Person or Persons Unknown (6 page)

“I fear I was not, sir,” said I. “I was not allowed within the walls of the Tower. But the corporal of the guard took it and promised to put it in the captain’s hands.”

“Did you tell him the content of the letter?”

“Loud and clear. Sir John.”

“Then I rest assured he kept his promise.” The magistrate fell silent for a moment and drummed his fingers upon the table in agitation for a moment or two. When he stopped, he seemed to have come to some sort of decision. “Mr. Donnelly,” said he, “I wonder, is your surgery sufficiently set up that you might now have a look at the body of this woman?”

“A complete autopsy?”

“I know not what that entails. Let me tell you what I wish to know. The wound that killed the woman was of a very peculiar sort. It was, as described to me, a small one that produced little bleeding, and it was inflicted directly below the breastbone.”

”One thrust only?” asked the medico.

”That was my understanding.”

“That is most unusual.”

“Oh? What I wish to know, however, is whether or not this narrow wound might have been caused by a military bayonet. Can you measure a wound as to width and depth with that sort of precision?”

“Oh yes, my surgery is certainly equipped for that.”

“And of course anything else you might find of interest would be welcome.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“And I assure you,” said Sir John, “that my office has funds to pay for your professional services — ^just as before.”

“Then my first patient is to be a corpse.”

“As you say, Mr. Donnelly. Oh, just one more thing. The woman in question — that is to say, the victim — is Irish. Teresa O’Reilly is — or was — her name.”

“That presents no particular difficulties. It has been my experience, sir, that inside we are all alike.”

And so it happened that late that evening Mr. Donnelly and I rode with Constable Cowley in a wagon to the Raker’s little farm near the banks of the river. Though the Raker planted often, nothing ever grew in the field surrounding his cottage. There were weeds and a few wildflowers barely visible to us as we pulled up next the surrounding fence, but the dark Thames soil of that field presented itself as an expanse of black before us like some great moat that must be crossed ere we reached the barn where a dim light burned.

“There is a gate just ahead,” said I to Constable Cowley. “Drive on, and I’ll open it.”

Mr. Cowley urged the horses forward, and I jumped down and ran to the gate. I wrestled it open long enough for the wagon to pass through, then I hopped back upon the wagon.

“What a strange and sinister place this is,” said Mr. Donnelly.

“I hate it, outside and in,” said the young constable. “It’s ha’nted.”

“It is as you said, Jeremy, quite like a little farm, especially here in the moonlight. Why, it could indeed be a cotter’s place in Lancashire.”

“This field is where he buries the poor. It’s said he layers them one atop the other, so that the last are laid in quite shallow.”

“They get no Christian burial, of course,” said Mr. Donnelly.

“Perhaps some do. I’m not sure.”

The narrow road led round the little cottage where the Raker and his sister lived. I had glimpsed her a few times and talked to her but once. She was quite as odd as he and looked to be his ugly twin. The cottage was dark, its shutters closed tight. The dimly lit barn loomed just ahead.

“Sir John once told me,” said I, “that the Raker came by his job through his family. Some ancestor of his — grandfather or great-grandfather perhaps — performed great service to the cities of London and Westminster during the great plague of the last century. They carried out the dead when none would dare touch them.”

“And now he continues in this century performing the same service.”

“Just so, sir.”

“And for his trouble he is no doubt regarded as something of a pariah.”

Then did Constable Cowley speak up right sharply: “I ain’t sure what you mean by that, sir. But I can tell you that there’s some horrible tales told of him.”

“Tales of what sort?” asked Mr. Donnelly.

“Well, it’s said that him and his sister never want for meat — if you get my meaning.”

“Has anything ever been — ”

Mr. Donnelly’s query was cut short by a sudden commotion in the yard surrounding the barn. The two skeletal, spavined nags that pulled the Raker’s wagon, usually so utterly still, were thrown into disorder by our approach; they whinnied and clopped awkwardly about, throwing their narrow heads this way and that. Our livery team also went a bit restive, but Constable Cowley stood high on the wagon box and held them down, urging them ahead.

Just then a figure appeared, outlined dimly in the open barn door. It was the square, squat form of the Raker. In his hands was something long, yet too thick to be a broom; he held it most menacingly.

”Who is out there?” he called. “Halt where you are, or you’ll get what’s in this fowling piece.”

Mr. Cowley reined in the horses. All was silent for a moment. I realized it fell to me to identify us and make known our purpose.

“Tis I, Jeremy Proctor,” I called out to him. “We’ve come with an order from Sir John.”

“Well, come ahead then, but leave that wagon and team where it’s at. My horses ain’t fond of their kind about this place at night.”

We had no choice but to do as he directed. Mr. Cowley remained with the wagon as Mr. Donnelly and I climbed down and started toward the barn. The Raker remained at his station, the fowling piece now held a bit less menacingly tucked under his arm.

“Is it always so with him?” asked Mr. Donnelly in a tone not much more than a whisper.

“I’ve never come at night before,” said I, “never wanted to.”

Then called the Raker to us: “I must ask you to climb the fence. In the state they’re in, my horses would be out in a trice, if you was to open the gate.”

Mr. Donnelly grunted his assent and scrambled over without much difficulty, and I did so with my customary step-step-hop. The two horses shied from us and moved at a clumsy trot to the far end of the yard. Once there, they settled into their usual pose, necks bent and heads low, altogether stationary.

“Watch where you step. I ain’t cleaned up around here in a while, I ain’t.”

There was still moon enough to see us safe across the yard. Yet as we approached, the Raker left his post and retreated from the door into the interior of the barn. We followed him in, and I found myself wondering just what Mr. Gabriel Donnelly would make of this place.

The Raker’s barn served London as the mortuary for the poor, the unclaimed, and the unknown. I had visited it far oftener than I would have liked during the past two years, yet the place never really changed. In summer it smelled far worse than it did the rest of the year, but summer or winter the dead had their places, men on the right and women on the left, a piece of canvas thrown over each. Right and left, too, were piles of clothing removed from the dead. It was said he made a pretty penny selling off these garments to those who made a pretty penny selling them to the living.

The medico surveyed the scene with a dark frown of disapproval, and the Raker, for his part, had a frown for him, too. The single lantern that lit the place did little to cheer it. I sensed an immediate strong antipathy between them both.

“And what might you want?” asked the Raker. It was more than a question, it was a challenge. He took a step or two towards Mr. Donnelly and studied him close. Though his eyes were not well mated (the left being distinctly smaller than the right), he saw well enough from both. He had no need to come so close; it seemed likely he hoped to intimidate.

Mr. Donnelly, however, was not intimidated. “I have an order here” — he produced the letter from his pocket — “from Sir John Fielding, who is known to you as Magistrate of the Bow Street Court, empowering me to remove the body of one Teresa O’Reilly for purposes of medical examination.”

The Raker broke the seal and opened the letter. His eyes roamed indifferently over the page. I was certain he could not read. He handed it back to Mr. Donnelly.

“Who’s she?” He growled it out in a most hostile manner.

“She it was you hauled off earlier on this evening from New Broad Court,” said I.

He threw me a look that seemed to treat the information I had supplied as an irrelevant interruption. Then he turned back to Mr. Donnelly.

“And who’re you?”

“I am the surgeon who will perform the medical examination.”

“So I thought. And I suppose you’ll be doing your examination in front of a whole troupe of medico students, and you’ll be makin’ jokes as you cut open the body and put the innards on display. I don’t like my ladies or gents used for such purposes. Seems every week or near it some saw-your-bones comes by try in’ to buy one of these good people. These people ain’t for buyin’.”

“I understand. I assure you, sir, I have no students. I have no apprentices. The medical examination will be conducted in the privacy of my surgery.”

Having had his say, the Raker relaxed a bit, in fact took a step back and cast his eyes down as if giving the matter consideration.

“Well,” said he at last, “it’s as you say then, and Sir John hisself has given the order.” Then to me: “There be no arguin’ with Sir John, ain’t that right, boy?”

“I fear so,” said I in sober agreement.

With a wheezing sigh, he turned, beckoning us to follow, and led the way on his short, bandy legs to the farthest mound of canvas on the left. He bent down and in a single motion ripped the cover from the body. Then he walked away, folding the sheet of canvas as he went.

“Go ahead,” said he, “take her.”

Mr. Donnelly and I managed as best we could. I ran after the Raker and begged from him some clothes to cover her. He found those she had come in at the top of the great pile and tossed them to me. The stiffness of death had begun to set her limbs and trunk. This made her more difficult to dress, which we managed only after a fashion, but easier to carry once we had done. The only help given us by the Raker was to walk with us to the fence and light our way with his lantern. He remained as Mr. Cowley brought the wagon forward. I cast a glance over my shoulder at the two horses at the back of the yard; there was not a move from them. They seemed soundly asleep. With Mr. Cowley’s help we loaded the corpus into the wagon. The Raker remained, saying not a word until the job was done. He then turned and walked back to the barn.

We three remained silent until we were past the cottage and had crossed the field. When Mr. Cowley reined in at the gate, I jumped down and bounded over to open it. And then — why particularly then I cannot say — Mr. Donnelly suddenly exploded forth with a torrent of verbal abuse directed at none other than the Raker. By the time I climbed back into the wagon and took my place next Teresa O’Reilly, the good doctor was fairly shouting his complaints out to the darkness.

“By Jesus and by all the saints, I do believe that man is mad! He presides there in that barn as if he thought he were king and it were his kingdom. Calls them ‘his people,’ he does, as if those poor forgotten cadavers were his subjects. And that charnel house of a barn! The next great plague of London will start there. Mark my words! Such filth, the place alive with all manner of vermin, the floor littered with horse shite and who knows what else! Never in Dublin, no place in Europe, have I seen such… such…”

And so he continued for minutes more.

It was evident that Sir John’s letter for Captain Conger had been received. I cannot attest that the corporal of the guard was as good as his word and put it direct in the captain’s hands; it may have passed through others. Yet there could be no doubt it had reached him to whom it was addressed, for he was there at the gate to meet our little party.

Captain Conger was a man of some six feet in height, long-faced, sharp-featured, and unsmiling; he looked to be one who seldom smiled. Or so he seemed to me as we made our crossing of the moat on the narrow bridge near the Thames shore. He was easily recognized from the excess of braid upon his coat and the epaulettes upon his shoulders. We had been passed without question at the outer gate. He now waited at the By ward Tower Gate just beyond the moat bridge. Only as we approached near did he bestir himself and come forward a few steps. I touched Sir John’s arm at the elbow that he might stop and receive the captain’s greeting.

“Sir John, may I present myself? I am Captain George Conger, acting colonel of our regiment in the absence of Sir Cecil Dalenoy.”

“Who is doubtless off in some woody comer of the realm depleting the game population.” Sir John extended his hand, and the captain took it in a warm clasp. “Very pleased to meet you, Captain, though I think it regretful that it should be under these sad circumstances.”

“No more than I.” He then looked beyond the magistrate at me and at the third member of our group. “If you will be so good as to follow me, I have done as you requested and formed a parade of those of the regiment who were granted leave the day past.”

To me the captain gave a sharp nod, turned round, and set off at a good pace. We two had no difficulty keeping up, yet Mistress Maggie Pratt, small and short-legged, was somewhat pressed to hold tempo.

Captain Conger had looked at her a bit askance, as if dubious of her qualifications as witness. She had described herself to Sir John as an “unemployed seamstress.” Yet I suspected, as I was sure he did, that her acquaintance with the victim, Teresa O’Reilly, a confirmed woman of the streets, was of a professional nature.

It had been arranged that she would wait for us that morning at the point where Drury Lane meets Angel Court. But when our hackney arrived at the meeting place, she was nowhere to be seen. And so Sir John, cautioning me to be careful, sent me into Angel Court to seek her out. Angel Court was, and to some extent still is, a most disreputable little street. (“Street” is, in truth, too grand a name for it, even “lane” was more than it deserved, for while it led in, it did not lead out.) It was what was called at that time a “rookery,” a dark, narrow passage in which low lodging houses, some no more than common dormitories, were crammed together with no space between. There was no telling how many lived there — or perhaps better put, slept there of a given night. How was I to find Maggie Pratt? How was I to find anyone in such a place? I determined that the best way was to go through it calling her name. As I walked into Angel Court, squinting into the dim light of the early cloud-cast morning, I heard a door slam nearby, a flurry of footsteps, and a young man appeared before me and hurried past. There was something most familiar about him. Then that same door slammed again, and I heard a most horrendous stream of invective, well-laced with obscenity and profanity, hurled out into the air — presumably in pursuit of the young man who had just hurried by me. The voice was feminine, though the language certainly was not. It came, as I heard, from a porch just above. There Maggie Pratt leaned out, perhaps hoping to catch sight of him who had just departed. When she had exhausted herself, I called up to her that Sir John awaited her in a hackney coach and would she please hurry. That she did, for she could not have taken more than a minute to find her coat and lock her door. She ran down the stairs then, bladdering her apologies but offering not a word to account for the scene I had just witnessed. It was not until we were all three settled in the coach and well on our way to the Tower that it occurred to me that the familiar-looking young man who had bustled by me so quickly in Angel Court was the same who had blocked my way when I went up Drury Lane in pursuit of Mariah.

“Captain Conger,” I called boldly ahead, “our witness is having a bit of trouble keeping to the pace you’ve set.”

“And alas, I, too,” lied Sir John in a gallant manner. (I knew it as fact that he could make me hop to keep up when he’d a need to hurry.)

“Forgive me,” said the captain, stopping, waiting, looking left and right in an effort to disguise his impatience. “An old campaigner such as myself finds it difficult to adjust.”

Once we had caught him up, he proceeded in company with us at a near-funereal gait, though silently, looking sternly ahead.

We walked along with the moat to our right and the Thames just visible over the wall. Then, moving along a passage to our left, we emerged into a great open space, in the middle of which stood the grand White Tower, the castle which all these fortifications did protect. I had never seen it so close, though I had often glimpsed it from a distance when on bright days it seemed to glitter in the sunlight; this murky morning, however, it appeared more gray than white, yet most impressive in its size and shape. Our destination was beyond the castle to a narrow field whereon soldiers did drill. And even beyond them, where a lesser group of soldiers were lined in two ranks in one comer of the field.

I chanced a look at Maggie Pratt. While before she smiled, cheered by this adventurous outing after her encounter with the bully-boy in Angel Court, she was now solemn-faced and uncertain. It appeared that the grave purpose of our visit had at last begun to weigh upon her.

Upon our approach the sergeant in command called the two ranks to attention. Captain Conger stepped forward and had a few words with the sergeant. He returned to us and spoke direct to Sir John.

“You may have your witness pass through the ranks and examine the faces of these men one by one,” said he. “All who were on leave are present here. She may take as long as she likes, of course. It would not do to be hasty on such a matter as this.”

“I quite agree. Captain.” Then did Sir John turn in the direction of the witness. “Mistress Pratt? You heard the captain?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Then proceed as he described.”

“Yes, sir.”

These last several words, the first she had uttered since we had departed the hackney, were spoken in a tone so low they were little more than whispered. She walked purposefully to the first rank where the sergeant awaited her. A small woman at best, perhaps a girl not yet full grown, she seemed to shrink further in size as she took her place among the Grenadier Guards. The shortest of them was my size — and I was then exactly as I am now, a man of medium height; they ranged up from there, and one or two seemed taller than the captain. Yet she moved along from one to the next quite slowly, looking each full in the face.

scrutinizing each most carefully. Thus she went, and when she had finished with the first rank, the sergeant took her through the second, examining that with the same searching thoroughness she had shown the first. For their part, the men submitted to the inspection, showing no outward signs of emotion; from their reaction, or its lack, they would as lief be looked at by their colonel, or by King George himself. There were, in all, twenty — as I myself had counted.

Once she had done, she returned to us. Yet she had made no accusation, pointed no finger, so that I — perhaps with all the rest — supposed she had not seen him for whom she searched. Sir John brought us back to a point quite distant from the two ranks so that we should be out of earshot. Captain Conger trailed along.

“Did you recognize the man you saw talking to the victim among those assembled here?” asked Sir John.

She hesitated, then said at last: “This is most confusin’, sir.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“I saw two who looked like him.”

Sir John said nothing for a long moment. “Two, is it?” He sighed. It was at that point evident she was not near so good a witness as he had hoped. “All right, which are they?”

“The fifth one from the left in the first row, and the third from the right in the second.”

“I’ll talk to both. Captain, are you here?”

“I am, sir.”

“You heard her choices?”

“I did.”

“Have those two men isolated from their fellows and from each other. And if you can provide a room in which I may question them separately, I should be greatly obliged to you.”

“All that will be done. But, Sir John?”

“Yes, Captain Conger?”

“Do not think ill of your witness. She has a better eye than I would have expected. The two she picked out are brothers. They bear a strong family resemblance one to the other.”

Once the two soldiers had been tucked away separately. Sir John asked the sergeant if he would search the personal effects of both to see if either had a njurow-bladed knife. ”Something on the order of a stiletto,” was how he described it. Then he directed that one of the two brothers be sent in to him.

“Which one will you have, sir?” asked the sergeant.

“Oh, I don’t know, the elder I suppose.”

And so it was that only moments after the sergeant had left, a knock came on the door to the captain’s office, where we two had been settled. Sir John bade the knocker enter, and in marched the first of the two brothers. He was also the taller and had been, I assumed, in the second rank. I had not so good a look at him because of that, but he did indeed resemble him who was fifth from the left in the first rank.

He stood at rigid attention before us.

“Your name, sir?” asked Sir John.

“Sperling, Otis, Corporal, sahr’

“You may sit down. Corporal. I have a few questions for you. I am, if you have not been told. Sir John Fielding, and I am Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

“Prefer to stand, sahF”

“Well, suit yourself. The questions I have are directed at you as a witness. No accusation has been made. I should like us both to be at our ease, and I cannot be at mine if you shout ‘sahr at me each time you address me. Now, please relax.”

Corporal Sperling made an effort to do so, shifting to a less strenuous military posture. He managed also to say “As you will, sir” in a normal tone of voice as he ventured a glance at me.

“You were given leave yesterday, I believe.”

“I was, sir, though not the whole day.”

“Tell me about it, if you would — what you did, who you saw, that sort of thing. Start with the time you left the Tower.”

Corporal Sperling gave a good, brief accounting of his time after he had left the gate three o’clock in the afternoon in the company of his brother, Richard, and one Corporal Tigger, both of this regiment of Grenadier Guards. His plan, said he, was to take the five o’clock coach to Hammersmith with Richard, so that the two might dine with their parents; their father was a wheelwright in that community. They had separated early on, Richard agreeing to meet them at the coach house, and the two corporals going off together to enjoy themselves as they would.

“And how did you two propose to do that?” asked Sir John.

”Oh, as soldiers usually do, sir — by drinking and yarning and offering complaints on the conduct of the regiment.” Then he added, “I will say, sir, that we was just passing the time together, and at no time did we take strong drink, just beer and ale, sir.”

“I see. And where did you pass your time in this manner?”

“Well, there was two places. The first was a place near the end of Fleet Street, which makes no objections to serving soldiers so long as they’re well behaved — the Cheshire Cheese.”

“I know the place well and have drunk and dined there myself,” said Sir John. “And what was the second place?”

“That would have been the Coach House Inn, where I was to meet my brother.”

“And did Corporal Tigger remain with you there?”

“Yes, sir, until Richard come and we left on the coach.”

“And at no time were you direct in the area of Covent Garden, the two of you — or you alone?”

“No, sir, I had no business there.”

“I quite understand.” Sir John paused at that point, then gave in summary: “So you were in the company of Corporal Tigger from the time you left the Tower at three o’clock until you left with your brother, Richard, on the five o’clock coach to Hammersmith. Is it then so?”

“To that I would have to say yes and no, sir.”

“Oh? Explain yourself, please.”

“Yes, I was with Tigger the whole time, but no, Richard and I did not leave on the five o’clock coach.”

“How was that?”

“Richard was late. I was quite cross with him, for there was not another coach until half past six. This was meant to be a party — a celebration, so to say, and we was late to it.”

“And what were you celebrating?’

“My promotion, sir.”

“To corporal?”

“Yes sir.”

“Hmmph,” Sir John grunted, then fell silent for a long moment. “Corporal Sperling,” said he, “you say your brother arrived too late for you to leave on the five o’clock coach. When did he arrive?”