The Price of Murder

“If I misrepresented myself, you have my permission to shoot me.”

At that the woman laughed-or rather, cackled-quite merrily. She pulled the last bolt, then opened the door a crack-just wide enough so that she might shove the barrel of the pistol through. Though I could not spy it, her eye must have been there, too; for, continuing to laugh, she threw the door open wide and we looked each the other up and down. She was plump and shy of forty, though not by much. Her hair was dyed a deep red, though what substance had been used to dye it I’ve no idea; it was, in any case, no natural color.

“Well,” said she, “you look like a likely lad. Like to have your ashes hauled?”

I had no idea of what, exactly, was meant by that. Nevertheless, the look on her face made her general meaning clear.

“Uh, no,” said I. “I am searching for Alice Plummer, as I said. She is the mother of the child who vanished near a month ago, a girl named Margaret, as I understand.”

“She lived right next door of me, she and little Maggie. Alice ain’t there anymore, though. She moved away just after Maggie disappeared, like.”

That struck me as odd. “Moved away, you say? How would we know to make contact with her if the girl were found?”

“That ain’t my problem, is it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

This was most odd. Perhaps she had told Constable Patley of her intention to move and of her new location-and he had simply neglected to pass it on to Mr. Marsden. Yes, perhaps-but all the same, it was odd. I stood, pondering the matter there on the woman’s doorstep, until I happened to note that she had become a bit restless: she wanted me gone.

“Just a question or two more,” said I, hoping to hold her.

“Well, make it fast. I’ve not got all day.”

“Fair enough. Who’s living in her place now?”

“That’s the peculiarest part,” said she. “Ain’t nobody living there, as near as I can judge. I’ve had my ear to the wall for near a month now, but I’ve not heard nothin’ from next door. I saw her leave and gave her a wave goodbye. Last thing she said to me was, ‘Katy, I’m goin’ on a holiday, and I just might not ever come back.’”

“But then again, she might,” I suggested.

“Might what?”

“Might come back.”

“Oh. Well, maybe, I suppose. It’s just, if I had all the money she’s got, I wouldn’t come back, and you can be sure of it.”

All the money she’s got? This was something new, wasn’t it?

“When was this?” I asked.

“Well, it was the day after little Maggie disappeared. She didn’t exactly show me all this money she had. She showed me her purse, though, and rattled it for me. I was just sure I heard guineas in there, along with bulls, neds, and bobsticks-all manner of His Majesty’s coinage.”

“Didn’t that make you just a little suspicious?”

“Suspicious at what?”

“Suspicious that she may have. . well, that she may have sold her daughter?”

“And what if she did? say I. Maggie was hers to sell, wasn’t she?”

“That’s not what the law says.”

“Ah, well, the law,” she sneered. “The law is for nobs and such.”

“Well, you should know then, Mistress. . Mistress. . What is your name, anyway?”

She raised her chin and gave me a sharp look. “Katy Tiddle, if you will! Now, you tell me, what is this that I should know?”

And having made her demand, she raised the pistol she had pointed at me through the crack in the door and pointed it at me once again. And she did so most threateningly. Nevertheless, I noted that she had not pulled back the hammer on the pistol. I wondered if she could manage it; I wondered further if the pistol were loaded; and, finally, did I wonder if she had ever before fired such a weapon. If you judge from this that I was in no wise intimidated, then you judge the matter correctly.

“You should know,” said I, “that young Maggie is dead. At least we think it’s Maggie. I’d come here that I might collect Alice Plummer and bring her to the medico to identify the body there as Maggie’s.”

“Can’t do that now, though,” said she with a smirk, “can you?”

I noted that she had allowed the pistol barrel to droop, and she had not yet thought to draw back the hammer. And so, in one swift movement, I grasped the pistol and wrested it from her resisting hand.

“But you know her as a neighbor,” said I, “so you’ll do just as well. Come along.”

Then did she not howl and yelp! She sounded as would a lowly cur in pain.

Indeed, she did carry on in this manner all the way to Drury Lane and Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Halfway to our destination, she did calm down sufficient to allow me to unhand her wrist and take her properly by the elbow. I would not release her completely, for I feared, with good cause, that she would dart into some dark warren at the earliest opportunity, and I might thus lose her altogether. Nevertheless, guiding her with a firm hand, I set a swift pace, and we were quickly cross the distance.

Somewhere along the way, it became evident that her objection had little to do with a loss of time, or some missed appointment. No, it was her mad fear of death-which is to say, her quite unreasoning revulsion from corpses in any condition. I assured her that Maggie Plummer’s body and face had in no wise been ruined by her overnight sojourn in the Thames-all to no avail. It developed that it was not the condition of the body that disturbed her so mightily, but rather the mere fact of death. To be thus reminded of the fate that awaits us all was for her an experience utterly intolerable-or so she convinced me. Yet, tolerable or intolerable, she would nevertheless experience it when we did reach our destination, Mr. Donnelly’s surgery.

When we did, we found the waiting room relatively empty. Only one, a woman of thirty or so, waited. Clearly a lady of quality, she sat high in her chair and attempted to take no notice of Katy Tiddle when we two came storming in from the hall. Yet she, on whom I kept my tight hold, was impossible to ignore. As near as I could tell, ’twas the peculiar red of Katy’s hair that so fascinated the lady with whom we shared Mr. Donnelly’s waiting room. Sitting across from her, it was quite impossible to miss the darting glances that she threw in our direction. Each one, it seemed, was aimed at the tangled mop of vermilion atop Katy’s head. How had she managed such a color?

Without notice, the door to Mr. Donnelly’s examination room opened, and out came a man of advanced age, wherewith the lady bounced quickly to her feet and stepped smartly to the hall door. Mr. Donnelly followed him out, murmuring something about the chemist’s shop below. As the ill-matched couple left, the wife could not resist throwing one last look across the room. Katy Tiddle was waiting for her. She stuck out her tongue most impudently, surprising us all and propelling the gentleman and his lady out the door. Once they were safely gone, Mr. Donnelly could not withhold a chuckle or two.

“Who is she?” said he to me.

“Katy Tiddle is the name,” said she before I could respond. “And if it was up to me, I’d be anywhere but here.”

“She’s come to identify the body,” said I.

“Ah,” said Mr. Donnelly, clearly a bit confused. “Not the mother, surely.”

“The neighbor next door.”

“Well, come along then.”

He led the way back to the little apartment of rooms he kept behind the examination room. What we presumed to be the body of Maggie Plummer lay upon a table in the first of the two. A sheet covered her from head to toe. I glanced over at Katy Tiddle and saw that she had her eyes tight shut.

“What will you, Katy?” said I, chastising. “You must open your eyes for this.”

“I’ve no wish to do it.”

“Well, you must, my girl,” said Mr. Donnelly. “And there’ll be no foolishness about it.”

So saying, he threw back the sheet, exposing the face and shoulders of the child.

“There, Katy,” said I, “open your eyes and take a look. Tell us if the body upon the table is that of Maggie