“Oh … I suppose I do. Yes, I do. I seen you in bad light last night talkin’ to Crocker and Mossie. You’re the same one. It’s just this fella Collier comin’ along after Arthur’s job when he ain’t even dead yet, that’s set us all off a bit, I daresay. Something strange about it.”
“It may seem so,” said I. “But I can tell you that I first met him at Lord Lilley’s in St. James Street. He lost his position in Lord Lilley’s household because he let in the robbers in much the same way that Arthur did.”
“I know, so he said. Still, it don’t seem right. I notice you took some precautions yourself — or ain’t we talkin’ where he can’t hear us?”
“True enough; I have a few doubts, as well. But please, Mistress Bleeker, let us stop all this fencing about and get on to why I have come. Mr. Mossman said you had something to tell me.”
“Shhh! If it’s truly him, and he were to know that I’d reco’nized him, then I’d be a dead one indeed.”
“All right, Maude,” said I, “just tell me what you have to tell me and be done with it.”
Clearly, she did not like being rushed. Her eyes flashed angrily at me, yet only for an instant. She regained control of herself, nodded, and proceeded: “All right, it is this way then. I’ll tell you what I know and what I think, and I won’t mix the one with the other.” She paused, unable for a moment to continue. “But where to begin?”
It did not take her long to decide, and the story she told began down in Sussex where, as she said, she learned all her cooking from her mother, who cooked for Squire Leonard, father of Justine (the future Mrs. Trezavant). He was the richest man in that part of the county, noble or commoner.
By the time Maude was twenty, she had learned all her mother had to teach her, and in fact excelled her in some particulars. There being no place in Sussex where she might exercise her prodigious powers as a cook, she determined to seek employment in London. Her widowed mother allowed her unwed daughter to go up to the great city, though truth to tell, she had great misgivings — and well she might. There was little employment in London, particularly not in the great houses where Maude sought employment. She had naught but a letter recommending her skill in the kitchen and her good character from a provincial squire, and that meant little to the lords and ladies — and even less to their butlers. She was, in fact, ready to return home in defeat, when, at the inn where she stayed, The Key by name, there occurred a great row between the innkeeper and the cook in his kitchen, which resulted in the departure of the cook, an Irishman of no great culinary talents. Maude Bleeker, who happened to be present in the eating room during the worst of the row, immediately volunteered to take the Irishman’s place in the kitchen. And the innkeeper, having little choice, installed her at once. From that day forth, she was a great success at The Key. Her skill as a baker was especially famed; tarts and scones from her oven became known across the city. It was not long until The Key, which was known, if at all, as an inn where travelers might take a meal if they’d no better place to go, soon became celebrated as quite the best public dining room in that part of London, which incidentally also had rooms upstairs to let for travelers.
Now, The Key was located hard by Covent Garden at Chandos Street and Half Moon Passage. Since much of Maude’s work in the kitchen was done in the small hours of the morning, and since she was at heart a rather adventurous sort of girl, she came to make it a habit to trip over to Tom King’s notorious coffee house in the Garden at the time most of those in the great city were arising. Most of them, let it be said, though not all — for the streets around Covent Garden were home to a great number of thieves, gamblers, whores, and villains of every sort; and Tom King’s coffee house was their last gathering place of an evening.
At first she came as a mere observer, and indeed there was much to observe. Though the show put on by the patrons was far more entertaining than many seen at Drury Lane, it was sure to be a bit bawdier than any that could be presented there. As she went to Tom King’s so often (and it became known that she was the cook who had changed the fortunes of The Key), she was soon drawn into their games and diversions, known as “Maudie, the girl from Sussex.” And, eventually, she met a young man there and formed an attachment of sorts. He did not properly court her, but he teased her in an affectionate way, told her jokes and wild tales, and took to accompanying her on her walks from the coffee house back to The Key. There were days and nights, sometimes whole weeks, when he disappeared without notice, but he would reappear without explanation; and each time she would welcome him back unquestioningly, for he brightened her dull life considerably.
Then, one day, it all ended quite without notice. During one of his periodic absences, a regular there at Tom King’s, a clever little thief, who had adopted the name Tollibon Lucy, offered her sympathy to Maudie. When asked why sympathy should be due her, it was explained that her Johnny Skylark, which was the name by which she knew the young man, had been apprehended by the “Beakrunners,” and would be going up that day before the “Blind Beak of Bow Street.” But why? What had he done? “Didn’t you know your Johnny-boy was a thief?” asked Lucy. “And he ain’t judt a thief, but a proper village hustler, a regular prince among thieves!”
That day, she left her assistant in charge of the kitchen and went off to the Bow Street Court, that she might be present at the appointed hour to see her Johnny-boy go before the solemn magistrate to be bound over for trial in the criminal court at Old Bailey. She learned a number of things about him that day. First of all, she heard his true name read out by the court clerk: It was John Abernathy. Then did she learn the extent of his known crimes: They were many, and varied, and included every sort of theft from burglary to highway robbery; most, however, were the sort in which Johnny Skylark would lead a band of armed men into the house of a rich man or a noble and steal all that could be quickly gathered up. There were, however, no charges of murder against him, and for that she was especially grateful. But finally, too, she found out that she was not the only one who had for him a special fondness: There was, in fact, a whole chorus of female sympathizers who wept bitterly to see him in chains and applauded him bravely when he was sent before the magistrate. Young Mr. Aber-nathy seemed, however, greatly angered at the poor blind magistrate, and seemed to blame him for all his troubles. In fact, he made some sort of threat when he was sent off to Newgate Gaol to await trial.
Maude Bleeker was quite devastated by the experience, for at heart, even with years in London, she was still a country girl, provincial, and rather simple. She returned to The Key and offered her notice; days later she went back to her mother at Squire Leonard’s great house outside Robertsbridge. She arrived just in time to take part in preparations for the wedding of Justine Leonard, the squire’s only child, to Thomas Trezavant. (It was a step up for Justine, for though not himself a noble, her groom had close ties to a noble family; Squire Leonard paid dearly for that rise — and would continue paying.) For the most part, Maude’s contribution to the grand occasion was in the form of a great outpouring of her famous scones and tarts. Mr. Trezavant, though not nearly so large as he became, was well on his way. The man had a sweet tooth, and he declared Maude’s baked sweets the best he had ever tasted. When he heard that she was presently at liberty and was given a fine character by the squire, he hired her instanter, and she followed the bride and groom to their new residence in Little Jermyn Street.
And so, some years after her first journey to London, Maude Bleeker got what she had previously sought: a position as cook in one of the great houses. This, of course, pleased her, but there was bitterness, too, in her return, for there would be no Johnny Skylark there to welcome her back. She was saddened by that, but at the same time she felt betrayed by him: the extent and nature of his known crimes shocked and frightened her; the women who had shouted their sympathy so loudly to him had intimidated her. Maude wanted only to put him out of her mind. She never went to Tom King’s coffee house to ask what had become of her Johnny Skylark. She assumed, quite reasonably, that he had been hanged at Tyburn, and was never given any reason to think differently until the night before.