Jack, Knave and Fool (38 page)

If Roundtree was not to be found here, nor in the pawnshop, then I must find which ship sailed for America on the morning tide. Who could tell me that? And then a sudden inspiration: Mr. Humber would know. He, a broker at Lloyd’s Coffee House, had all such information in his head; none knew sea commerce better than he. I would wake him, if need be, and learn the name and wharf of their ship.

Yet it would have to be in the company of a different constable, I feared, for Mr. Cowley fared quite poorly. Even at a slow pace, a snail’s pace it was, he limped along badly. I doubted at that moment that he could even make it down Bedford Street to visit the pawnshop. Yet we had at last arrived at the old court building which was our destination.

“This is the place, Mr. Cowley.” I pointed us in at the entrance.

“And glad I am for it. This leg of mine …”

Indeed that leg of his. He hobbled on with me into the stinking courtyard, yet when we came to the stairway he hesitated, then came to a full stop.

“Jeremy,” said he, “stairs give me particular pain. You go ahead, why don’t you, and I’ll follow quick as I can.”

Why not, after all? It was not at all certain that the two of them were up there — nor even that I might discover Roundtree alone. And should I find him, I vowed to use persuasion, rather than try to overpower him.

“Very good, then,” said I. “Follow if and when you can. If the prisoner is present, and he flees, I shall chase him, and he will have to come this way. Have your pistol out, threaten to shoot, and if shoot you must, shoot to wound. We need him for a witness.”

“I’ll do it just so,” promised Constable Cowley.

With that, I left him leaning on the balustrade, his wounded left leg elevated upon the first stair step. Indeed, I thought, I would chase Roundtree, if necessary —if he did not first jump out the window. No, I would not allow that. Somehow I would station myself between him and that exit. He would not elude me again in such a way.

Proceeding up the long hallway, I went softly as I was able. It would not do to have them hear approaching footsteps. Them? I hoped to heaven that if I found Roundtree, his daughter would not also be present; Clarissa would likely do all she could to impede her father’s apprehension.

I stood before the door, which was slightly ajar. Light flickered in the few inches of space where it stood open. I held my breath, listening — and what did I hear but the sound of weeping, a girl’s light sobs, followed by footsteps. I wondered, was Clarissa perhaps pleading with her father to return to Bow Street and give up this mad plan of escape? I should have liked to think that of her.

How to enter the room? Quietly, or should I rush in and get myself between Roundtree and the window? Then, of a sudden, did such considerations seem meaningless. I simply threw open the door and walked swiftly into the room —yet not deep into it, for what I encountered therein surprised and shocked me so that I was no more than a few paces inside before I came to an abrupt halt.

What I perceived first by candlelight was Thomas Roundtree on the floor, dead or dying, a great stain of blood upon his plaid waistcoat. Clarissa knelt over his body, mourning him in tears; I was uncertain whether she had even noted my entrance. There was another in the room—there had to be, those footsteps —and I had a sense of who it must be. Yet it was not until I had caught movement out the corner of my left eye that I had any idea where he might be. I whirled then to face him and found a figure about five and a half feet away.

Little more than that did I see in the dim light — except the blurred glint of something in the right hand—for I was leapt at, charged, before my feet were set proper on the floor. Yet I pushed away with my left foot and staggered awkwardly out of range as my assailant lurched past me. Though he tried to stop himself, he could not. Tripping over Roundtree s body, he fell in a tumble with Clarissa beneath him. She fought to free herself and screamed a great, loud, full-throated scream.

At the same time, I reached behind my coat to the small of my back, where I kept my club —and grasped at nothing. I realized instantly that when I bathed and changed clothes I had left it behind. How could I, remembering Bunkins’s warning, have done something so stupid? Now I would have to fight him with no more than fists and feet.

Yet I was not even to have that chance, for as I was about to leap upon him, he righted himself and grabbed at Clarissa and pulled her to him in a passionate though loveless embrace. His knife was at her throat. They were then on their knees. He pulled her to her feet as he himself rose with some difficulty. There, where the candles burned on the fireplace mantelpiece, I saw his face plain.

Jackie Carver it was, though from the moment I had spied Roundtree on the floor I knew it could be no other.

“Make a move on me, chum,” said he, “and I’ll cut her throat.”

I said nothing, merely backed away, giving him room, trying to think how I might detain him. Clarissa’s large eyes grew larger with fear — and fury.

“Ever see anyone get his throat cut?” he taunted. “You get a gush of blood at the wound, but it comes out their mouth, too, like they’re drowning in it. You never seen such a lot of blood.”

“I believe you’d do it, right enough,” said I to him. “You need not convince me. Only one as stupid as you would do such a thing.”

“I ain’t stupid,” he snarled. “I kilt the only witness against me.”

“And now you have two more witnesses to your killing of the first.”

He frowned at that, as if he had not previously considered it. The fellow was truly not very bright.

“I ain’t worried about that just now. You I’ll get some night when you’re out on the Beak’s business. Her I might not have to crap at all —give her a bit of the ol’ lovey-dovey, turn her out proper, and make her one of my bawds — just like I done with that little blowen Mariah. There’s them like a bawd young as this one here.”

There were voices in the hall and footsteps. Clarissa’s scream had aroused her neighbors.

“Now, what I want you to do is move away slow while me and her go to the door.”

I did as he bade me, leaving a path open to him. He took it, dragging the girl along with him. I noted that he moved with a pronounced limp.

“You’ll not get far on that leg,” said I, echoing Mr. Perkins’s prediction.

The two stood in the doorway now. His back was to the hallway.

“I owe you for that,” said he. “Oh, and I’ll pay up. Count upon it, chum. I ain’t been able to straighten that leg proper since you whacked me on it. Oh, but I’ll get you. I’ll get you some night for fair.”

“Why not get me now?” said I, taking two swift steps toward him.

“Easy, easy,” said he, grasping Clarissa tighter, putting the point of his knife to her just under her ear so that he drew blood. “Oooh, I seem to have made a tiny hole in er. Just think how she’d bleed if I cut her proper.”

I made every effort to disguise my surprise and relief when I saw Constable Cowley appear in the doorway behind him, his pistol raised so I might see it —and yet I failed.

“What’re you smilin’ at?”

“I was just thinking how you’ll dance when the crap merchant hauls you up high.”

To what purpose I know not, but at that point Clarissa shouted: “Will you two stop jawing and do something?”

At that, Carver, quite nonplussed by her remark, turned his head and looked down at her in surprise.

That must have given Mr. Cowley the more satisfactory angle he sought, for he then put his pistol to the back of Carver’s head and pulled the trigger.

Simultaneous with the loud, dull report of the pistol, I saw Jackie Carver’s face—the top half of it, specifically — quite disintegrate before my eyes. Flesh, bits of skull and brain, were scattered across the room. The sudden eruption of blood stained Clarissa’s cape and frock, yet she did not scream as her former captor fell lifeless to the floor. She did no more than give a yelp of surprise and take but a moment to gape at the body at her feet; then did she begin quite mercilessly to belabor it with kicks, laughing a bit hysterically as she did.

Once I had calmed her, I removed Clarissa to the hall and left her in the care of Bessie, the neighbor who had nursed her. Then did I make certain there was no life left in Roundtree—there was none —and pulled Carver’s body deeper into the room; I shut the door upon them both. Then did I attend to Mr. Cowley. He leaned against the wall of the hallway, his weight off his wounded leg. I saw that a dark stain had spread there on his breeches just above his knee. Something had to be done for him.

“How do you fare?” I asked him.

“Not good. I opened the wound coming up quick as I could when I heard the girl scream.”

“Can you make it to the Strand? We can get a hackney there. We must get you to Bow Street.” I can try.

“You did well to shoot him. He would have killed the girl soon as he got near.

“I did well to shoot him because he’s the bastard punched this hole in my leg.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s Jonah Slade lying on the floor in there. I reco’nized him by his voice. I still remembers how he laughed and jeered at me as I tried to pursue him with his knife in my leg.”

Why not? Jonah Slade? John Cutter? Jackie Carver? They were likely all false names. He had probably had his partners in crime give it out he had gone off to Ireland while he hid out at the pawnshop with Mrs. Bradbury.

“Well and good,” said I. “He’s best dead whatever his name.”

And so I assembled us for the journey back to Bow Street. Bessie fetched from the room the roll of clothing that Clarissa had put together for her voyage to the colonies, and she added one of her own frocks to the bundle. And as she did that, I explained sternly to Clarissa what must be done. She nodded and —rare for her —said not a word. We set out, supporting Mr. Cowley between us, I on his right side, giving greater help to the wounded leg which he could put little weight upon. For the most part, he hopped along down the hallway. The stairs were a problem, yet somehow we managed. In Half-Moon Passage that great, threatening figure materialized of a sudden from the darkness—a dark man who was near the size of Constable Bailey but built heavier.

To Clarissa I said: “Keep going. Pay him no mind.”

And, grabbing the loaded pistol from Mr. Cowley’s holster, I pointed at him who blocked our path.

“Put it from your mind, friend,” said I.

“Pass, brother — and a good evenin’ to you.”

Then into the Strand, where a line of hackneys waited before that notorious brothel where the seamen from the H.M.S. Adventure had rioted a year or two before.

I pointed to the nearest. Mr. Cowley hopped and hobbled to it between us. I demanded that the driver take us to Number 4 Bow Street.

“I can’t,” said he. “It ain’t my turn in line. Go up to the head. Besides, how do I know you can pay, a lad like you?”

“A lad I may be, but I am a lad with a pistol, and if you do not come down now and help us get this wounded constable inside, and then take us, I shall shoot one of your horses dead.”

I then brandished the pistol, that he might take me in earnest, and reluctantly he climbed down and gave assistance.

Thus went we to Bow Street, Clarissa and I sitting on facing seats and Mr. Cowley lying on the floor between us.

At one point on our short journey, she leaned forward and, peering closely at me, asked: “Would you truly have shot the horse?”

“I don’t know,” said I in all honesty.

Upon our arrival, I sent her inside to summon Constable Baker for his help in bringing Mr. Cowley inside. Together we eased him out, and with Clarissa opening doors before us, we managed to get him inside and into the chair nearest the entrance; as it happened, it rested opposite the strong room; Mrs. Bradbury was up from her corner and at the bars in a trice, determined to hear all. Well, thought I, let her.

Sir John was summoned by Mr. Baker, and came hurrying back to us.

“You are safe, both of you?” he asked. “But I understand Cowley is unwell?”

“His wound has opened.”

“At this late date? Someone feel his forehead.”

Sir John himself groped toward his face, but Mr. Baker slapped a sure hand upon Cowley’s brow.

“He’s burnin’ with fever, he is.”

“How long have you been feverish, Mr. Cowley?”

“A few days, sir.”

“Then why did you — ” Sir John halted. “Wait! Who is here with us? I sense another present.”

“It is I, Clarissa Roundtree,” said she, in a voice most subdued.

“Well,” said he, “I understood from Annie that you had fled from us.”

I had prepared my lie in advance. “No, Sir John, that was Annie’s mistake, as it was mine. Clarissa waited for us to join her. She informed us of where we might find her father. It was her intention to persuade him to return to bear witness and confess. She led us to him.”

“Is this true, Mr. Cowley?”

“It was her scream led me up there.” He said it weakly; quite near a faint he was.

“And why did you scream, young lady?”

“Because, sir, I found my poor father dead,” said she.

Sir John seemed about to offer her a word or two of condolence when, of a sudden, a wild peal of laughter burst forth from behind us. It issued from Mrs. Bradbury, who had hung upon the bars of the strong room, listening close to every word spoken. Clarissa rushed to her and attempted to pummel that harpy through the bars. Yet the evil woman stepped back, smirking, and retired to her corner of the cell. Mr. Baker informed Sir John of what had just happened, and Sir John ordered Clarissa upstairs. She complied without a word of protest. The rest of our discussion was conducted in whispers.

I told of how Jackie Carver, to call him by but one of his names, had threatened Clarissa’s life with a knife at her throat; and that Mr. Cowley had come up behind him quite undetected and put a bullet through his brain. Sir John could bare disguise his consternation at the news.

“My last witness,” he whispered.

Then did the door to Bow Street fly open, admitting a jubilant Mr. Donnelly.

“I saved him, by God!” he crowed. “I believe I have brought him through.”