The Price of Murder

it Katy Tiddle had made the sound? Or-

There it was again.

The single source of light in the room came from the far end, where a poorly pinned curtain came together in an irregular strip, admitting sunlight and blue sky. Between me and it was an empty bed; all messed, untidy, and dirty, ’tis true, yet nevertheless a proper bed. Katy must be in that narrow space between the bed and the windows. To there I hastened and found that, indeed, she was-if that poor, bloodied creature at my feet could be called by her name.

Saying nothing, I lifted her, with some difficulty, up to the bed. I took but a moment to examine her, yet it was sufficient for me to see that she had been stabbed repeatedly (afterward, Mr. Donnelly counted no less than thirteen wounds in her trunk and two in her throat), and she was not likely to live much longer.

“Katy,” said I. “Who did this to you?”

Her mouth worked soundlessly. Something was then mumbled and, at last, two syllables came, fairly clear: “Water.”

Water, yes, of course. She must be quite unable to speak more intelligibly without it. ’Twas a wonder she could speak at all with those wounds in her neck. I found an empty cup on a table bedside her bed. That would do. It would have to. I remembered a pump out in the middle of the courtyard. I would leave her just long enough to fill the cup.

And that was what I did, rushing out the door and to the pump, filling the cup, and then back to her room, spilling half its contents on the way. In all, I could not have taken a great deal more than a minute. Yet that was sufficient time for Katy Tiddle to die. I blamed myself for leaving her. Had I not, she might have lived longer. Some say that the human voice has life-giving qualities: to keep another alive, you must talk to him, give him something on which to concentrate. Would it have helped in her case? Mr. Donnelly later said it would not. True enough, the water would likely have killed her, but so many of her vital organs had been punctured or cut that there was no possibility that she could have lived. Better to let her talk, if she had a mind to, for she had evidently stayed alive for many hours by the power of her will alone, hoping to announce the name of her killer. And so, to leave her at that crucial moment. .

For that matter, if I wished to blame myself (as I seemed determined to do), perhaps it would have been more to the point had I charged myself with depriving Katy of the only weapon she owned-a pistol. Engraved and highlighted, it was; nevertheless, it would have been one capable of ending the life of her assailant-or, at the very least, of frightening him away. Why had I taken the pistol from her? Because I thought-nay, assumed-that she had stolen it. And while I thought it still, it may well have been that her practical needs for such a gun outweighed considerations of property. Yet, alas, it was far too late now to weigh these matters.

All recriminations such as these and others did I deal with during the next few hours, whilst occupied with the dreary business of delivering Catherine Tiddle’s body to Mr. Donnelly and reporting the matter to Sir John. I recall that as I made my way down the long hall to inform the magistrate, I felt oddly (and wrongly) to blame for Katy Tiddle’s death. As soon as ever I had finished, Sir John commented upon this.

“The tale you tell seems punctuated by certain notes of guilt, Jeremy. Why should this be?”

“Well,” said I with a sigh, “if you look at the possibilities, you must admit I could have done better.”

“Oh? How so?”

Then did I unburden myself, making plain to him those doubts and discomforts that I have thus far mentioned-and perhaps a few that I have not. He listened with a patient lack of concern, and when I had concluded, he gave a great shrug.

“Each of us can look back on such tests and decide we could have done better,” said he. “There are times that our feelings are justified. That is to say, yes, we could have done better. But just as often, the answer must be no-we could have done no better than we did. From all that you have told me thus far, I would judge the latter to be the case.”

“Thank you, sir, I-”

“But,” said he, interrupting, “I am far more concerned that you have given so little thought to why this deed was done. More often than not, you think as a constable, and all the while I urge you to think as a lawyer, think as a lawyer: Often you do just that, thus making me happy and saving us both considerable time and effort. I praise you for that, but now I urge you to put aside the question of how the poor woman was murdered and what you might have done to prevent it. Accept that it happened, and accept also that there is little you could have done for her. Get on now to the more important questions.”

“Yes, sir,” said I, properly chastised.

“For instance, have you considered the possibility that the murder of this Tiddle woman may have some connection to the matter that brought you to her in the first place?”

“The death of Maggie Plummer? No sir, I haven’t, not really.”

“Why not? She was most forthcoming regarding little Maggie’s mother. She may have been spied in your company. It may well have been supposed that she knew even more than she told. After all, I thought as much. That is why I wished her brought to me-that I might question her further. If you wish to blame yourself for some aspect of this, then blame yourself for not taking her immediately to me after she had identified the body of the child, instead of then letting her go.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s what I should have done.”

“There were hints that she held something back, were there not? What did she mean when she viewed the corpus and identified her, then asked the child’s forgiveness?”

“Yes, of course, I see that now. She felt a degree of guilt.”

“Perhaps a considerable degree,” said Sir John. “And what did you tell me she had to say of the goodly price paid to Maggie’s mother for the child?”

“Well, I don’t recall the exact words, but Tiddle certainly left the impression that she was envious.”

“Exactly! And she would only have been envious if she had played a larger role than mere observer, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes, I see what you mean.”

“No doubt you can come up with other examples, other hints, if you think back over what was said by her.”

“No doubt I can. But sir?”

“Yes, Jeremy? What is it?”

“If such as these gave you pause for thought, then why did you not send me back immediately to bring Tiddle in for questioning? If you had done so, she might now still be alive.”

“Why? Why?” He sputtered a bit, seeking a proper rejoinder. “Well, because I-that is, if-” Then did he pause and take a deep breath before proceeding: “Because, I confess that I am, as you, an imperfect investigator. My mind was on the nature of the crime, on the sins of our society, and, finally, like so many others because my hindsight exceeds my foresight. In short, I could have done better.”

“Yes sir. I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, you did well to put the question to me. But what I wish you to do now, Jeremy, is return to the room of Catherine Tiddle and find out all you can about her from the bits and pieces in her room. Can you do that, lad? Don’t allow anything to slip through your fingers.”

“I can, sir, of course. I’ll give the afternoon to it.”

With that and a quick goodbye, I started from the room.

“There was but one other matter,” said he, calling after me.

“And what is that, sir?”

“Would you accompany Clarissa to her destination? It seems that she happened to run into a friend from Lichfield. She said that you knew about this?”

“That is correct, sir.” He meant Elizabeth Hooker, of course. I recalled that they had arranged to meet that day that they might reminisce and do what other foolish things girls do at such an age.

“I understand that it’s quite near your own destination- in one of those courts off St. Martin’s Lane-the better part. Still, it is St. Martin’s and quite near Seven Dials, so your company with her would