime. This one is, by the bye, the third such homicide in a short period of time. We are quite concerned, as you may suppose.”
“I heard of the earlier two, of course. A butcher in Cov-ent Garden hears it all.”
“I’m sure you do, sir. Perhaps you had heard, too, that the manner in which this unfortunate met her death was quite like that of the first.”
“That I had not until Jeremy here asked the constable to look for the wound especial. I had always thought the boy showed good sense.”
He threw a glance at me. I lowered my eyes modestly.
“Indeed,” said Sir John. “But, please, sir, tell me your story — how you happened upon the corpus, what you may have seen or heard at the time, et cetera. Leave out no details, please, for it is by the details that villains identify themselves and are apprehended. I will no doubt have some questions when you have concluded.”
Then did Sir John take a step back and bow his head in an attitude of listening; he leaned lightly upon his stick and touched his chin, massaging the day’s growth of whiskers there.
The tale told by Mr. Tolliver was the same one he had told earlier to Mr. Bailey, and the words he used to tell it were virtually identical. I forgave him this, instructing myself to remember that a man may make an excellent butcher, yet be altogether deficient in imagination and have no skill at all in the verbal arts. But given thus, it was given swift; and given twice, there was no reason to doubt it.
Sir John remained silent during a long moment afterwards. Then, hearing nothing more, he launched into his interrogation.
“Mr. Tolliver, you have made it clear that you neither saw nor heard anything in the passage at the time you stepped inside to investigate the condition of the body you had spied there. But tell me, what was the condition of the street?”
“Sir?” It was clear he had no idea of what was meant.
“I mean, just before you left it to look at the body — were there many people there? Were there hackneys? Wagons?”
The butcher seemed no little nonplussed by the question. He screwed up his face as he made a painful effort to remember. “I would say, sir, that there were very few people walking on the street, which is not unusual at such an hour. It may well be that all who were there with me on Henrietta were the constable and Jeremy here, and they would have been farther down and across the street. I may have gotten a glimpse of them under a streetlamp, though, for I was not surprised when they come walking along. I heard their footsteps.”
“And vehicles? Riders?”
“Well, none passed by, but I saw one behind me, which surprised me, as I had seen none before when I passed that way.”
”Behind you? What caused you to look?”
“It was the footsteps before I came to the passage. I turned round and looked, for after dark on these streets you should always keep an eye out. But I saw nothing, no one, except the wagon, and I saw it but part — halted in the Garden.”
“Could you have failed to notice it before?”
He thought. “Yes, I s’pose I could. After all, a wagon — how many does a man see in a day?”
“Hmmm, well… yes. But, sir, you might very well have heard the fleeing footsteps of the murderer. Has that not occurred to you?”
“No, sir, I can’t say that it did.”
“What about the wagon? Was there anything unusual about it — what you saw of it, that is?”
“No, sir, it was just a wagon. I didn’t see it well, just the shape of it. The light is none too good there” — he pointed — “as you can see yourself.” Then, realizing his embarrassing error: “Oh, but you can’t see, can you? Sorry, sir. I forgot.”
“Many do,” said Sir John, with perhaps a modicum of irony. “But tell me, sir, how long did it take you from the time you ducked into the passage to realize the girl was dead and call for help from Constable Bailey and Jeremy?”
“Not long, a minute or two, not much more.”
Sir John turned to me. “Would that be about the length of time it took to walk from Bedford Street — or just this side?”
“That would be about right, sir.”
“In that length of time, say, when you were called by Mr. Tolliver, did you see any part of that wagon?”
“No, sir, I did not.” Of that I was sure.
“So in that brief space of time the murderer could have made his escape. Isn’t that likely?”
“Well… it might be so, sir.”
“It might indeed.” Sir John gave a firm nod. “I have but one last question for you, Mr. Tolliver, and it is this: Did you know the girl you found dead?”
“Know her in what way?”
“In any way, sir.”
“I saw her on a few occasions in the Garden. She bought from me two or three times in the past months.”
“You knew her by name?”
“Oh no. I never asked it, and she never gave it.”
“Was she a girl of the streets? A prostitute?”
“I don’t know — p’rhaps, probably. So many are hereabouts. I saw her once in conversation with a man beneath a streetlamp in such a way.”
“Was that, by any chance, here on Henrietta Street?”
He thought about that a moment. “Why, so it was — right at the comer of Bedford.”
“Very well then, Mr. Tolliver. There will no doubt be an inquest into this death sometime in the future. I cannot yet fix the date, but I would like you to come and repeat what you’ve told me.”
He frowned and nodded. “I understand.”
“But you are now free to go.”
Mr. Tolliver wasted no time on speeches. “Thank you, sir. And goodbye to you, Jeremy.”
He turned and stalked off down Henrietta Street.
“Mr. Bailey?” Sir John called out to his captain. “You have that man’s address?”
“Aye, sir — and of course he’s at his stall in the Garden every day but Sunday.”
“Good. I shall want to talk to him again, sometime soon. There’s something not quite right there. Either that, or he is the worst witness I have come across in quite some time. Both — or either — are possible.”
“Here’s the Raker back with Mr. Donnelly,” said the constable. “And I see Cowley’s lamp swingin’ this way in the passage.”
“In a few minutes more then, we’ll be able to leave. Jeremy,” he added to me in a low voice, “I almost wish that I’d not come out at all.”