“Well, then, if you must,” said she, sounding much put-upon, “there was but one phrase that I heard distinct, and it was this: ‘not with the likes of you.’ “
“And nothing more?”
“Nothing more that one could understand. But…”
“But what?”
“It was said in such a way — that is to say, her manner of speech was such … well, I took her to be Irish.”
Having gleaned that much, I decided to leave off with my questions. I nodded to Tillbury, indicating I had done, thanked her curtly, and made to go.
“He must have been a large man,” said she, muttering to herself.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Simple enough. He carried her here, and tucked her under the stairs, did he not? I sat in the dark and heard all that, as well.”
“Thank you again, Mrs. Crewton. You’ve been most helpful.”
I had learned a lesson in interrogation. Thereafter I would always remember to allow the witness to have his say. She may merely have confirmed what Sir John had already concluded, yet such verification would always be welcomed by him.
I went with Mr. Tillbury the few steps to his own door and thanked him also.
Then he said: “She’s a bit daft, I fear, and goes on some. But you may trust what she tells you.”
As I approached Sir John, I saw to my surprise that he was alone. The woman whom he had designated his last witness was giving information to Mr. Benjamin Bailey; and he, by the light of the lantern held high by Mr. Cowley, was penciling it on a piece of paper. I wondered had she much to offer.
“Ah, Jeremy, what have you to tell? I do hope you will forgive me for sending you off to talk to that woman. It seemed to me that if she were as nearly blind as Mr. Tillbury said, I decided you would be the better interrogator. If I were to have talked to her, it would have been much like the blind leading the blind.” (Thus he often joked of his affliction.)
“Sir, I welcomed the opportunity.”
“Good of you to say so. But what did she say?”
I told him in far less time than Mrs. Crewton had taken to tell me the phrase she had heard from the victim’s lips and her suspicion that the woman was Irish. I added that though she had been unable to see the murderer, she had heard him track by and place the body under the stairs.
“Excellent!” said Sir John. “You’ve done well, Jeremy, for all that you learned from her tallies with what I have heard from the woman with whom I just spoke. Her name is Maggie Pratt. She was well acquainted with the victim, whose name she gave us as Teresa O’Reilly. Thus the victim is indeed Irish, as your Mrs. Crewton guessed. The Pratt woman — she is hardly more than a girl — tells us she saw Teresa O’Reilly in conversation in Duke’s Court with a soldier, a red-coated Grenadier Guard from the Tower not long before Mr. Tillbury discovered the body and gave the alarum. It could well be that the victim, pursued by the
soldier, left Duke’s Court and proceeded down the alley where the two had their final altercation. What was it that was heard by your witness, Jeremy? ‘Not with the likes of you.’ That, too, fits well, for the Irish — particularly the rural Irish — have no love for red-coated English soldiers. She, perhaps from some personal experience, may have had some special animosity against them, may have refused him, said something of the sort your Mrs. Crewton overheard. The soldier, presumably drunk, may then have stabbed her in anger. And having stabbed her, hid the body, hoping at least to delay the discovery. You see, Jeremy? It all fits right snug, does it not?”
“Indeed it does,” said I.
“Maggie Pratt has consented to review the troops at the Tower on the morrow,” said Sir John. “She seems to look forward to it, rather, for she says she got a good look at the fellow and would have justice done.”
Having delivered the letter which I had taken in dictation from Sir John, I returned from the Tower of London in a baffled and uncertain state, unable to give absolute assurance that it would truly reach him to whom it was addressed that same night. I had certainly tried my best. Walking boldly to the gate to which I’d been directed, I had asked to be admitted that I might deliver a letter to Captain Conger, acting colonel of the regiment. The guard at the gate told me then in a most indifferent manner to come back with it next day. I had then said I would not, for the letter was from none other than Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court. He remained unimpressed until I shouted loud as I could that a woman had been murdered, and a Grenadier Guard was suspected. That brought out the corporal of the guard who, though he would not admit me, did solemnly promise to put the letter in the hands of Captain Conger. I left then, knowing I could do no better than that, convinced also that had I worn the red waistcoat and carried the crested club of a Bow Street Runner, I should have been given direct admittance to the presence of the acting colonel.
So there was I, returned at last to Number 4 Bow Street. Though I was embarrassed by my failure to get beyond the Tower gate, I felt that Sir John would surely understand — as indeed he did. And I was quite famished, having eaten nothing but an apple or two since breakfast. Yet a surprise awaited me above which delayed my dinner further.
I waved my greeting to Mr. Baker, keeper of the strong room, as I made for the stairs.
He called to me: “Sir John has a visitor.”
“Oh? Who is that?”
“You know the fellow better than I… a medico… Irish. He helped on that Goodhope matter.”
“Mr. Donnelly!”
“That’s the name. I sent him direct upstairs, for I remembered he was well known to the Beak.”
“And to me, as well,” said I exuberantly, as I jumped upon the stairs and started up them two at a time.
Indeed Gabriel Donnelly was well known to me. I had counted him a friend when first I came to London, for as I well recalled, he had taken a sincere interest in me when I was but a raw youth — no more than a boy — of thirteen. As for Sir John, he had said he would ever be grateful to Mr. Donnelly for the manner in which he eased the last days of the first Lady Fielding.
In my eagerness, I burst in upon them, for all were seated round the kitchen table. Yet at the last moment I remembered the rules of proper conduct, came to a sudden halt, and doffed my hat, easing the door closed behind me.
Mr. Donnelly responded to my rude entrance by jumping from his chair and advancing upon me with open hand outstretched. “Good God, is it you, Jeremy? You look a man already. I’d say you are a man — and at what age are you?”
“Fifteen, sir,” said I in a modest manner, allowing my hand to be pumped most vigorously.
“Well, you look older and most particularly in that fine coat — quite the young gentleman!”
“Do sit down, Jeremy,” said Lady Fielding. “Mr. Donnelly has kept us royally entertained with his tales of the Ribble Valley.”
“Indeed he has/’ seconded Sir John with a deep chuckle.
I brought over a chair and took a place next Annie, our cook. I could tell she and all the rest were in a merry mood. Their faces were flushed from laughter; all wore smiles. Annie passed me a wink as I sat down.
“Ah, but I feel I’ve been unfair to folk there,” said Mr. Donnelly, resuming his recital. “They are good, simple country people, no more nor less. And if their country ways and their speech — oh, God, their speech!” — rolling his eyes most expressively, provoking more laughter — “if they seem strange to us, you may be sure that London ways and speech would seem even more strange to them.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said Sir John. “Who are we to set the mark?”
Yet when he resumed, Mr. Donnelly seemed distinctiy more serious in style and mien: “No, diey are not fools. I would venture to say that of any and all, I was the bigger fool ever to have gone there in the pursuit of that reluctant widow.” He sighed a bitter sigh yet kept a smile upon his face. “You see before you that figure of comedy, a rejected suitor. It were not enough that I followed Lady Goodhope into deepest Lancashire where I attempted to begin a medical practice among folk so poor they could only offer to pay me with hens, piglets, and promises to whitewash my cottage; nor that I felt great pity for her in her widow’s state and tenderness for her even in those fits of foolish haughtiness to which she was often given; nor that I gave her ignorant son the only glimpses of education he had had in aU his nine years. No, none of that were enough. As I finally discovered, it was also necessary that I have a great personal fortune with which to finance the boy’s education and his return to London to take his father’s place in the House of Lords. What had I to offer her? A few hens, a piglet or two and one last offer of help from my father amounting to five hundred pounds. It wasn’t sufficient. She chose, rather, to sell herself to a Lancashire coal merchant of the town of Wigan, a man of such remarkable ignorance that he supposed that all that was needed for him to become Lord Goodhope was to marry Lady Goodhope. Even though he was disappointed to learn otherwise, he showed himself willing so that he might live in her house, which I myself heard him praise as ‘t’grandest in t’valley, or mos’ Lane’shire.’ No doubt she feels comfortable with him, for she herself comes of that class, though she is better educated. In any case, her choice is final. The banns have been posted. There was no reason for me to stay longer, and so … here I am.”