“Jeremy,” he whispered, “I want you to tell Sir John that there has been another homicide — a woman in the house which is located at Number 6 King Street. He will want to go, as will the doctor, for by description, it is the horriblest yet. I must go ahead of all, for there is said to be a great crowd there gawking at the body and taking souvenirs.”
“But he will be furious!”
“That’s as I know, and so I’m going ahead to put things in order if I can. You go tell him about it right now, for I must be off.”
Mr. Fuller, whose daytime duties consisted of little more than serving as jailer for the Bow Street Court, had little opportunity to prove himself a proper constable. He wore his red waistcoat proudly, yet the most demanding duties he was called upon to perform were the handling of rowdy or recalcitrant prisoners and their transportation to gaol. Using stout rope and hand-irons, he could handle a whole company of malefactors.
And so he had done when we three — Sir John, Mr. Donnelly, and myself — arrived at Number 6 King Street. There must have been a great number at that address, for it was posted over a passage which led back into a court, dirty, cluttered and crowded, a true “rookery,” as one might then have called it.
We trudged down the passage, I in the lead, with Sir John’s hand upon my shoulder and Mr. Donnelly bringing up the rear. As we emerged into the court, we were greeted by a great murmur of voices. The entire muttering population of the place seemed to be scattered about, seated on the steps and leaning in the doorways — all except one group of five, which stood silent and sullen in the yard outside a ground-floor door. Each of them had a noose of rope twisted round his neck — a noose of the same rope, for each was thus tied to the next; the first and last were in hand-irons. Mr. Fuller held the ends of the rope in one of his big hands. With the other he waved us over to him.
“I sense a great many people here,” said Sir John to me.
“They are ranged round us, looking on,” said I. “Mr. Fuller has arrested five and has them trussed up and ready to march off.”
“Well and good,” said Sir John. “Take me to him.”
(I had done as Mr. Fuller urged in the courtroom and gone straight to Sir John, surprising Mr. Marsden and greatly annoying Lady Cox, who seemed to enjoy giving scandal to all assembled. I had whispered in his ear just what I had been told, and in response received a solemn nod. Working as swiftly as he could. Sir John was forced to take near a quarter of an hour to bring the proceeding to a close by discharging Yossel Davidovich and directing a verdict from the jury of “murder by person or persons unknown.” Then he collected Mr. Donnelly, and we all set off together, leaving Mr. Marsden to put the loose ends together. Thus had Mr. Fuller no more than a quarter-hour, and probably something less, to deal with the situation he found at Number 6 King Street.)
He presented himself to us in full gear. He wore a brace of pistols and had also on his left side a cutlass in its scabbard. In the hand with which he beckoned us, he held a club, his weapon of choice; from the look of his prisoners, he had used it liberally upon two of them at least.
“I never saw the like,” said he in greeting.
“You mean all these gawkers I sense around me at this moment?”
“No, sir, I mean what was goin’ on here when I come.”
“Explain yourself, Mr. Fuller.”
“With your permission, sir, I’d like these I’ve detained to do my talking for me, for I’m curious to see, can they justify themselves to you any better than they done to me.”
Then did the constable seize the best-dressed of the five men by the back of the neck and thrust him forward to Sir John; I noted that he was one of the two who wore hand-irons. At the same time did Mr. Donnelly step round them all and make for the door which stood open. Was it my fancy, or did he stir more whispers from the onlookers when he entered?
“Go ahead,” said the constable to the unlucky prisoner. “Tell Sir John who you are and what you done.”
“My name,” said he. attempting to recover what little he could of his lost dignity, “is Albert Palgrave, and I am a man of property — this property, in fact. I own the building, the entire court, for that matter.”
He spoke perhaps a bit too loud, for in his effort to impress Sir John he had been heard by all those assembled round the courtyard. His opening remarks were met by catcalls, whistles, and hoots.
“If that be so,” said Sir John, “you are not popular with your tenants.”
“What landlord is? These riff-raff expect to live here for naught. It is a constant effort to collect from them the rents to which I am entitled. If truth be known, half those hanging about and staring at us now are behind in their rents.”
“Get on with your story, man, and be swift.”
“Yes, sir. Well… I was on just such an errand, collecting back rents, when I came to that door — you see? behind me there? — oh, I’m sorry, you can’t — ”
”Get on with it!” Sir John did not seem merely exasperated. He was plainly angry.
“Oh… well, indeed. So I went to that door there, a Mistress Tribble — behind seven shillings on her rent, she was, and by God, I would have it, or have her out of there. I knocked on her door, and there was no answer — but I suspected her of shamming, and so I peeked through the window, which was so dirty I could get no clear picture. I could see, however, that she was there on the bed, so I let myself into the room. Naturally, as landlord, I had the key. I took one look — I daresay she is a rather horrible sight — and raised the cry of murder, which perhaps I should not have done. Out they came — the whole court, echoing the cry. I thought it wise to lock the door, lest they invade it as a mob. Yet they wanted in. They wanted to see. People are quite naturally curious about such spectacles, but I lectured them to return to their domiciles, until one fellow whom I recognized as Mistress Tribble’s, uh … factor said he would pay a shilling to be let in. It occurred to me that that would be one shilling less what she owed me. Others said they would pay the same. Now, as owner of the premises I had every right to allow in whom I liked. If they wished to pay for the privilege, I had every right to take their money. But I could not get that first fellow out of there. He simply — ”
”Silence!” shouted Sir John. “I have heard enough.”
“Your fellow arrested me,” persisted the landlord. “I have the right of property! When I told him that, he clamped me in hand-irons, would not tell me the charge, simply trussed me. There was no reasoning with him.”
“Sir,” said Sir John, “had I been present, I would have ordered him to do precisely the same. Have no doubt. The charge will be made plain to you in my magistrate’s court.”
A great huzzah went up from the listening crowd.
“Mr. Fuller, you’ve made your point well. I’ve never known the like, neither. Now who have you to talk to me? I hope it is him whom the landlord Palgrave named as her factor.”
Mr. Fuller jerked another from the group of five, this one by the noose double-wrapped about his neck. He was young, only three or four years older than I. His face was twisted in a scowl with which he seemed to wish to express disdain. He had a bruise upon his face, and he, too, wore hand-irons.
“Not having the landlord’s command of language,” said Mr. Fuller, “I would call this fellow a pimp. That’s how he was named to me by those who live hereabouts. They said he beat the poor woman regular.”
“Course I beat her,” snarled the pimp. “She was my whore.”
“Speak when you’re spoken to,” said Mr. Fuller, and cuffed him roughly on the bruised cheek. Then said he: “You may tell Sir John your name.”
“Edward Tribble.”
“You were married to the woman?” asked Sir John, much in surprise.