Jack, Knave and Fool (32 page)

Mr. Gurney gave a little chuckle at that. “Now you are talking about the best. Yes indeed, she’s the best animal in my stable.” A dreadful thought did at that moment assail him: “She wasn’t stole, was she? I’d hate to lose her and the sum I paid.”

“Nooo, not exactly, but the horse plays a part in a matter that Sir John Fielding now has before him.”

“And what matter is that?”

“I’m not now permitted to say.”

“Well … what do you wish to know?”

“Two things, fundamentally, though I should be happy to hear whatever you may have to add. First, who sold it to you? A man, or perhaps a woman?”

“I’ve his name on the bill of purchase I made out at the time. It’s in my desk in back.” He stirred in that direction. “I could fetch it for you.”

“Yes, I should like to see it,” said I, “but the name he used may well have been a false one. What did he look like?”

“Oh, yes, well, he was a young fellow — not as young as you, I’d say, but young enough.”

“Not a tall man of over thirty years?”

“Oh no, not near that age. About ten years shy of it, I’d say. He was about your height but not so broad across the chest, nor stout in the legs as you are.”

Jackie Carver, of course. In a sense I was relieved that it was not Roundtree, yet it eliminated the possibility of certain identification of the seller.

With no prodding from me, Mr. Gurney began to expand a bit on the matter of the sale: “As I remembers it, this young fella said he was acting as factor for a third party, a widow out beyond Clerkenwell. Her husband had lately died and left her the farm. She would rent the fields and tend the usual farm animals, but she had no use for the horse, which was her late husband’s pride and joy. She had asked this young fellow to sell it for her and had made out a paper giving him permission to act in her behalf—all that legal language. Only thing made me doubt was that if she knew little of horses — as he said —then he knew less.”

“Oh? How could you tell?”

“Well, for one thing he didn’t ride her in, and anyone knew horses would have counted it a treat to ride so fine a mount. And mind you, he didn’t lead her in by her bridle but by a rope tied round her neck.”

“He led her all the way from beyond Clerkenwell? Did he say why he had not tried to sell the animal to some stable nearer the farm?”

“No, he did not, and that made me wonder, too. But in all truth, I was so eager to have her — and at such a price! —that I chose to ignore such details. Y’see, that was something else told me he knew nothing of horses. The price he asked for her was not even half her worth. Ah, but I kept my wits about me and haggled him down still further—just so he wouldn’t know he was asking too little, of course.”

“Of course,” said I. He seemed to have told his tale entire. I gave him a moment, but when he added nothing more, I suggested he might now go and fetch his bill of purchase. “That would carry the date of the transaction, would it not? That is the other bit of information I would have from you.”

“Oh, that was not so long ago —ten days past or a few more.”

“Sir John wants the date exact.”

“And you shall have it.” Off he went, moving as swift as his old legs would carry him. Though he knew naught of this matter and the implications of the information he had given, he had become eager to cooperate.

I wandered over for another look at the white mare. Awake, she was even more impressive than before. There was keen intelligence in her eyes. She seemed somewhat distrustful, perhaps for good reason. When I extended my hand to touch her long nose, she backed up sharply out of my reach. Perhaps someday I would learn to ride, I thought, and when I did, I would come and ride this very horse. (Alas, reader, neither ambition have I realized.) Returning to my post beside Roundtree’s box of tools, I waited, and it was not long before Mr. Gurney made his appearance. He returned waving two pieces of paper quite proudly.

“How times does fly,” said he. “I have it on the bill of purchase that it was exactly two weeks ago today that I bought the horse. I had not thought it quite so long ago. But here it is, you see.”

He handed it over, and I examined the document with some care. Fourteen days past: on that Sunday, Thomas Roundtree had sat in the strong room there at Number 4 Bow Street, and that evening we had gone off to the Crown and Anchor and watched the late Lord Laningham die a miserable death on the stage before us. Reading on, I saw that Mr. Gurney had acquired the mare, “dubbed Princess,” for ten guineas; she had to have been worth much more indeed. At the bottom of the short paragraph which set forth the sale, on the line following “Seller” was a large “X” and the words, “John Cutter, his mark.” That would translate easily to Jackie Carver, would it not?

“And this paper here,” said Mr. Gurney, “this is the one that made it legal for him to act for her in the sale of the mare. He left it with me, which was the right thing to do, I suppose.”

Taking it from him, I merely glanced over it. The document was as he had described it and was written out in a proper “feminine” hand —cursive and flowing, as Lady Fielding had set the distinction. What caught my eye, however, was the name that Mrs. Bradbury had chosen for herself: “Grace Hope.” To what would that translate? What else but to one who stands in hope of God’s grace. She had then—perhaps the morning after the murder of her husband—some sense of having committed a great sin. I resolved to tell Sir John of this, that he might make the most of it.

“Now, Mr. Gurney,” said I, returning the two documents to him, “I return these to you in the expectation that you will keep them safe. They may later be needed as evidence in a trial of law.”

“Is that so?” He looked at me most soberly. “But it’s got nothing to do with whether the horse was stole?”

“No sir,” said I. “That would be the least of it.”

“Oh,” said he, as he considered what might be the most of it. “I’ll put them in my strongbox.”

“Do that,” said I, “but let me pass on to Sir John that you will say nothing of our conversation to anyone.”

“Oh … yes … certainly … nothing at all.”

“Then thank you, sir, for your cooperation. I shall now return to Bow Street.”

“Well, thank you, young sir, and let me say that if you do carpentry work, there’s always plenty of that round a stable. You seem a likely lad for work of any sort.”

“Thank you, sir,” said I. “Very kind of you to say so.”

With that, I picked up the toolbox and politely took my leave of him. Though I made my way at a brisk pace, and in the daylight ventured the shortest route to Bow Street — down Henrietta and across Co vent Garden — I dared not run, nor even proceed at a jog trot, for fear of shaking and breaking the Chinese vase that was nestled among the tools. I am not sure that I would have hurried so fast, in any case, for I considered my expedition only partly successful. I had discovered a few things, true, yet I had found no trace of blood upon the mattress, nor anywhere else in Bradbury’s upstairs quarters, for that matter; I had also missed the opportunity to summon Mr. Gurney to Bow Street to make a face-to-face identification of the horse seller (John Cutter indeed!).

Nevertheless, I took my findings to Sir John the moment I arrived at Number 4. He was, as I expected, in his chambers, yet alone, which surprised me somewhat. I had half hoped to encounter him in the process of interrogating Roundtree or Mrs. Bradbury. He had seemed so to look forward to it. No doubt he had talked to both of them already, I told myself, made some sort of preliminary examination. After all, I had been gone near two hours.

He bade me sit down and give my report, which I did, telling first of my visit to Bradbury’s and then of my interview with Matthew Gurney. His reactions were various. He seemed amused at the way Mrs. Bradbury had removed all trace of her husband from her bedroom, quite interested in the discovery of the Chinese vase, elated that the selling of the horse fitted well in the table of events, yet indifferent to the significance I had placed upon Mrs. Bradbury’s false name, Grace Hope. In all, he deemed my expedition a success and congratulated me upon my discoveries.

“I would have you now attend to two matters,” said he. “The first is easily done. Take the vase to Mr. Marsden, and tell him to hold it as evidence. There is a chest he keeps for that purpose with lock and key. Tell him to treat it with care, for it is, as you described it, quite fragile, and is very likely the property of William Murray, our Lord Chief Justice.” He then paused, as if in some manner he had lost his line of thought. “Lord Murray or someone from his household will have the opportunity to identify the piece eventually. There is no need for that now.”

“And the second matter?” I prompted.

“What? Oh yes, the second matter. I should like you to bring the toolbox to Mr. Donnelly. He should be up and about now. He has no patients at his surgery, this being Sunday, so there should be time enough for him to handle the matter I spoke to him about.”

“There are no instructions to him, then?” “No, we’ve discussed the matter. He knows what to do.” I rose to go, then held back, wondering if Sir John might satisfy my curiosity.

Clearly, he noticed my hesitation: “What is it, Jeremy?” “Could you tell me, sir, if you had any results in your questioning of Mrs. Bradbury and Roundtree?”

“What? Oh, no, I haven’t talked with either of them yet.”

“You haven’t? But you seemed so eager to talk with them.”

“That was when I assumed there would be three to interrogate and not two. You see, there is almost invariably a certain action which takes place when there are three malefactors to be questioned. Two of them will form an alliance against the third. Had all three been there in the cell, I daresay Mrs. Bradbury and that fellow Carver would have united against Roundtree. I should then have informed Roundtree what was said against him and perhaps gotten something approaching the truth from him. In Carver’s absence, however, the remaining two have had time to set their stories, and it may take some time to break them down. I intend to convict them on a lesser charge, that I may have that time I need to keep after them on the greater one.”

This was then for me a bit too subtle, I fear. However, I thought his working principle—given three, two will make an alliance against the third—both interesting and sound. But alliances shift, and perhaps in Jackie Carver’s absence Mrs. Bradbury and Roundtree would then have made an alliance against him.

With this and other considerations, I entertained myself on my short journey to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery and residence.

The magistrate’s courtroom was crowded on that day, for word had gone out that Mrs. Bradbury was to be brought before Sir John. Few in that assemblage had not done business with her or her husband in that pawnshop, and far fewer (even the thieves among them) did not feel ill used or even cheated by them. The pawnbroker is no friend of the poor. He takes from them in their need, and in exchange offers a mere pittance. He acts as a parasite upon their poverty.

Thus it was that when Mr. Marsden called Mrs. Bradbury to stand before the magistrate, a great hum of anticipation chorused through the crowd. Still, it was not loud enough to prompt him to call all to order, nor did it last long. Sir John Fielding began.

“Please state your name,” said he.

“Mary Brighton Bradbury.”

“You are the true and lawful wife of George Bradbury? “

“I am, sir. We was married a year and a half past at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden.”

“Are you the same Mary Brighton who was convicted by me two years past of picking a gentleman’s pocket to the extent of four shillings and a linen handkerchief?”

Unembarrassed, she admitted it readily: “I am, sir, and I must say you’ve a good memory for names. But I am a reformed woman now. That two months I spent in the Fleet taught me the error of my ways. Also, my marriage to my dear George altered my situation considerable.”

“Perhaps,” said Sir John, “but it would seem that your marriage to Mr. Bradbury simply elevated you to a higher place in the chain of thievery, for the charge against you in this magistrate’s court is receiving stolen goods — that is, acting, so to speak, as a fence. How do you plead?”

“I plead not guilty, sir,” said she confidently.

“Well, then, Mr. Marsden, call the witness.”

The court clerk then stood up, pulled himself erect, and called Jimmie Bunkins before Sir John. After the preliminary matters—giving his name and age, establishing himself as a ward of John Bilbo —Bunkins launched into a somewhat truncated version of his first visit to Mrs. Bradbury. What was left out was all that had led to it —our visit to St. Andrew’s Churchyard, and his tentative identification of the head at Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. (It was given thus upon the request of Sir John, as I later learned.) All the rest was given just as it had happened. He made it plain to her that the goods he would bring her would be property which he would steal from a certain house by means of burglary. Hearing that, she was in no wise discouraged from accepting the goods, and together they made plans on how the loot was to be delivered to the pawnshop — at night, at the back door.

“Then yesterday,” said Bunkins, continuing his story, “I went back to her and told her that I would that night return with a wagon filled with what I burgled from this house —though no burglary did happen, for I had told all to Sir John. It was fixed up with him that I’d come back to the pawnshop at midnight with a wagon covered over, but beneath the cover, instead of the swag, was two constables to arrest any and all in sight.”

At this, a murmur went up within the courtroom. Though set against Mrs. Bradbury, those in attendance liked not to hear such tales of initiative by the Bow Street Runners, for many of them did themselves engage in thievery from time to time; they seemed to believe such tactics of ambush unfair. Sir John beat with his gavel and brought them back to order.

Bunkins then concluded: “And that was how it happened. After I made sure, for a third time, that she knew the contents of the wagon was stolen goods, and she made it clear she was happy to have them so, I threw back the cover on the wagon, and the constables jumped out and they arrested two — she was one of them —but one of them got away.”