The errand which took me in the vicinity of Grub Street took me to the Tower of London and the regimental headquarters of the King’s Carabineers. I had not visited the Tower so often that I had grown used to the military exercises inside its walls. And because the Carabineers were a mounted regiment, I was especially taken with the display of horsemanship out upon the parade ground. The four-legged members of the regiment were at least as well-drilled as the rest — walking in formation, cantering, wheeling left and right. I could have gawked and ogled at their maneuvers the entire morning, but I had places to go and things to do.
I went directly to regimental headquarters, as I had been instructed to do. There I asked for the colonel but was shunted off to one of his adjutants. He — a Lieutenant Tabor — reminded me a bit of Lieutenant Thomas Churchill of the Guards, with whom Sir John had previously had some dealings; both Tabor and Churchill had the same round, pink cheeks, the same arrogant manner. The adjutant pulled the letter from my hand in a needlessly rough manner when it was offered and ripped it open, destroying the seal altogether. His eyes sped over the page. I had no idea of the letter’s contents, for Mr. Marsden had taken it down from Sir John’s dictation. I found myself hoping that Lieutenant Tabor were a poor reader that I might catch him muttering the words aloud to himself. But, alas, no: He was as skilled and silent as any — and far better a reader than most.
When he raised his eyes from the letter and began speaking, it was as if he were dictating a reply himself and fully expected me to play the role of amanuensis.
“You may tell your magistrate fella that we are aware of the situation. The colonel gives his assurances that the small force your Sir John requests will be present when and where he wishes them. I shall command it myself.”
This was all very interesting to me. I wished greatly I might have the letter back that I might read it and discover what small force Sir John had requested and for what purpose.
“Lieutenant,” said I, “there is, I believe, room at the bottom of the letter for you to write your reply. Would you care to do that, sir?”
“By no means. There will eventually be a file begun on this matter — if the provost marshal has not begun one already. I shall need the original that copies may be made.” He then gave me a rather doubtful look. “But perhaps you will have some difficulty remembering the reply I have given you. I daresay you don’t seem to me to look particularly bright.”
His nose seemed to wrinkle a bit as he regarded me, as if he had just noticed what a stupid-looking fellow I was. That irked me somewhat. I had no wish to seem stupid to anyone.
“I believe I shall have no difficulty with it,” said I. And so saying, I repeated to him what he had said, word for word.
“Yes, well, that will do, I suppose.” He looked me up and down. “You may go now.”
That I did — and gladly, executing a volte-face surely as smart as any soldier in his regiment could do — at least to my mind it was so. I marched out of his small office and kept right on marching until I made my exit through the Thames Street gate.
Then, after making my detour toward Grub Street, where I found the book by Elizabeth Rowe, I went as swiftly as those winding streets permitted to Drury Lane and Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Though not early, there were as yet no patients in the waiting room. He, himself, answered my knock upon the door and welcomed me inside.
“You’ll not have to wait,” said he. “I’ve just finished writing the report. The apothecary’s boy has gone off to fetch the mortuary wagon.”
“She will be given a church burial?”
“Sir John said he would get Trezavant to pay for a proper funeral, even if he had to squeeze the price of it from him.”
“Surely Trezavant can afford it,” said I.
“Living in such a house as that? Of course he can.” He hesitated, then asked: “Would you like to see her?”
I gave that only brief consideration. “No, I think not,” said I. “You see, sir, I knew her.”
“That does make a difference, doesn’t it? But… well, just give me a moment, I’ll bring you my report.”
He left me then and passed through the door into the next room. He could not have slept much the previous night; having performed his postmortem examination and written his report would have taken him hours. Yet he looked none the worse for it. I suspected that his years as a surgeon in the Royal Navy had prepared him for work in less-than-ideal situations. He always seemed to have a store of energy upon which to draw in emergencies. And what surprised me far more — he was of a remarkable and consistent good humor.
As he came forth from the next room, I caught a glimpse of a sheet-covered form lying upon the examination table. Poor Jenny Crocker, thought I, life did not offer her many possibilities, nor did she live long enough to pursue even one of them.
Mr. Donnelly waved his report in my direction. “It’s all about as you might suppose,” said he. “Time of death, approximately ten o’clock. Cause of death, a deep wound to the throat, which severed the jugular vein and the carotid artery. The attack was probably from the rear. Probable weapon, a long knife or short sword. And so on.”
“Would there have been much pain?” I asked.
“I doubt it. The shock would have blocked feeling of any kind. Death would not have been instantaneous, though it could not have taken long to come — no, not long at all. Still, it was an ugly sort of death, particularly for one so young and pretty.”
I took the report from Mr. Donnelly, tucked it away, and made ready to depart. He put his hand to my shoulder and walked with me the few steps to the door opening onto the hall.
“There was one more thing, Jeremy. It’s in the report, so I might just as well mention it.”
“Oh? What was that, sir?”
“The girl was pregnant- less than three months gone, I’d say, but pregnant, nevertheless.” He looked at me curiously, and then said, “You didn’t…? You’re not…?”
“Uh, no sir, I had only known her about a week.”
“Ah, well then …”
“Yes sir, goodbye sir.” I left, greatly embarrassed.
And so I returned to Number 4 Bow Street, saw proof of Annie’s departure, and then sought out Sir John in his chambers. I told him of my delivery of the letter to the Tower and what had transpired there. In general, he seemed satisfied with Lieutenant Tabor’s assurance that a small force of mounted Carabineers would be made available to the magistrate, and that the lieutenant himself would command the force.
“He agreed then to the time and place I stipulated?” Sir John asked me.
“He did, sir.”
“Well then, we must put our faith in him. What else have you for me?”
“Mr. Donnelly’s postmortem report on Jenny Crocker.”
At that, Sir John sighed so deeply that it sounded near to a moan. “Well, read it me. We may as well know all that he can tell us.”
I took the report from my pocket and began reading it aloud as Sir John sat at his desk, hands folded before him, giving it his full attention. I had always been impressed by Mr. Donnelly’s powers of concision. Though somewhat more detailed in description and presentation, the points he covered in the report were roughly the same ones he had made to me as we talked in his surgery. And just as before, the last of them had to do with Crocker’s pregnancy.
Sir John shifted in his seat and leaned forward, indicating to me at least his keen interest in this new matter. When I had done, he leaned back and rubbed his chin a bit in concentration.
“Well,” said he at last, “this is quite interesting. This puts a somewhat different complexion on matters, does it not?”
“How is that, sir?”