Lady Fielding would not allow me upstairs until I had bathed and changed my clothes. She sent the necessaries down with Annie who held her nose in appreciation of my befouled state. Yet I did as told, off in some dark comer, washing well with soap as I shivered in cold water. As I did so, Mr. Bailey gave his report to Sir John. When he had concluded and I was fit once more for human society. Sir John took me aside and told me that it was “a brave and foolish thing” I had done and suggested that next time I was tempted to act on impulse I was to take a moment to consider the potential dangers.
He mentioned, too, that I might be entitled to some share of the ten-guinea reward for the second murderer, but I told him I wanted no part of it. I said Mr. Bailey had done all; that I had merely held the lantern and kept out of his way. That seemed to satisfy him. In the end, however, the constable did share his reward with one Albert Mundy, carpenter by trade; Mr. Mundy it was who’d spied Amos Can-bending over his last victim and ripping at her body with his knife and then did raise the hue and cry. There was general agreement that he was entitled to something, though certainly no more than the three guineas he got.
The good woman who did our wash was summoned next day, and she did look most doubtfully at my best breeches and shirt which I had, the night before, tossed upon the back privy to dry. They were stained and stinking and gave little promise of ever coming clean. Thus much she said, but pledged herself to do what she could. I gave her what words of encouragement I could, saw her on her way, and then set off for Covent Garden to find what had become of my bottle-green coat.
I found the greengrocer where she had always been in the past, settled in her stall, lustily calling out the quality of her stock to all and sundry. As I approached, I saw no sign of the coat. Since I had brought with me her lantern, I had thought to make a fair trade of it. I could but wonder why, failing to bring my coat to Bow Street as I had asked her to do, she had also failed to bring it to her stall. Surely she did not suppose I could have forgotten about it.
I presented myself and said to her rather sternly: “I have come with your lantern.”
She left off her shouting and regarded me somewhat in disappointment. “I thought I was to get another in its place — bigger.”
“Only if this one was lost.”
“Well …” She shrugged and took the lantern from me.
“Where is my coat?”
“Ain’t it been brought to you?” She turned away in a manner a bit shamefaced, or so it seemed to me.
“No, it has not.”
She sighed. “Here’s the truth of it, young sir. Soon as you went down the hole, a young fella comes up to me, and he tells me he is your friend, and he will keep the coat for you. I tell him no, that I’m to take it to Bow Street, and what does he do then but grab at it and says that he will take it there. Well, I held on awrighl, and he gives me a great shove, and I lands on my arse and lets loose your fine coat. By the time I got to my feet, he had got away, quite disappeared into the crowd, he did. I went after him, lookin’ for help, and who did I come upon but a constable. I started to tell him how that fella said he was your friend just took your coat and ran, but all he wanted to hear about was why I had it, how you and the other constable went down into the Fleet. He would have naught but I show him the hole. Then another constable come along, and I showed them both. They fell to arguin’ amongst themselves as to whether they should follow you down and give help. That was when I walked away and went home to my bed.”
There was little I could say. Her story had the ring of truth. And had I not wondered how Constable Cowley and Constable Picker happened to be there waiting for us when we emerged from that foul underworld?
The disappointment must have been plain in my face, for she did touch my arm consolingly and said: “I’m right sorry, young sir. My on’y hope was p’rhaps he truly was a friend of yours and would return it, though I could not imagine that such as you would have that sort for a friend.”
“What sort was he? Could you describe him? Had you seen him before?”
“Oh, you sees so many here in the Garden, wanderin’ about. He never bought from me, of that Fm sure, else I’d remember him. He was about your size, Fd say, but older ‘n you, and he had a right nasty look on him — why, I was doubtful of him right from the start.”
“Was he well-dressed?”
“Not a bit of it. Not shabby, mind, but the coat he wore weren’t near so grand as that one you gave me for safe-keepin’.”
Fd held some faint hope that Bunkins might have taken the coat, though I could in no wise imagine that he would treat a woman so rude. And since joining Mr. Bilbo, he was as finely dressed as any young gentleman you might meet in Vauxhall Gardens. Nor could any say that Bunkins had a nasty look. No, not Jimmie Bunkins.
“I am right sorry it happened so,” said she.
“I believe you,” said I With a shrug, I thanked her and started off on my way to Bow Street.
It seemed my coat had been seized by a common thief who had first tried simply to cozen her with a he. That evening I sought out the two constables in question, and they confirmed the greengrocer’s story. I wrung an apology from each that they had considered the stolen coat to be of so little moment. Their apologies, of course, helped little to retrieve my coat.
At my next opportunity, I brought up the matter to Bunkins and Constable Perkins. That came as we walked together part of the distance from Mr. Perkins’s stable-top dwelling off Little Russell Street before parting to our separate destinations. I told them what the woman in Covent Garden had said of the thief, and attempted to describe the coat to them.
“But,” said I, remembering, “you’ve seen it, Mr. Perkins. Do you recall? I was wearing it that day we walked together and discovered the body of what we took to be the Raker’s first victim.”
“Ah, so you were,” said he, “and a handsome coat it was. As I remembers it, ‘twas green.”
“Dark green,” said I, “bottle green, they call it.”
“Dark green, is it?” said Bunkins. “And does it have white trim?”
I looked at him in surprise. “Indeed it does — about the pockets and the buttonholes. Have you seen such a coat?”
“It might be that I have,” said he, “and worn by a joe you know, old chum.”
“Oh? And who might that be?”
“Why not see if we can find this partic’lar joe? We may then find your toggy, as well.”
And so Bunkins, saying nothing more, remained with us past that point on our walk where by custom he would have left us for the grand house in St. James Street wherein he dwelt with Mr. Bilbo and his company. We had not gone far thus together when he suggested that perhaps he and I might go round about the regular route to Bow Street and lake a turn for Bedford Street.
“But you, Mr. Perkins,” said he to the constable, “I
reckon you must be on your way. Duty calls, as they say.”
“Duty don’t call for near an hour,” said Mr. Perkins, overmastering a wry smile. “But as a constable I’m ever obliged to see stolen property returned to its rightful owner. You wouldn’t be trying to be rid of me, now would you, Jimmie B.?”
“Oh no, sir,” said Bunkins, all offended innocence. “How could you think such?”
Thus together did we three go round about to Bedford Street. Though I had asked no questions of Bunkins, I had a good notion of who it was in Bedford Street might be wearing my good coat. And all that the greengrocer had told me of the thief supported my present suspicions.
When we reached our destination, Bunkins told us to wait as he entered the first dive we came to. The street was not near as filled as it soon would be; those leaving work for home tended to avoid it due to its bad repute. I noted that Mr. Perkins, keeping silent, was casually engaged in buttoning his coat; when he had done, the red waistcoat he wore (which marked him as one of the Bow Street Runners) was no longer visible. Bunkins emerged from the place, shaking his head, and we went on to the next, which advertised itself as a grog shop, and then on to the next, a tavern so-called. It was not until we found ourselves waiting before the fifth of these low places that Mr. Perkins chose to speak.