The Price of Murder

“Well now, that’s pretty hard to say, ain’t it?” said she. If you mean really happy it’s hard, anyways-not like Kathleen over there. She just whistles her way through the day here in the kitchen. Ain’t that so, Kathleen?”

The girl, not much older than sixteen, smiled shyly and nodded in response.

“But Lizzie-that’s as we called her-she was something different. Half the time she had her mind somewhere else, so that more often than not you had to tell her things two or three times before they’d get done. Not lazy, you understand, just sort of dreamy. But she’s a great favorite with the Turbotts-specially the master. He’s forever teasing her and carrying on.”

That was where the cook (whose name I later learned was Aggie Liston) ended her description of Elizabeth Hooker. What surprised me was that Sir John allowed her to end it there. In truth, she had said very little. I was sure that he could have gotten more out of her. “I should like to have a moment to talk with my young assistant, Jeremy Proctor, who has just arrived. Then perhaps you might take me to where Miss Hooker sleeps. Has she a room of her own?”

“No, no she ain’t. She shares one with Kathleen.”

“I thought so. Well, perhaps you might take Clarissa and show her the room-that is, if Kathleen has no objection.”

“No, I’ve none,” said the girl.

“Good,” said Sir John. “Now, if there is somewhere he and I might talk with some degree of privacy?”

“What about the pantry?” said Aggie.

“Sounds ideal. If you would not mind waiting, Kathleen?”

“I’ll be right here,” said she.

“Very good.”

With that, we were shown into the pantry, where a single candle burned. Sir John waited till the door was shut, then turned in my direction with a scowl upon his face.

“Now, what is it, lad? You must have something grand to tell me, for ever since you came down the stairs you’ve been hopping from one foot to the other in your eagerness to tell me this great something.”

“But-but-how did you know?” said I, flummoxed and flabbergasted “How could you tell?”

“Why, for the very reason I’ve said. You smell of sweat. You must have run a good part of the distance from Wapping. Everything about you bespeaks a bursting desire to have my attention. Well, now you have it. Speak your piece, if you must.”

And so, quick as ever I could, I gave my report to Sir John on what I had learned from Hetty Duncan, the neighbor next door, as well as a few of the supporting details from George Chesley. It was a pleasure to see that scowl of annoyance turn to an expression of keen interest as my tale unfolded. By the time I had done, he was all but rubbing his hands in delighted anticipation of the next development.

“This is very interesting indeed,” said he. “Mrs. Chesley, the very sister of Jenny Hooker, was so reluctant to let her know that another had attended the dinner in her place that she failed to mention it to her. You’ll notice, too, Jeremy, that we are beginning to get a much different picture of Elizabeth as we learn more about her-as we probe deeper-a girl who indeed has dreams of her own.”

“Yes, the cook had some very interesting observations, did she not? I can hardly wait till Kathleen has her say. You realize, don’t you sir, that she and not Elizabeth’s uncle and aunt was the last to see her.”

“Hmm. Yes. Quite.” Sir John seemed to be far ahead of me. “Let me make you an offer, Jeremy,” said he at last “Since it was you came up with this interesting bit of information, you may interrogate Kathleen, if you like.”

“I welcome the chance, sir,” said I.

“Very well, the burden is upon you then. But do keep in mind that even though she has not stepped forward with this information, she need not have done so. Do not accuse her. Simply draw her out and let her tell her story.”

“Yes sir.”

And so saying, I opened the door, and we two stepped out into the kitchen. Kathleen stood where she had when we entered the pantry. I pulled out a chair for Sir John, and I invited her to sit down there at the large kitchen table. She accepted, smiled, and dropped into a chair nearby. I sat down opposite her.

“Kathleen is your name?” I asked.

“It is, sir.”

“What is your surname, Kathleen?”

“Surname, sir?” She did not know the word. Could she read, I wondered.

“Yes, surname-your family name.”

“Ah!” said she. “Kathleen Quigley is my full name, sir.”

“What sort of name is that? North of England, perhaps Scottish?”

“Irish, sir.”

Kathleen Quigley was a pretty girl who, had she been asked, might have agreed that she was pretty but would have argued that it meant little in London in such times. Which is to say, she was a realist-as Clarissa perhaps was not.

“I want you to know, Miss Quigley, that you made a great success on Sunday.”

“Sir?”

“With the Chesleys-Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle.”

“Ah, you saw them, did you?”

“Why yes, and their neighbor, too-Hetty Duncan.”

“Oh that funny old woman who lives next door? I saw her peeking out her window at us. What did she have to say?”

“She thought you and Elizabeth looked enough alike to be sisters.”

“And what did you think of that?”

“Well,” said I, “when she said that, I didn’t know what to think, for I hadn’t met you then, had I?”

“All right, now what do you think?”

She raised her chin and looked away slightly, as if she were posing for a portrait.

“Oh, there’s no question in my mind. You’re much the prettier.”

“Kind of you to say so. We was wearing frocks that was similar. I ain’t sure how well she could see us at that distance, though.”

“Obviously not too well.” I let that hang between us for a long moment. Then: “Why did you not tell us? Or tell Mrs. Hooker when she was about asking after her daughter? Or tell Mr. Turbott?”

“Well …”

I saw that she was reluctant to answer. Why? But then did I notice that the cook had reentered with Clarissa close behind-and I understood.

“What was the difficulty? What was the problem?” I asked. “Surely it’s quite a commonplace sort of thing- Mrs. Hooker is unable to go, and so Elizabeth invites you to come along in her mother’s place. What could be more natural? You were her workmate in the day and her bed-mate at night, were you not? And after all, that walk to Wapping is a terribly long one-much too long to take alone, surely.”

“Well. . yes. .” She hesitated, then, after fighting a brief skirmish with herself, she plunged on: “What you just said was the way I thought about it when Lizzie put it up to me-especially that part about the long walk to Wapping. But it wasn’t the walk to Wapping frightened me, ’twas the walk back.”

I could tell that she was truly disturbed by something-the memory of that evening, no doubt-and I must now do or say something that would assure her that all was well, that she had only to tell her story and all would be well. I reached across the table and patted her hand.

“Whatever you are holding back,” said I, “can only help bring her back.”

She nodded, sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes with a dirty kerchief.

“All right,” said she, “I’m sure you’re right.” Then, lowering her voice, she told her tale.

Just as Mrs. Chesley had told her sister, she had warned Elizabeth against leaving so late, and had gone so far as to invite the two girls to spend the night in the spare room. Otherwise, she said, they would find themselves