Part 35 (1/2)
”What about the Williamson killings twelve days later?” Becker asked. ”I told Inspector Ryan how strange it was that a man named John Williams would kill a man named John Williamson.”
”According to Margaret, Williams became distracted and moody. He drank so much that she couldn't bear to be with him. He sought her out, saying how much he loved her, but she sent him away. One of the taverns that he went to belonged to Williamson. People joked that the two might be related, that John Williams was young enough to be John Williamson's son, and yet Williamson was old enough to be Williams's father.”
”Makes me dizzy,” Ryan complained. ”Now I'm thinking like your father. Williamson.”
”You understand?” Emily asked.
”Williamson. Son of Williams. The name kept torturing him. He'd killed Marr's son. Margaret had left him. He might never see his own child, possibly a son. Guilt tore him apart until he lost his senses. I think your father would say that when Williams killed Williamson, it was like he was killing himself.
”A few days later, he did in fact do that, hanging himself in Coldbath Fields Prison,” Ryan concluded.
The abbey's doors banged open, startling them. Organ music boomed outward as nervous wors.h.i.+ppers emerged, not seeming to feel any safer.
Organ music. Emily suddenly realized where her father had gone. But there wasn't time to explain.
”Margaret's baby,” she said.
”What about it?”
”She delivered a son. She worked as a mudlark, scavenging coal along the river, but she managed to keep the child with her. When the boy was four, she met a former soldier. They lived together.”
”And?”
”The boy took the soldier's name. Brookline.”
”What?”
”Margaret Jewell's son... John Williams's son... is Colonel Brookline.”
DE QUINCEY FELT HANDS TOUCHING HIM.
”Hey!”
Waking with a fright, he kicked with his sore legs.
Someone jumped back.
In the pale morning light, De Quincey's eyes jerked open. A dozen specters formed a semicircle before him. Their clothes were ragged, their faces gaunt, their skin marked with sores.
”Just feelin' for a razor,” the man who'd jumped back said.
”You think I'm the killer?” Ignoring the pain in his injured shoulder, De Quincey used both shackled hands to grip the grimy wall behind him and stood. ”A slight man of my age, what chance would I have against men as tall as you? Why would I want to harm you?”
”For our valuables,” another man said with sarcasm.
”Maybe you were trying to rob me of my valuables,” De Quincey told them.
”Your chin scabbed, the blood on your coat, you don't look like you have any more valuables than us. Why are you wearin' handcuffs?”
”I had a disagreement with Lord Palmerston.”
”With Lord Cupid? Ha.”
”Truly, Lord Palmerston took a dislike to me and ordered me arrested.”
”If you don't want to tell us the truth, that's your business.” A man stepped forward threateningly. ”But what are you doin' here?”
”The same as you. I needed a place to rest.”
”I meant here. How'd you know to find here?”
”If Lord Cupid's really after 'im, he'll bring the police,” another man complained. ”They'll search until they find this place. Let's throw the b.u.g.g.e.r out on the street.”
”Down this tunnel, can you still smell the bread from the bakeshop?” De Quincey asked.
”Bakeshop?”
”The aroma used to make my stomach rumble. But after a while, when my stomach was so small that I knew I couldn't eat even if the bread were in my hands, I used to go down there and inhale the fragrance of the bread, imagining that it gave me nourishment.”
”How'd you know about that?”
”And there used to be a turn in the tunnel, with steps that led up to a courtyard. A water pump was there. I never trusted it, but it was the only water I could find, so I drank from it anyway.”
”How'd you know about that?”
”More than fifty years ago, this was my home for several weeks until I found shelter in an empty house close to here on Greek Street.”
De Quincey looked around, feeling the weight of a half century. ”Sometimes I think the pain I experienced here was nothing compared to what I later encountered. I need some favors from you good gentlemen.”
”Gentlemen? Ha.”
”We don't do favors for outsiders for nothin',” someone else grumbled. ”We need to eat, you know.”
”Believe me, I do know. Unfortunately, I find myself embarra.s.sed by a lack of funds. I do have a means to pay you, though.”
”How?”
”With these handcuffs. In my right coat pocket, you'll find a key to them.”
A ragged man reached into De Quincey's pocket and pulled out the key, jumping away. ”Now we have you. Without us, you can't get the cuffs off.”
”I couldn't get them off anyway. The keyhole is on the outside of the cuffs, where I am unable to reach. Please unenc.u.mber me.”
”The little guy talks funny,” one man said.
”Let's keep him a prisoner,” somebody suggested. ”He can make us laugh by talkin'.”
”Yeah. Like a toy we pull out of a box.”
”Remove the handcuffs and keep them,” De Quincey advised. ”They are yours to sell. Police shackles and a key that opens them ought to be worth a couple of pounds to parties at odds with the police.”