Anatomy of Murder

PART III
1

SUNDAY, 18 NOVEMBER 1781

London rolled over in its bed and yawned at the approaching morning, then cursed it. In the churches, old men turned large keys in the doors and shoved them cautiously open, letting the darkness out before the first worshippers found their way in. Those who had got enough pennies together to drink the night before flinched at the dawn and their empty pockets. In the better houses, young girls, their hands already worn red with work and cold water, cleaned the grates and set the fires, dreaming of the narrow beds they had just left. In the rookeries the day began with angry growls and hands grasping for what comfort they could find in the dark. Another day to live through.

The night had gone and dawn was wearying away at the skin of the November gloom as best it could when there was a low tap at Jocasta’s door. She was in her usual place among the patchwork blankets on her little settee, but everything existed in only shades of gray. Her fire had gone out and she had lit no candle. Until she jerked her head up at the knock, the scene could have been one of stone; even Boyo was still and waiting.

“Come in then,” she said, not bothering to raise her voice. The door opened a crack, and a little boy peered round its edge. He looked very young, and mangy. His fingers were black with filth, and his hair so greasy it looked like he’d been dipped into a tar pit by his heels.

“Mrs. Bligh? Ripley said I should come to you once I’d seen the morning in. Tell you what I been looking at on Salisbury Street.”

“Good lad. Ripley said he’d send Sam. That you?” He nodded. “You been there all night?”

The lad began to sidle around the door and rubbed his nose on his hand. “I have, Mrs. Bligh.” He paused.

Jocasta waited a moment then looked up at him frowning. “Out with it, boy.”

“Mrs. Bligh, I don’t mean no disrespect, but are you a witch, Mrs. Bligh?” The words tumbled out of him like a sailor’s pay.

Jocasta sucked on her few good teeth. “Wish that I were. But if I were, you’d see more frogs and toads round here and fewer men. I have my talents. See forward sometimes. Right-I’ve satisfied your asking, now satisfy mine.”

The boy looked a bit confused and Jocasta thought for a second he wouldn’t have the sense to stop with his own questions, but he seemed to take a hold of himself and said, “Ripley told me at your asking to stay outside the Mitchell place. By the time I got myself there, there was a candle lit, and a lady walking about inside. Young, like.”

“Kate.”

Sam shrugged. “Can’t answer to her name. So she closed the shutter, then evening-timeish came a man, not that old, all yellow-haired and milky-looking. .”

“That’d be Fred.”

“I guess so. Anyhow, he was in a while then he came out and spotted me, lurking, and he gave me a penny to carry a note to Hay Market. Said it was urgent. Told me to give it to Mrs. Mitchell in the coffee rooms there.” He puffed out his chest a bit as he said the last, then his shoulders dropped again. “I wasn’t sure what to do, so I got my mate Clayton to stand watch while I went. Was that right?”

“It was.”

The boy looked relieved.

“So I took it where I was told and she was there flogging oranges and coffee fast as she could take the money. She read the note and looked bitter as dry lemons, and made a face like she’s smelled something real bad, and said, ‘You go back to the man that gave you this, and tell him to come fetch me at midnight and say nothing but sweets till then,’ and sent me out of the place. She made me repeat it a couple of times first.”

Jocasta nodded slowly. “Can you read, boy? Did you look at what was writ?”

The boy scratched the back of his neck with sudden energy and force for a moment then replied, “No, Mrs. Bligh. But I brought it with me.” He reached into his waistband and pulled out a crumpled bit of paper. “She just dropped it after I gave it her, so I picked it up again, pretending to be after touching her manky oranges. Cost me a slap.”

“No use handing it to me, lad.”

“Oh,” he said, and put it a little disappointedly on the table between them.

Jocasta pulled her shawl around her shoulders. “All right then, boy-then what?”

“I went back to that milky bloke, gave him the message and he gave me the penny.” The boy looked sadly at his feet. “I gave it to Clay, though I might’ve kept it because he said no one had been or come since I was gone.” The corner of Jocasta’s mouth twitched. “Then late, real late, Milky Boy heads out again, and about an hour later I see them turn in at the top of the street and stand there a while.”

“Just standing, were they?”

“Fighting, I’d say. The Mitchell woman was all hissy and him cowering like a kicked dog.”

“Did you hear what passed?”

The boy looked suddenly miserable. “No, Mrs. Bligh. I tried, but they kept their voices low. Her maid was following on behind, and I didn’t want to be seen. He looked like he was asking something, getting her to say a yes to it. Just guessing, mind.”

“All right then, lad, say on.”

“They went in the house, both looking sour, and there were a few lights about.”

Jocasta rocked herself back and forth a while, sucking on her teeth. Thinking on it, she forgot the boy for a moment, and was almost surprised when she came to herself and saw him still standing in front of her.

“All right, Sam. You can earn back that penny, if you like. Get that fire going and cook up the bacon in the crock under the window and you can warm up and have your breakfast here. My dog Boyo will whine at you for a share, but don’t you be fooled by his blandishments. But stroke him if you care to.”

Sam beamed and got to work with a vigor, although till the fire was bright and the bacon starting to sing, Jocasta could see his thin shoulders were still shivering from the cold of his watch. Out all night in nothing but rags, enough to make you spit.

She looked at the paper Sam had retrieved lying on the table. There were a few words on it. What they were, she had no way of knowing.