Jack, Knave and Fool (15 page)

“And they paid better?”

“Oh,” said Bunkins, playing the expert in such matters, “ever so much better. See, each one on that street is playin’ against the rest. If you don’t like the price you’re offered, you go on to the next and get a better one. I been out of the game quite some time, but I’m sure it’s the same now there up on Field Lane.”

“Do they never get caught?”

“Some do, but not often do they get crapped for it. Judges seem to look kinder on commerce than out-and-out thievin’. And the fence can always say, ‘I never had no idea these goods was stolen. The fellow brought them in said they were his own. I wrote them out a pawn ticket and all.’ He can say that, see, and there’s none who can prove different.”

With that, my mind did go to that wad of pawn tickets I had found among the belongings of Thomas Roundtree.

Bunkins continued: “I remember ol’ Bradbury never let me leave without a pawn ticket. Once I ran all the way to that shop of his on Bedford with a proper gold tick I’d lifted. I thought him I’d taken it from was right behind me. Bradbury gave me no more than a shilling for it, but he grabbed hold of me and wouldn’t let go till he’d writ out the ticket. He slapped it in my hand and made me take it. See, if you get caught, such is evidence against you.”

“What did you do?”

“What did I do? I ate the ticket.”

I laughed in surprise at his ready answer. Yet I wanted confirmed what I hoped and suspected. “So no true thief would hold on to pawn tickets for stolen goods. They would be, as you say, incriminating.”

“Oh no, you wouldn’t keep ‘em. No point to it unless you mean to buy the goods back.”

At that I felt relief. I had, because of his daughter and their hapless situation, come round to some degree of sympathy for Roundtree; I no longer wished to think the worst of him.

Thus came we, Bunkins and I, to Bedford Street and to a dingy, dusty little shop which I had passed many times before without notice. Its windows were so dirty that one could bare see inside; but putting my face up close, I made out an assortment of musical instruments hanging from a rack, as well as a clock or two propped upon a shelf, and in the center of the display a delicate china figurine of a shepherdess which appeared to be of some worth. There were more goods within the shop proper, yet I saw no human form or movement in the dark interior.

I turned to Bunkins, who stood beside me at the shopwindow. “It seems to be closed,” said I. “It’s dark inside, and I see no one about.”

“It ain’t closed,” said he. “They live up above the shop, as all shopkeepers do. Ol’ Bradbury keeps the place dark because he’s such a skinflint, won’t keep a lamp or even a candle burnin’ unless there’s a need. We go inside, somebody 11 be out before you know it. Mark me on that.”

“All right then, let’s go inside.”

“Awright, but just you let me do the talkin’, clear? If I want to hear from you, then you back me up in what I say. You got that?”

I gave him an emphatic nod, more than willing to leave such discussion to him.

“And one more thing,” said Bunkins. “Try to look like a thief.”

“How do I do that?”

“Well, your clothes is awright — right dusty after cleaning that fireplace. But look kind of skulky, if you get my meaning. Don’t hold your head so high. Don’t look nobody straight in the eye.”

I hunched my shoulders, lowered my head, and thrust my hands in my pockets. “Will this pass?”

He took a moment to give me an inspection. “It’ll do. Come on, then. Let’s inside.”

And into the pawnshop we went. He led; I followed. A bell jingled above us as we entered. And responding to that signal, a heavy curtain was thrown back, and a woman entered the shop proper from its rear. She carried a single lit candle in a silver candleholder that must once have cost some lord or knight a pretty penny. She was young, in her twenties, and attractive in a lithesome sort of way. Richly dressed was she; what she wore was less a frock than a gown, yet it seemed to hang loose upon her in a number ol places. Her face was fixed in a rather haughty smile, the sort that must indeed have been practiced before a looking glass. In her own way, she was playing the grand lady. But then did she open her mouth and greet us, and in a trice the ladylike illusion had vanished.

“Wot kin I do fer you two young gents?” Her voice was like a crow’s, at once squawking and shrill. The only human voice I had ever heard make such a sound was that of our departed cook, Mrs. Grudge.

“We come to see the cove of the ken,” said Bunkins in a most authoritative manner.

“He ain’t available to you, so you must talk to me.”

“And who might you be?”

“Who might be?” I am his lawful wife is who — Missus Bradbury, and I’ll thank you to address me as such, I will.”

She was all ruffled and indignant, as if some great insult had been done to her. As she pouted for a moment in the gloomy room, I glanced round me at its crowded contents. There were a great many clocks about, large and small, tucked into corners and up on shelves. I saw a rack of grand dresses and gowns, some of them quite old-fashioned, an open clothing box from which one might grab what was needed, pieces of furniture of all quality and description—and so on. Upon the counter was a showcase, no doubt locked, containing a great many watches, rings, and odd bits of jewelry. The jumble and amount of goods was such that there seemed little room for the three of us in the place.

“Awright, then, Mrs. Bradbury,” said Bunkins, in no wise more respectful than before, “at one time we done quite a lot of business with your husband of a particular kind, if you get my meaning. But we been out of the game for a couple of years now, and I come back to find that George Bradbury got himself married. Well, you can suppose our shock. Ain’t that so, Jemmy?”

“Right so,” said I, “ain’t what we expected.”

“Twoyears gone, is it?” she replied. “Prob’ly spent on Duncan Campbell’s Floating Academy or I miss my guess.”

(She referred, reader, to the hulk, Jiutitia, which floats at Woolwich and served as a prison ship at that time; Duncan Campbell was its governor.)

“You may guess what you like,” said Bunkins, all bluff and tough, “but we’re shy to do our business with any but your husband, since it’s him we dealt with in the past.”

“He left me in proper charge to do all business for him —even your kind.”

“Our kind? Listen to her, Jemmy. Ain’t she got a queer tongue on her?”

“I never heard the like,” said I.

“And what kind might our business be, Mrs. B.?” You’re as rum a pair of scamps as ever I seen.”

“Just supposin’ you’re not too far off the mark—just supposin’, mind. Well, it might be that a pair of scamps such as you take us for might learn a new knuckle trade at the Academy, might learn burglarin’ f’r instance. With such we’re no longer dealin’ in ticks and rings, but in roomsful of the best. So the question is, could you take a wagonload? Them up in Field Lane could, I’ve no doubt of it.”

“You got the wagonload now?” she asked, leaning forward eagerly. All but licking her chaps she was. “I’ll give you a better price than them on Field Lane. I’ll give you a better price than George ever would.”

Then did Bunkins quite literally back away, bumping into me who was behind him in his movement. “That’s as may be,” said he, “but still I’d feel easier dealin’ with him. Where is the old cod? When’ll he be back?”

She sighed, principally, it seemed, from exasperation. “When’ll he be back?” said she. “Well, that ain’t easy to say. He was called back to Warwick, for his father was near to death. That was over two weeks past. Just yesterday I received a letter from him sayin’ that his father was takin’ a turn somewhat for the better but was still in danger of death, so that he could not but stay on longer. How long, he could not say. In the meantime, said he” — and here her voice rose to an imperious shrillness — “I was to go on conducting business in the manner he had taught me, for he had all faith in my good sense and judgment.”

“His father?” queried Bunkins. “How old must he be? George is near sixty, ain’t he?”

“Sixty-one to be exact, and his father’s fourscore years and something. It ain’t rare for a man to live long outside London. He’s got property. Set George up in business here, he did.”

“Well, I suppose it’s right with him, should be right with me. Tell you what, I’ll visit, or Jemmy will, and tip you when we be comin’ by. It’ll be long past midnight, sure.”

“Just tell me the when of it, and there’ll be a man or two to help you unload. You can pull around the back where you’ll not be seen by the hornies.”

“Fair enough, but Mrs. Bradbury, I warn you, if you cut us on the price, we’ll load up again and be off to Field Lane.”

“Have no fear of it, chum. You’ll come away with a smile on your mug.”

With that, and without goodbye, we did leave her. Outside, in Bedford Street, Bunkins said naught till we were well away from the pawnshop. Indeed he may have kept silent longer, for it was I spoke first.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Jimmie B.”

“I’m thinkin’ she murdered him,” he whispered.

“Truly? She told a good story, and she’s a mite small to do the deed herself.”

We rounded the corner onto Maiden Lane, and he pulled me into a recessed doorway, where we might talk without fear of a listener. I had never known him to be quite so cautious before. It was a mark of the seriousness with which he took the matter. Only then did he speak, and then not much above a whisper.

“I’m with you there,” said he. “She U too small. She must needs have someone help her, or do the job for her. I can’t see such a woman as that usin’ a knife or a dagger in such a manner as killed him, much less sawin’ off his head. And as for the tale she told, it’s a tale like any other —might be true, more likely not.”

“Something in its favor,” I suggested, “is its temporary nature. She cannot keep him there in Warwick forever. He must return someday soon.”

“True enough,” said Bunkins. “Could be she has a buyer for the shop. It’s an easy matter to write his name on a bill of sale and make it look like he wrote it hisself.”

“Can you say with certainty it is Bradbury’s head you viewed at Mr. Donnelly’s?”

“Not sure certain, no.”

“Well, nevertheless, I think you should go to Sir John with your suspicions and your uncertainties. Let him decide what is to be done.”

He gave that a moment’s thought, then shook his head in an emphatic negative. “Naw,” said he. “I ain’t ready yet. Let me nose around a bit more. It might be if I keep an eye on the shop, I’ll be able to figure out just who it is was in on it with her. Now don’t that make sense?”

I admitted that it did, particularly in that it was him who had put the name Bradbury to the head in the first place. It seemed he had every right to withhold his suspicions until they became something more. And so we parted at that — he off to his afternoon lessons from Mr. Burnham, and I to Bow Street. Though I could not say that I was entirely satisfied, I was at least prepared to admit that this was Bunkins s matter, and up to a point he had the right to handle it as he would.

Days passed. The week went. Lord Laningham would be buried with due pomp on Monday. Since Sir John heard nothing from Lady Laningham in the days leading up to the funeral, he assumed quite rightly that with her silence she had declined his request for an autopsy. Commenting upon this, he slyly revealed a possibility he had not earlier made clear, one I had not so much as considered.

I, who had seen the funeral procession while out on my morning errands, mentioned it to him as he left his court that day

He nodded slowly, signaling his understanding. “.And with him will be buried our chance to have a look inside him, whatever that might yield.”

“As you say, Sir John. It would take an unusual circumstance to dig him up again.”

“Lnusual indeed,” said he, “since all seem to be against it.” Then did he add: “You know, Jeremy, Lady Laningham assumed I suspicioned her nephew and Lord Laningham s heir, .Arthur Paltrow. I suggested that the server, who to this day has not come forward, might also have had the opportunity to alter the contents of the bottle of wine.”

“I do remember, yes sir,” said I, “but I have given some thought to it, and I must say to you that when Lord Laningham hailed the server and sent him off to bring the bottle of wine from his table, he seemed to choose the fellow quite at random. He took the one who was nearest at hand.”

“I had thought as much,” said he, “and would not have mentioned it to her at all, save for the troubling fact that so far none has admitted he was the one delivered the bottle to Lord Laningham. There is, however, yet another candidate for suspicion. Can you name the person?”

He had taken me by surprise. In truth I had given little consideration to the matter. I had had no reason to think beyond what had come out in his conversation with Lady Laningham. Why should I have? I became a bit flustered and could only stutter out my reply: “Why no, Sir John, I … I … I could not say.”

“Simply consider,” said he, “who would have the greater opportunity for poisoning the bottle — if indeed there were poison in it. Why, that would be Lady Laningham herself. She had access to the cellar, might even have chosen the bottles for the occasion. I, of course, refrained from mentioning this to her, for I wished to gain from her permission for an autopsy. The fact that it was never given, by the bye, counts against her.”

“But do you truly hold her suspect? What would be her motive for such an act?”

“Oh, perhaps she had a lover.”

“She is over threescore years.”

“Such prodigies of passion are known even among those of greater years. He was a tiresome old fool, or so I hear — perhaps she simply wished to be rid of him. But to address your first question, do I truly hold her suspect? The answer is no.”

“No?”

“No, she seemed to behave as one might when the possibility of poison is suggested. We must keep firmly in mind that it is merely a possibility that has been discussed. As for her silent no which was given our request for an autopsy, I daresay that had to do with matters of propriety, respect for the dead, et cetera, rather than any fear of discovery. I do not hold her suspect. I hold none suspect until poison be proven.”