Part 1 (2/2)
Rossi had earlier introduced the young man to the officers as Nicodemus Dunne, a colporteur. But, they wondered, why was he here?
”What the devil is a colporteur anyway?” Crotty now asked irritably.
Dunne answered. ”M. de Rossi ... ”-Rossi nodded appreciatively-”... is close, gentlemen, but I'm not a colporteur. A colporteur is a peddler of books and pamphlets, usually religious matter. Neither am I a crier, nor a bellman. I am, in fact, a running patterer.”
The officers nodded. They knew that the role of a patterer was to act as a walking newspaper, reciting stories and advertis.e.m.e.nts. It was a service particularly useful for illiterates, as, indeed, most of their soldiers were. In return, the patterer received small gratuities from listeners and even more money from publishers if he drummed up any business for advertis.e.m.e.nts or subscriptions. But that still didn't explain why Rossi had brought him here today. Or indeed, more to the point, why they had all been summoned.
Their nagging puzzlement was relieved only when the door opened to admit a middle-aged, balding man who walked with military stiffness. He carried a tall gray hat and wore an elegantly tailored coat of dark blue woolen broadcloth cut away to tails to reveal an oyster-gray vest above charcoal-gray trousers. These were fitted with suspenders and highlighted boots with a mirrorlike s.h.i.+ne to match his well-manicured fingernails. An ivory silk scarf on a high stiff collar supported a slightly petulant face.
The four men stood instantly. ”Sir,” murmured the soldiers and the magistrate.
But the patterer smiled broadly and said cheerfully, ”h.e.l.lo, darling!”
His Excellency, Lieutenant-General Ralph Darling, Governor of Britain's farthest-flung flyspeck, was not amused.
CHAPTER THREE.
The angel of death has been abroad throughout the land; you may almost hear the beating of his wings.
-John Bright, speech to the British House of Commons (1855)
THE OFFICERS WERE VISIBLY SHOCKED BY THIS BRAZEN FAMILIARITY with the governor. Were Dunne a free man-an immigrant or an Emancipist-the governor could punish his disrespect by cutting him dead socially and making sure he received little or no government support. Were he a soldier, he could be flogged. Even as a ticket-of-leave man, a good-behavior convict excused from government labor to pursue his own work-as Dunne was-his parole could be revoked.
But, as only Rossi knew, and had earlier hinted to Dunne, Darling needed something, and badly enough to overlook insolence. So the governor simply glowered, grunted and sat down, motioning to the others to follow suit.
”Gentlemen,” Darling began, ”no doubt you are wondering why I have called you together. So listen very carefully, I will say this only once. There is a mysterious and ominous development in the matter of the death of that soldier outside the public house.”
”Sir,” said Shadforth, ”distasteful as it was-and I regret to say he was one of my men-surely it was just a murder for robbery or a drunken brawl? And he was only an officer. Why does it concern Your Excellency?”
”Because,” said Darling, ”of this. It came addressed to me by mail today.”
He handed over an opened letter, bypa.s.sing Rossi, who seemed to know its contents. It was neatly written, with one corner folded down to contain a small copper, an English halfpenny.
The three men in turn studied the message: The man I tore, There will be more.
This is a clew: First find a Jew.
Take care to choose him Who knows the zuzim. zuzim.
As several started to speak at once, the governor held up a hand. ”In the interests of brevity, gentlemen, I can antic.i.p.ate at least two obvious questions. No, I have no earthly notion what a zuzim zuzim is. And yes, this is about our murdered military man.” He held up a small bra.s.s b.u.t.ton. ”This bears the emblem of the 57th. It was contained in the flap with the coin.” is. And yes, this is about our murdered military man.” He held up a small bra.s.s b.u.t.ton. ”This bears the emblem of the 57th. It was contained in the flap with the coin.”
The governor turned to Dunne. ”I have, I must say after much deliberation and with some misgivings, involved you in this because Captain Rossi is convinced you can help, as, he says, you have in the past. I'm persuaded that there is little chance of the conventional law officers or the armed forces solving the problem on their own. Someone is needed who can use more, shall we say, unconventional means.” Darling then seemed to change tack. ”Why were you transported?”
So, thought Dunne, the governor didn't know all about him. Or was it a trick? No one would expect him to remember the background of every one of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and women he had seen paroled, but the life of every rogue was on record. And Rossi must have briefed him. Perhaps the wily old bird was using the lawyer's ploy of never asking a question unless he already knew the answer. Let's see where this goes, Dunne thought.
”I was sentenced in London to eight years for a.s.sault, although there was no serious injury, save to a gentleman's pride.”
”Jove, that sounds a bit stiff!” interjected Crotty.
Very well, decided Dunne, I might as well have my say. ”Stiff? Not really. In Britain's fair lands, as well as transportation there are floggings, pillories, stocks, ear-nicking, branding with hot irons.” He ignored the rising color in Darling's cheeks and the warning shake of the head from Rossi. ”There are still a hundred offenses punishable by hanging. At Newgate, a boy of ten was hanged for shoplifting. Two sisters-eight and eleven-were hanged for stealing a spoon. Dear Lord, a spoon!
”My heinous crime was to strike a Life Guards officer. It was during Queen Caroline's funeral. The mob only wanted to show they loved her, but the king's men called in the army. I merely protected a child who was being thrashed with the officer's sword.”
”Even so,” said Crotty, ”eight years ...”
”Tell us what your job was at the time,” coaxed Rossi.
”Ah, there was the rub,” replied Dunne. ”They said I had betrayed their trust in me and that if I were a soldier they would have shot me. I was a Bow Street Runner.”
The governor nodded coldly. ”A policeman, yes. I will not attempt to conceal my disapproval of your actions ... But, well, the past is past. Now we seem to need you to fight a common enemy. Your law-officer's skills as well as the fact that your new calling here, such as it is, allows you to keep ahead of news and abreast of gossip. And it permits you to see people and go places that are out of bounds to, and beyond the ken of, the captain's constables. Nevertheless, Captain Rossi will still direct his wardsmen, conductors and patrolmen to pay particular attention to the matter.”
The governor rose abruptly. ”I fear we may have a madman at large. Keep your eyes on your men, Colonel. Rossi will coordinate the campaign. I rely on you, Dunne, to solve the riddle of the letter. The government will doubtless smile on the continuance of your parole if you succeed. No fuss, mind. Not a word to anyone, especially not the d.a.m.ned press.” He stalked out, trailing a ”Good day.”
”What about the dead soldier as a start?” Dunne asked Rossi.
”He's not going to tell you much. The hospital surgeon took only a cursory look and now our soldier's at attention in the ground. The leech did not note much, except that the victim's throat was slashed, as were his belly and, strangely, his ankles. The slashes were even and suggest that the weapon was a long, sharp knife. Now, let's be about our business.”
As he separated from Dunne, Rossi paused and snapped his fingers. ”There was one other odd thing. His mouth had been filled with fine grains. It was sugar.”
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TWO THINGS WERE nagging at Nicodemus Dunne as the meeting broke up. Why, for instance, had the governor tolerated his insolence? He could think of no good reason. He had instantly regretted his rudeness; it was an undeserved slight. Still, it was done and could not be undone, so he shrugged and put the matter aside.
His main interest was in something that had not not happened at the meeting. happened at the meeting.
In the corridor, he b.u.t.tonholed Thomas Shadforth, a kindly man in his late fifties whose life was devoted to the 57th. He had soldiered there for twenty-six years, and two sons had followed him into the regiment. During the meeting, he had modestly left himself out of the mention of the b.l.o.o.d.y battle at Albuera, even though he was one of those badly wounded original Die Hards.
”Are you familiar with the 5th Regiment, Colonel?” asked the patterer.
”Certainly. d.a.m.n fine men. Fusiliers. Attached to Wellington.” He barked a laugh. ”And he was attached to them!”
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