Death and the Running Patterer (3 page)
Read Death and the Running Patterer Online
Authors: Robin Adair
But the patterer smiled broadly and said cheerfully, “Hello, darling!”
His Excellency, Lieutenant-General Ralph Darling, Governor of Britain’s farthest-flung flyspeck, was not amused.
CHAPTER THREE
The angel of death has been abroad throughout the land; you may almost hear the beating of his wings.
—John Bright, speech to the British House of Commons (1855)
T
HE OFFICERS WERE VISIBLY SHOCKED BY THIS BRAZEN FAMILIARITY with the governor. Were Dunne a free man—an immigrant or an Emancipist—the governor could punish his disrespect by cutting him dead socially and making sure he received little or no government support. Were he a soldier, he could be flogged. Even as a ticket-of-leave man, a good-behavior convict excused from government labor to pursue his own work—as Dunne was—his parole could be revoked.
HE OFFICERS WERE VISIBLY SHOCKED BY THIS BRAZEN FAMILIARITY with the governor. Were Dunne a free man—an immigrant or an Emancipist—the governor could punish his disrespect by cutting him dead socially and making sure he received little or no government support. Were he a soldier, he could be flogged. Even as a ticket-of-leave man, a good-behavior convict excused from government labor to pursue his own work—as Dunne was—his parole could be revoked.
But, as only Rossi knew, and had earlier hinted to Dunne, Darling needed something, and badly enough to overlook insolence. So the governor simply glowered, grunted and sat down, motioning to the others to follow suit.
“Gentlemen,” Darling began, “no doubt you are wondering why I have called you together. So listen very carefully, I will say this only once. There is a mysterious and ominous development in the matter of the death of that soldier outside the public house.”
“Sir,” said Shadforth, “distasteful as it was—and I regret to say he was one of my men—surely it was just a murder for robbery or a drunken brawl? And he was only an officer. Why does it concern Your Excellency?”
“Because,” said Darling, “of this. It came addressed to me by mail today.”
He handed over an opened letter, bypassing Rossi, who seemed to know its contents. It was neatly written, with one corner folded down to contain a small copper, an English halfpenny.
The three men in turn studied the message:
The man I tore,
There will be more.
This is a clew:
First find a Jew.
Take care to choose him
Who knows the
zuzim.
As several started to speak at once, the governor held up a hand. “In the interests of brevity, gentlemen, I can anticipate at least two obvious questions. No, I have no earthly notion what a
zuzim
is. And yes, this is about our murdered military man.” He held up a small brass button. “This bears the emblem of the 57th. It was contained in the flap with the coin.”
zuzim
is. And yes, this is about our murdered military man.” He held up a small brass button. “This bears the emblem of the 57th. It was contained in the flap with the coin.”
The governor turned to Dunne. “I have, I must say after much deliberation and with some misgivings, involved you in this because Captain Rossi is convinced you can help, as, he says, you have in the past. I’m persuaded that there is little chance of the conventional law officers or the armed forces solving the problem on their own. Someone is needed who can use more, shall we say, unconventional means.” Darling then seemed to change tack. “Why were you transported?”
So, thought Dunne, the governor didn’t know all about him. Or was it a trick? No one would expect him to remember the background of every one of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and women he had seen paroled, but the life of every rogue was on record. And Rossi must have briefed him. Perhaps the wily old bird was using the lawyer’s ploy of never asking a question unless he already knew the answer. Let’s see where this goes, Dunne thought.
“I was sentenced in London to eight years for assault, although there was no serious injury, save to a gentleman’s pride.”
“Jove, that sounds a bit stiff!” interjected Crotty.
Very well, decided Dunne, I might as well have my say. “Stiff? Not really. In Britain’s fair lands, as well as transportation there are floggings, pillories, stocks, ear-nicking, branding with hot irons.” He ignored the rising color in Darling’s cheeks and the warning shake of the head from Rossi. “There are still a hundred offenses punishable by hanging. At Newgate, a boy of ten was hanged for shoplifting. Two sisters—eight and eleven—were hanged for stealing a spoon. Dear Lord, a spoon!
“My heinous crime was to strike a Life Guards officer. It was during Queen Caroline’s funeral. The mob only wanted to show they loved her, but the king’s men called in the army. I merely protected a child who was being thrashed with the officer’s sword.”
“Even so,” said Crotty, “eight years …”
“Tell us what your job was at the time,” coaxed Rossi.
“Ah, there was the rub,” replied Dunne. “They said I had betrayed their trust in me and that if I were a soldier they would have shot me. I was a Bow Street Runner.”
The governor nodded coldly. “A policeman, yes. I will not attempt to conceal my disapproval of your actions … But, well, the past is past. Now we seem to need you to fight a common enemy. Your law-officer’s skills as well as the fact that your new calling here, such as it is, allows you to keep ahead of news and abreast of gossip. And it permits you to see people and go places that are out of bounds to, and beyond the ken of, the captain’s constables. Nevertheless, Captain Rossi will still direct his wardsmen, conductors and patrolmen to pay particular attention to the matter.”
The governor rose abruptly. “I fear we may have a madman at large. Keep your eyes on your men, Colonel. Rossi will coordinate the campaign. I rely on you, Dunne, to solve the riddle of the letter. The government will doubtless smile on the continuance of your parole if you succeed. No fuss, mind. Not a word to anyone, especially not the damned press.” He stalked out, trailing a “Good day.”
“What about the dead soldier as a start?” Dunne asked Rossi.
“He’s not going to tell you much. The hospital surgeon took only a cursory look and now our soldier’s at attention in the ground. The leech did not note much, except that the victim’s throat was slashed, as were his belly and, strangely, his ankles. The slashes were even and suggest that the weapon was a long, sharp knife. Now, let’s be about our business.”
As he separated from Dunne, Rossi paused and snapped his fingers. “There was one other odd thing. His mouth had been filled with fine grains. It was sugar.”
TWO THINGS WERE nagging at Nicodemus Dunne as the meeting broke up. Why, for instance, had the governor tolerated his insolence? He could think of no good reason. He had instantly regretted his rudeness; it was an undeserved slight. Still, it was done and could not be undone, so he shrugged and put the matter aside.
His main interest was in something that had
not
happened at the meeting.
not
happened at the meeting.
In the corridor, he buttonholed Thomas Shadforth, a kindly man in his late fifties whose life was devoted to the 57th. He had soldiered there for twenty-six years, and two sons had followed him into the regiment. During the meeting, he had modestly left himself out of the mention of the bloody battle at Albuera, even though he was one of those badly wounded original Die Hards.
“Are you familiar with the 5th Regiment, Colonel?” asked the patterer.
“Certainly. Damn fine men. Fusiliers. Attached to Wellington.” He barked a laugh. “And he was attached to them!”
Dunne raised an eyebrow. “Do they have an informal, affectionate name?”
“’Course they do. The ‘Fighting Fifth,’ the duke called them. They’re also called the ‘Old, Bold Fifth’ and the ‘Ever-Fighting, Never-Failing Fifth.’”
The patterer thanked the colonel and walked away. How strange, he thought, how very strange, that Captain Rossi should today profess ignorance of this time-honored custom of bestowing a nom de guerre on a regiment, when only the other day he had boasted of receiving his lieutenant’s commission in, of all units, the 5th. The regiment might be never failing, but the police chief’s memory seemed suddenly less reliable. Or was it? Was there something else at play?
Dunne discreetly opened a small notebook and, as he had been trained to do by the best thieves in the Bow Street Runners, penciled in a heading, “Persons of Interest,” underneath which he wrote one name: F. N. Rossi.
CHAPTER FOUR
Whate’er men do, or say, or think, or dream,
Our motley paper seizes for its theme.
—Juvenal, translated by Alexander Pope (1709)
N
ICODEMUS DUNNE WALKED BRISKLY ALONG BUSTLING GEORGE Street, or the High Street as many still called it—some old settlers still even thought of part of it as Sergeant-Major’s Row. His mind was already occupied with the case. He had held back from the truth about his immediate intentions in his last words with Rossi. Yes, he wanted very much to chase his Jew and talk to the surgeon, but the governor had told him to spy while he worked and he had an obligation to his listeners as well as to his stomach. So he went about his usual routine. He already had copies of the main newspapers—
The Australian, The Monitor
and
The Gleaner
—with only
The Gazette
to pick up.
ICODEMUS DUNNE WALKED BRISKLY ALONG BUSTLING GEORGE Street, or the High Street as many still called it—some old settlers still even thought of part of it as Sergeant-Major’s Row. His mind was already occupied with the case. He had held back from the truth about his immediate intentions in his last words with Rossi. Yes, he wanted very much to chase his Jew and talk to the surgeon, but the governor had told him to spy while he worked and he had an obligation to his listeners as well as to his stomach. So he went about his usual routine. He already had copies of the main newspapers—
The Australian, The Monitor
and
The Gleaner
—with only
The Gazette
to pick up.
Dunne’s first call was, as always, on an Emancipist named Sam Terry, the richest man in the colony. Terry had been transported at the turn of the century for stealing either geese or 400 socks, no one quite recalled.
Dunne reported to Terry in a rough pub he ran in Pitt Street. There, among other business transactions, Terry took land titles as payment for gambling and drinking debts. Next door he ran a pawnshop for the poor. It was said that he held a fifth of all mortgages, more than the banks themselves, and owned rows of shops and dwellings.
He was reputed to be worth 50,000 pounds a year—that’s as much as the Duke of Devonshire, marveled the patterer—so he could well afford the five shillings he gave each time to have the papers skimmed for him before anyone else. On this occasion, the dour Terry wanted only the latest shipping movements, commodity prices, news of contracts and property sales.
Next, Dunne backtracked to call on James Underwood, another former convict. He lived in a stone mansion near the Tank Stream, an infinite improvement, thought the patterer, on serving fourteen years for stealing a ewe. Underwood, too, was prepared to pay for his news, as he was too busy building ships and making gin to read the papers himself.
Dunne regaled the tycoon with a report of a duel on Garden Island. There had been no death or injury: “The combatants returned to Sydney, perfectly satisfied, in the same boat. The cause of the duel arose from a misunderstanding at cards.” He then finished a selection from “Police Incidents” with the tale of Catherine Wyer, “who was charged by her husband with breaking four pounds’ worth of crockery, picking his pockets and getting drunk on the proceeds and divers other scandalous outrages, to the subversions of all domestic economy. The bench sent her to the factory for one month, and Wyer said he would pay to keep her there.”
But the item that most caught Underwood’s ear was an announcement that Marr’s Rooms in Castlereagh Street had received a new consignment of English willow cricket bats. Dunne knew that boys at play and often even the men of the two main clubs, the Australian and the military, used bats of ironbark or cedar to slog out their “notches,” still so called because, paper being in short supply, the scorers notched wooden wands to tally runs.
Underwood shook his head at the story from the English papers that someone had suggested the ball be bowled
overarm
, and clapped his hands delightedly at the news that a match had been played on horseback!
overarm
, and clapped his hands delightedly at the news that a match had been played on horseback!
The patterer next earned a handful of coins from a party of women resting in Macquarie Place, alerting them to the fact that rival apothecaries begged to solicit their attention to new consignments just received from overseas. There were household stalwarts such as aromatic vinegar for the headache, plants of Spain for toothache, essence of ambergrease, eau de luce for curing the bite of venomous reptiles, tincture of opium and its variation, mother’s quieting syrup. And he told them of mysterious-to-the-male items: Venice treacle, gold-beater’s skin, Grains of Paradise, colocynth essence, Dalby’s carminative, even Dragon’s Blood (special, at one and six per ounce). In deference to the ladies’ sensibilities, Dunne dropped from the list Spanish Flies at two and six an ounce.
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