SEVEN
As it happened, I missed the better part of Sir John’s inquest into the death of Priscilla Tarkin, for I had been appointed to write and dehver an advert describing the girl discovered in the passage by Mr. Tolliver the night before. It was an appeal to any and all who might know her to come and identify her body. Because of the conditions under which I viewed her, I found it difficult to write a description of any sort. She had not a distinctive face, so far as I could remember, and the bad light had made it most difficult to retain a clear impression of it. And so, knowing not what else to do, I set off for Mr. Donnelly’s surgery that I might have a better look at her.
Arriving a bit before eight, I knocked upon his door. When it opened, again he expressed his surprise at seeing me there, but in no wise did he make me feel unwelcome. He bade me enter, and I explained my mission. All was well, but he reminded me, checking his timepiece, that he would have to leave in an hour’s time to attend Sir John’s inquest. Then he brought me into his examination room, where the body of the unknown girl lay upon a long, narrow table beneath a sheet.
“I have not cut into her as yet,” said he. “She is as she was when you saw her last night, though she has gone stiff during the hours since then.”
“How should I begin a description?” I asked.
“Why, with height and weight, I suppose. I have measured her at five feet tall, and I reckon her weight at not much more than seven stone. Though not a starveling, I would say she was not well fed for some time — perhaps had never been.”
I noted height and weight down with my pencil on the paper I had brought, and I began to study her face.
“Her hair is plain brown,” he continued, “and her face long and oval. She has three missing teeth in back, two on the left side and one on the right. There were no scars I could detect, except one on her left cheek — half-moon shaped, as a ring might have left an impression from a blow to the face. The two missing teeth are directly below the scar. As for her age, I’d give it as fifteen or sixteen.”
All this, as well, I duly noted down.
“These women,” said I, thinking of Mariah, “these girls — they lead hard lives, don’t they, sir?”
“They do indeed, and for that it is men must take the blame.”
“I… I see what you mean, sir.” I continued studying her face, hoping for some inspiration; none came. “How do you describe a face?” I asked.
“Ah, that is a question, is it not?” said Mr. Donnelly. “What is it makes one different from another? Aside from it being long and oval-shaped, what is there about hers that makes it different from all others in London? It is a great mystery to me that God has endowed each of us with a physiognomy quite unlike any other. I have heard it said that each of us has, somewhere in the world, a double — a twin bom of a different father and mother. Yet I have traveled some in this world, and I have seen no evidence to support that. In short, Jeremy, I fear I cannot help you much. I have neither the wit nor the art to describe a face properly.”
During all this he had stood opposite me, looking down upon her as I did. But then, of a sudden, he glanced up at me, declaring, “I must prepare for my session with Sir John. If you will excuse me?”
“Of course,” said I, “and if you will permit me. Til go to the writing table in the next room and see can I compose an advert that might satisfy us both.”
Thus I took leave of him, sat where I said I would, and sought to write what must be writ. I wasted sheet after sheet in the effort. In the next room I heard the surgeon splashing and humming as he readied himself for the day. At last he came forth, clean-shaven and properly dressed, and I held out to him the latest (though not necessarily the final) version of the advert.
Here is what I had put down:
Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court, seeks the identity of a young woman, 15 or 16 years of age, a homicide victim, whose body was discovered in the passage off Henrietta Street two nights past at half-past seven. She is five feet tall and no more than seven stone in weight. Her hair is a dark brown color, and her eyes also. There is a small scar upon her left cheek in the shape of a half moon; two teeth are missing that side, and another on the right side of her mouth. Her face, oblong and meagre, has upon it a long straight nose and a mouth of some width. When found, she was clothed in a frock of homespun, blue in color.
Any who believe they may know who she is may view her remains at the surgery of Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, 12 Tavistock Street, City of Westminster.
Having read through it twice, Mr. Donnelly offered a judicious nod.
“That should do quite well,” said he. ” ‘Oblong and meagre’ — a nice phrase that.”
“Thank you, sir. I had tried to scatter other, more decorous phrases throughout — but they seemed inappropriate.”
“Best keep to the facts in such circumstances.” He took a second peek at his timepiece. “Shall we go?”
And indeed we departed together, descending the narrow stairs, he leading the way. When we had reached the bottom and exited to the street, he offered me his hand, just as he might to any gentleman. I gave it a good and thorough pumping.
“I’m glad to see my surgery mentioned in print, even in such a matter as this,” said he. “Who knows? It may bring me a live patient or two. The dear Lord knows I could use them. So far, all my patients have been dead — not that I’m ungrateful to Sir John for the work he has given me.”
I bade him goodbye, knowing full well that I might see him again soon at the inquest. Then was I off in a great hurry to the offices of the Public Advertiser, located some distance away in Fleet Street.
Had I but known the difficulty I would encounter at the newspaper’s offices, I might have supposed it impossible to return to Bow Street in time for any part of the inquest into the death of Priscilla Tarkin. The clerk who had taken my advert had been reluctant to agree to my demand that it be placed prominently on the front page of the next day’s broadsheets. We went round and round about it, more times than was needful — or so it seemed to me. At last, I demanded to see the man in charge — editor, publisher, whoever he may be. When Mr. Humphrey Collier appeared, he turned out to be both editor and publisher, and he settled the matter swiftly: “Why, of course,” said he, “if this has to do with Sir John’s investigations, you can be sure it will be displayed most prominently. We’ll put it in big type at the top of the page with a black band about it. None will miss it. Please tell him so for me.”
Thus relieved of that onerous responsibility, I set out at a gallop for the court. Shank’s mare served me well, for I discovered upon my arrival that the proceeding was not near as far along as I had expected. (I later learned that Mr. Marsden had had a little difficulty in assembling a jury; the word had gotten round that a shilling would be paid, so naturally two shillings were asked.) As I entered the little courtroom, taking care to be quiet, I saw that Mr. Donnelly had just completed his testimony and was returning to his place in the bank of chairs to one side reserved for witnesses; there were others seated there, some of whom I recognized and some whom I did not.
One of the former was called, Mr. Thaddeus Millhouse, but he appeared only briefly before the court of inquest. Sir John wanted from him the victim’s identity, which was given as Priscilla Tarkin, commonly known as “Polly.”
“And what was her work, Mr. Millhouse?”
“Her work, sir?”
“Her occupation. How did she earn her bread?”
“As a prostitute, sir. She made no secret of it.”
“She also, it seems, supplemented her earnings in that line by thievery. Or perhaps, unknown to you, sir, theft was her chief occupation. We have proof of this from a search of her quarters. This complicates our investigation of her death somewhat.”