Maggie MacKeever (18 page)

Bow Street’s interest in him was of less pressing concern to Sir Malcolm than Miss Bagshot’s sentiments, so charmingly expressed. Alas, he could not pursue this matter just then. Madame le Best stood in the doorway of her shop. “Ah, Madame!” said Sir Malcolm, who had during his adventures learned to extricate himself from tight spots. “Miss Bagshot has just persuaded me that my cousin must also have a new carriage dress. It must be the color of that building across the street. I will leave her to explain to you the details.” Treasuring the memory of Miss Bagshot’s last grateful, merry glance. Sir Malcolm strolled away.

Chapter Sixteen

The glance cast Sir Malcolm Calveley by Miss Bagshot was also very much on the mind of Samson Puddiphat, as was the conversation overheard between them in an Oxford Street alleyway. What to make of these developments, Puddiphat was not certain. Was Miss Bagshot attempting to lull the suspicions of Sir Malcolm, thereby luring him to indiscreet confidences which she would then relate to Bow Street? Or was she playing some sinister deep game? These matters Puddiphat mulled over as he made his way to Bow Street Public Office. For several days he had seen neither hide nor hair of Mr. Crump.

Nor did he do so that day; inquiry solicited the intelligence that Mr. Crump had departed London on confidential inquiry work. A less responsible person than Puddiphat might have interpreted this circumstance as an invitation to relax his own diligence. But Puddiphat saw clearly where his duty lay. After only the slightest hesitation he approached the office of the Chief Magistrate.

Thus it came about that Sir John’s cogitations concerning his most recent encounter with the Home Secretary were interrupted by an earnest brown-haired young man whose unremarkable figure was enlivened by the uniform of the Horse Patrol, and whose nondescript features had something of the aspect of an anxious raccoon. Sir John was not intimately acquainted with this individual, though as an adjunct of Bow Street, he had seen Puddiphat before. He did not think the occasion of that prior acquaintance had been especially auspicious. “What the devil do
you
want?” Sir John wearily inquired.

What Puddiphat wanted was to immediately flee the august presence of this supreme official of Bow Street, but Puddiphat was no coward, no matter how numerous his faults. “Want to become a Runner!” he confided. “Like Townsend and Sayer. Armstrong and Keys.” He struggled with his saber, which had gotten stuck. “And Crump.”

Somewhat uncharitably, Sir John surveyed the member of the Horse Patrol wedged in his narrow doorway. Puddiphat’s cheeks were pink with exertion, and his leather hat had fallen to the floor. “It is not quite so easy as all that, I’m afraid.”

Easy? Who had ever said it was easy? Puddiphat manipulated his saber in the proper direction and popped out of the doorway like a cork from a bottle of champagne. The impetus of his entry sent him barreling straight into the side of the Chief Magistrate’s desk. The Chief Magistrate swore.

“Beg pardon!” Impervious by long usage to catastrophe, Puddiphat righted himself and retrieved his hat from the floor. “Thing is, I
know
it isn’t easy. Milliners don’t take kindly to questioning by Bow Street.”

If Sir John had heard correctly, a member of the Horse Patrol had for some as yet unstated reason been interrogating the city’s milliners. Scant wonder they did not appreciate that fact, especially if Bow Street’s emissary habitually got stuck in doorways. “Milliners?” he echoed, rubbing the skin bruised by Puddiphat’s assault upon his desk.

“Milliners,” confirmed Puddiphat, who had withdrawn to the window. “Armenian Divorce Corsets, Invisible Petticoats, and Bosom Shields!” he added, as proof of his claim.

The Chief Magistrate left off rubbing his bruised shin to instead massage his brow. “I do not doubt your word. What I want to know is
why!”

Puddiphat wanted very much to please Sir John, for without the Chief Magistrate’s approval, he would never be made a Runner. It was a desire in which he was achieving no marked success. “Why what?” he inquired.

“Why have you been questioning milliners?” Sir John’s tones were distinctly grim. “What maggot have you taken into your head?”

Maggots? Though Puddiphat was not precisely needle-witted, once he properly understood a question, he could answer it very well. “Crump!” he responded, with a relieved smile.

“Crump.” Sir John recalled the favor he had asked. He anticipated having several sharp words to say to Crump when that genial individual had returned from his current private commission. “You had better tell me about it. From the beginning, if you please.”

In considerably more detail than Sir John had anticipated, or welcomed, Puddiphat obliged. The Chief Magistrate learned of Puddiphat’s encounter with Crump in the tavern near Bow Street Public Office, and of the opportunity thus offered for Puddiphat to better himself. The Chief Magistrate also learned of every shop visited by Puddiphat.

“Enough!” he said abruptly, as Puddiphat digressed upon an explanation of various of the more arcane aspects of the millinery trade. “How much did Crump tell you about why these investigations are being made?”

Puddiphat screwed up his features in an effort to recall. “Said I was to find a milliner who had some connection with a rum customer—one who came afoul of Bow Street.”

The sheer inanity of this utterance caused Sir John to cease massaging his brow. “Do you have any idea,” he grimly inquired, “how many milliners that description fits? At least I must be grateful Crump didn’t mention Blood-and-Thunder to you, I suppose.”

Blood-and-thunder? Puddiphat wondered why the conversation had switched so abruptly to liquid refreshment. “Only found one such milliner myself.”

Sir John was so incensed by Crump’s negligence that he failed at first to grasp the significance of Puddiphat’s remark. “I
should
make you a Runner,” he said bitterly. “Yes, and put you in Crump’s place.” Then his heavy brows lowered. “You found
what?”

Addressed in such exasperated tones, Puddiphat started, and at first could not recall. “One milliner connected with a rum customer!” he finally remembered. “ ‘Twas her brother. He sloped off.”

What Puddiphat had found, suspected Sir John, was one milliner who would admit to such a connection, which was not to say that countless of the city’s other milliners didn’t have a brother or a father or a lover who had been brought before the magistrates—if not all three. “You had better tell me about it,” he repeated, without any hope that Blood-and-Thunder would be so easily tracked down. Indeed, Sir John was tempted to forget the whole business. No recent robberies had been reported. If Blood-and-Thunder
had
returned to England, he’d not resumed his old habits. Yet.

Puddiphat, meanwhile, launched into an explanation of Madame le Best’s refusal to discuss That Man. “Sloped off!” he wound up. “Took French leave. But Bow Street isn’t interested in such things.”

Only the fact that Puddiphat had undertaken these inquiries in addition to his regular duties prevented Sir John from issuing remarks that were very unkind.
“When
did this person slope off?” he inquired, though without any real curiosity. “Bow Street might be very interested in that.”

Puddiphat looked chagrined. “Dashed if I know! Didn’t think to ask. Crump didn’t tell me the particulars of the business. And Madame le Best doesn’t like to talk about her brother. Won’t have his name spoken beneath her roof.”

“What
was
his name?” persisted the Chief Magistrate.

Puddiphat was disappointed by Sir John’s lack of quick-wittedness. “Told you, sir! Madame le Best won’t have his name spoken. So how could I find out?”

Perhaps Puddiphat might be subtly made aware of how unsuited he was to detective work, thought Sir John. “French, is she—this Madame le Best?”

“French?” Puddiphat fidgeted with his leather hat. “Shouldn’t think so myself. That is, Miss Bagshot!”

“Who the devil is Miss Bagshot? I thought we were talking about a milliner called le Best.”

Puddiphat was not surprised that the Chief Magistrate experienced a degree of confusion; the mere thought of Miss Bagshot affected Puddiphat that way.
“Says
her name is le Best!” he explained. “Don’t believe it myself. Miss Bagshot is her niece, recently arrived from Brighton, where she was in service until she lost her place.” Lest Sir John be put off by this circumstance, he added: “A taking little thing! Fine as fivepence.”

The Chief Magistrate had in the pursuit of his profession met many fine damsels, and had scant interest in the taking Miss Bagshot. “I begin to comprehend why you are so fascinated by this particular milliner.” he said ironically. “But it is Blood-and-Thunder you are supposed to be tracking down.”

Blood-and-thunder? Again that queer reference to liquid refreshment. Could the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street be addicted to the bottle? Puddiphat politely offered to nip into the nearby tavern and fetch Sir John a drink.

“Not me, you moron!” thundered that sorely tried gentleman. “The cracksman!”

Eager as he was to please, Puddiphat was not without pride.
“Not
a moron!” he protested. “Even if I don’t understand why you wish me to fetch a cracksman a drink!
What
cracksman? Moreover, I worked very hard on this business—yes, and on studying, too. Have
you
read Lavatar’s
Physiognomical Fragments?
All four volumes? Can
you
look at a corpse and tell the nature of his crime? Dashed if I
want
to be a Runner if this is all the thanks I get!”

“Very well; I apologize.” Sir John was conscious of having been unfair. “Perhaps we will go on better if I fill you in on the background of this affair. Blood-and-Thunder was a cracksman who eluded us several years back—in point of fact, he eluded Crump. We had reason to believe he fled the country. Recently, there have been rumors of his return.”

This was the stuff of which careers were made. “Lawks!” breathed Puddiphat.

Sir John overlooked this interruption. “We have no description of the scoundrel, so are groping in the dark. All we do know is that he was connected with a milliner. How, we are not certain. Perhaps he was a member of her family. Perhaps she was his
petite amie.
Such liaisons are not unusual among young bloods.”

“Young bloods!” Puddiphat was thrilled to discover that he was in truth on the trail of something big. “You mean this Blood-and-Thunder might be Quality?”

“I mean I don’t know what he is!” Sir John’s tone was short. “Or even
if
he is! There is no real proof that he has returned to England—as your inquiries have borne out. We may consider the matter closed, I think.”

“No!” Puddiphat saw his chances of advancement vanish. “Dashed smokey, sir!”

By these utterances. Sir John was given to understand that Puddiphat’s suspicions had been aroused. Much as he would have liked, the Chief Magistrate was in no position to ignore those suspicions. “Why is it I anticipate I will not like what you have to say? Do not stand there gaping, man! Out with it.”

Relieved that he was not expected to explain the Chief Magistrate’s anticipations, Puddiphat leaned over the battered desk. “There
should
be penalties for trying to hoodwink officers of the law, just as I said!”

Almost Sir John longed for the return of Crump. Though that genial individual might frequently exasperate, one did not need to concentrate so hard to understand what he was trying to say. In the absence of Crump, however, Sir John concentrated. “Who has been trying to hoodwink you, Puddiphat?”

Puddiphat thought Sir John was not paying proper attention, or he would not have to ask. But the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street, Puddiphat reminded himself, was a very busy man. Puddiphat strove to make his explanations simple and concise. “Miss Bagshot!” he explained.

“Miss Bagshot?” So tense was Puddiphat’s posture, so reminiscent of a raccoon prepared to attack, that Sir John instinctively leaned back in his chair. “You think her father is our man?”

“I do?” Puddiphat looked blank.

Sir John realized his concentrated efforts had not served. “The devil, man! I don’t know what you think!”

“Oh.” Puddiphat backed away from the desk. What had they been talking about before Sir John had flown into a temper? “I have it! Not her papa, but Sir Malcolm Calveley. He admitted he was a fugitive from justice, and
s
he admitted he was dangerous enough.
And
he’s just returned to England after having left it under a cloud.”

“Sir Malcolm Calveley,” repeated the Chief Magistrate, his mood not improved by this indication that Blood-and-Thunder might well be a well-born young buck. Not that the circumstance of Sir Malcolm’s mysterious departure was conclusive; young bucks were prone to quick departures, with irate parents or bailiffs at their heels. “I think you had better tell me everything you’ve found out.” Before he had finished issuing the invitation, Puddiphat had launched into his explanation. It was a highly colorful account, in which Miss Bagshot figured largely, as well as her sightseeing expedition in the company of Sir Malcolm, and her visit to the Horticultural Society with Lord Davenham as escort.

“Davenham?” Sir John raised his head, which Puddiphat’s style of narration had caused him to prop upon his wrist. Trying indeed was the lot of a Chief Magistrate, what with Quakeresses determined to reform the women prisoners, and the Regent alternately receiving snuffboxes engraved with ominous verses and getting his carriage windows shot out. As if those woes were not sufficient, Puddiphat must bring Bow Street into what promised to be the scandal of the year. “What has Davenham to do with this business? I hope you do not mean to tell me that the Duke is also in it.”

Puddiphat had no intention of telling the Chief Magistrate anything he did not want to hear. “It’s Calveley who is the desperate and suspicious character, sir!
There’s
your Blood-and-Thunder!
Now
may I become a Runner, please?”

Sir John would have liked to deliver a very graphic pronouncement of what Puddiphat might become, but he was prevented by his awareness of the hours of effort the man had put forth. Sir John disliked Puddiphat’s allegation that Sir Malcolm Calveley was their quarry, but the charge could not be ignored.