He held up his hand, silencing me in the instant. Then, propping his whip against the bar, he took up the glass of ale and drained it in a single draught. He held it up to the barman and another was immediately forthcoming. He seemed about to speak — but no. Again he held up his hand for a long moment, then did he belch magnificently.
“Now,” said he, “you wishes to talk to me about him. What is it you wishes to say?”
“First of all, do you remember him?”
“Course I remembers him. Great big strapping sort he is, taller than me by half. He rode up on the coach box all the way to Bristol one night about a month back. Oliver Tolliver! Who could forget a fellow with such a name?” He punctuated that with another laugh of a volume not quite so great. Then did his eyes narrow as he remembered: “That silly nit who sells tickets said it was a court matter. Is he in trouble?”
“Well, he could be, Mr. Calverton — that is, if he cannot prove he took the night coach to Bristol on a particular night and not on the next day.”
“Which night? Which day?”
“That’s as I hoped you could tell me. When did he ride with you?”
“Oh, now I must give that a bit of thought. I makes so many trips, I do.” Then did he glance down at my cup and saw it near empty. “Barman,” he called, “gives this lad another cup of what he’s drinkin’ — coffee, I s’pose it is.”
“With or without?” called back the barman.
“With, of course,” answered Ben Calverton, ignoring me as he stared off into space. “Now when was that?” he asked himself aloud.
The barman slammed down a full cup and pulled away my empty. I sipped it out of curiosity and found it seemed not so much different in taste as it did hotter in essence. It burned a bit — all the way down to my stomach. It wasn’t near as bad as I expected it to be. I took another sip.
“I remembers,” said Mr. Calverton, “he was traveling to Bristol to meet up with a lady he hoped to marry. You wouldn’t happen to know how that come out, would you?”
“Oh, he married her, sir,” I said. “Indeed he did.”
“You don’t say so! Have you seen her?”
“I have, yes. She seems … well, quite nice. She certainly pleases Mr. Tolliver.”
“Well, that’s the important thing, ain’t it?”
He took a deep draught of his ale, this time emptying no more than a quarter of the tall glass.
“What’s her name? Olivia?” He laughed again, something in the nature of a cackle. “But that wouldn’t rhyme so good, would it? Maybe call her Olivia Tollivia.” Again he cackled.
“Her name is Maude,” said I, wishing we might be past this.
“That name of his,” he persisted. “I teased him about it, I did. After he told me a little about hisself, I made up a little verse about him. I do often makes up verses in my head to pass the time on the road. I think I can call most of it to mind. Want to hear it?”
“Well, I…”
He took another gulp of ale, cleared his throat, and in a loud voice he began to recite:
“Oliver Tolliver
Rides on his way to Bristol,
And by his side he has him a pistol. Oliver Tolliver
By the light of the moon,
Off to Bristol to win him a boon. Oliver Tolliver
A butcher by trade.
He travels west to find him a maid. Oliver Tolliver
He don’t give a damn
For — ”
Then, of a sudden, he stopped and brought his fist down upon the bar.
“By God, that’s it — ‘By the light of the moon’ “Sir?” He had me confused. “I don’t quite understand.” “Why, I remembers it now like it was just the night past. There was a great big full moon that night. Oh, I remembers it well — what you call a ‘highwayman’s moon.’ That’s why I was right glad to have that big fellow Tolliver and his pistols up there beside me, with my coachman gone sick with the shits. Those out on the scamp do love a full moon, as you may know.”
“So it was the night of the full moon? You’re sure of that?”
“As sure as I can be. Not the last night of the full moon, mind. That was All Hallows Eve, as any fool knows. I don’t know the number of the month. You could get it in any almanac, but it was the night of the full moon a little more than a month past.”
“Would you be willing to swear to that in court?”
“Why not? It’s so, ain’t it?”
Finding an odd piece of paper in my pocket, I wrote on the back of it his name and the number of his dwelling place, which he gave me with directions to his room. Then, forgetting its potency, I took a great swig of coffee and made ready to leave.
“When you see Oliver Tolliver next,” said Ben Calverton, “tell him I wishes him good fortune. He may ride beside me any time he likes, and I’ll not tease him more about his name.”
I thanked him. He clapped me hard upon my back and sent me on my way.
It was not until I stepped out into the coach yard that I felt the full impact of the gin I had imbibed so freely. I felt perspiration upon my brow at a time when the rest of me felt the nip of the November morning. My head was all at once both sluggish and light. It was indeed the strangest set of sensations ever I had felt — nothing at all like the time or two I had drunk a glass of wine too many. I set off for Bow Street, knowing the way perfectly well, only to discover, after walking half the length of a street, that I had set off in the wrong direction. I stood there befuddled, seeking my bearings, buffeted by the crowd which flowed round me, forward and back.
This would never do, of course! Giving some thought to the matter, I turned about and retraced my steps. I found the way back by the way I had come, though giving a wide berth to Mr. Tolliver’s comer of the Garden. To my mind I’d spent enough time talking to him that morning and far too much with Ben Calverton — though with both it was time well spent. Sir John would have expected me back in minutes, and I was aware I had been gone well over an hour. Not only that, but I was returning in a state of less than complete sobriety. My feet were working better and took me where I wished to go. My brains had cleared sufficiently so that I realized that I had now testimony that would satisfy Sir John.
When I presented it to him, however, he seemed less than happy with it. I explained to him that I had gone to the butcher’s stall and smelled nothing of rot or stink. But thinking to help things along, I took it upon myself to go to the coach house and inquire when the night drivers might be available for questioning — omitting my conversation with Mr. Tolliver, of course. By chance, said I, one Ben Calverton was available, and he did confirm that Mr. Tolliver had been beside him on the coach box all the way to Bristol on the night of the full moon in early October.
“Did you prompt him?” asked the magistrate.
“I did not, sir. No matter how I may have wished to do so, I did not.”
“Ben Calverton, is it? I take it you got from him how he may be reached?”
“Yes, Sir John.”
“Well,” he said, “though you have exceeded your brief, you brought back information of some importance. For that I commend you.” (It was said, reader, in a manner most half-hearted.) “That you return, however, smelling of gin I find less commendable.”
“I can explain that, sir. When I — ”
He raised his hand, silencing me. “Another time, perhaps. For now I think it best you go upstairs and ask Lady Fielding what needs be done there.”
I learned that later in the day Sir John had sent Mr. Fuller to bring in Mr. Tolliver that he might be interrogated again. I, at the time, was occupied scrubbing up my attic room. Lady Fielding had noted on her nursing visits to me that conscientious as I might be in cleaning and scrubbing the rest of the house, I had let my own little dwelling place fall into a fearful state of neglect. And it was true enough: dust had collected in curls in the comers; there was a fine coat of it covering those books stacked against the wall which I had read; cobwebs had collected against the ceiling. I had never noticed until she called it to my attention. Thus my day was filled. I had no knowledge of Mr. Tolliver’s visit until Sir John mentioned it at dinner.