Person or Persons Unknown (Sir John Fielding), page 30
part #4 of Sir John Fielding Series
“Why, I just hung it up on the hooks in front. I knew it would be gone by morning. A good two guineas’ worth it was, over the counter. That’s how eager I was to be away from London. Oh but, Jeremy, you must know that a butcher would never let his meat rot in the stall. God, the stink of it! I’d never be able to sell a piece of meat here in Covent Garden again. But with coming back here, hanging out what was left and all, it was getting on towards ten, though I didn’t know the time exact, for I have no pocket timepiece. So I crossed the Garden, which is a risky thing to do at night, and caught a hackney at the Theatre Royal.”
“Again,” said I, “did you tell Sir John of this? All the details you’ve given me?”
“I may have told him I caught a hackney. But so far as the rest of it, no. We were mostly arguing about my responsibility to be at the inquest and so on. He rubbed me the wrong way, he did.”
“That’s as may be,” I said, “but when next he interrogates you, you must tell him about your trip back here and how you hung out the meat. Those are very important details.”
“They are?” He seemed doubtful.
“Yes, they are.”
I said it with all the severity and authority a fifteen-year-old might muster, yet I wondered if I had convinced him. A man who is by nature not very observant, as Mr. Tolliver was not, had little respect even for the details he did remember. And so, continuing, I made every effort to maintain that same attitude of near-hostile severity.
“And so,” said I, “you reached the coach house with little time to spare.”
“So little,” said he, “that I scarce had time to pay my fare and hop aboard.”
“I’ve never ridden any but a hackney coach,” said I. “Is a ticket sold to you? Something that might say ‘Night Coach to Bristol,’ or some such?”
“No, nothing of that kind. You pay your money; they give you a stub with a mark upon it; and you surrender it to the coachman — or as it happened to be, in this case, the driver.”
I sensed something here, and so I moved in swiftly upon it: “Why did the driver take your stub, rather than the coachman?”
“The coachman had gone ill, and the driver said he must make the trip alone. I asked him would he like some company up there on the box, and he said indeed he would, a big fellow like me. He asked could I handle a fowling piece, should we run into any trouble on the road. And I said to him I had better in my portmanteau, and I produced my brace of pistols. I had them from the French War, used them, too, though I was a Sergeant Provisioner. We all fought when we were needed, Indians and the like. That’s where I learned butchering — in the Army — slaughtering, butchering, I did — ”
Again I interrupted: “Stay, stay. Am I to understand that you rode all the way to Bristol next the driver?”
“Indeed I did, and a good enough fellow he was — Ben something. Ben Calverton was his name. We had some talks during the stretches when he walked the horses.”
I could scarce believe our good luck. “Why then, he will probably remember you.”
“Oh, he’ll remember me, right enough.”
“Why? Did you meet highwaymen on the way?”
“No, and glad I am for it.”
“Why then are you so sure?”
“Because I was unwise enough to tell him my Christian name.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it,” said I.
“It’s Oliver,” said he. “The driver thought it a great joke.”
“Oliver… Tolliver?” And at that, in spite of my intention to keep a solenm mien, I burst out laughing.
Leaving Mr. Tolliver for the coach house, I guiltily cautioned him to say nothing of our talk to Sir John, yet at the same time charged him to tell his story to the magistrate again exactly as he had told it to me. If my laughter had piqued him, as it seemed to have done, I was indeed sorry, and he had my apology for it. He told me that all seemed to react as I had; that the driver had gone so far as to make up a verse in jest upon his rhyming name — and that, of course, had pleased Oliver Tolliver not at all. “Nevertheless,” said he, “he seemed a good sort, and no doubt they can tell you at the coach house when next you might find him about. He drives only at night, to and from Bristol.”
And so I walked swiftly through streets now at flood tide with rushing waves of humanity. All that Mr. Tolliver said ill of London was true, of course, but to walk among the common people at such an hour did much to redeem my faith in the great city. It was and is still a place as no other. In fact, it was two cities: a London by day of honest clerks and toilers engaged in all manner of work; and another city at night, peopled by drunkards, thieves, whores, and pimps. Here and now in that sunny morning hour, I saw no sign of that dark London. I could but revel in my naive way that most of the faces I saw in the crowd seemed happy and guileless, and the rest at least resigned and docile.
So was it at the coach house when I went to him who sold the stubs and inquired after Ben Calverton. The fellow at the window did wear a smile and hummed a tune as I approached him.
“Ben Calverton?” said he in response to my query. “Ah yes indeed, young man, he is one of our best, he is — a hero of the road. He makes that long drive to Bristol every other night but one, man must have a backside of iron! None knows the road and its dangers as he does — thrice did highwaymen attempt to stop him, and he drove right through them, twice was gunfire exchanged. Ah yes, young sir, he is one of our best.”
“When might he next be available to talk?” I asked. “It is a court matter. I am come from Bow Street.”
At that there was the first hint of a frown from him. “You don’t mean to say he’s got himself into trouble, do you?”
“Oh no, nothing of the kind. It is a matter concerning one of his passengers some time ago.”
“Ah — well, in that case, you’re in luck. Ben Calverton should arrive from Bristol, God willing, in a quarter of an hour or so.” He studied the clock on the wall behind me. “Yes, if nothing untoward has happened along the way, then he should be pulling in just about then.”
A short line of passage-purchasers had formed behind me. The fellow at the window signaled to him behind me that he would be done with me in but a moment’s time.
“Where might I wait for him?” I asked.
“The best for you,” said he, “would be next door at the Coach House Inn. The drivers must give their report upon arrival. But it is Ben’s custom to have a glass of ale first thing afterwards. I shall tell him you are there and waiting to talk.”
“Tell him it concerns Oliver Tolliver.”
^‘Oliver Tolliver, is it?” He laughed merrily. “Such a name! Oh, I’ll not forget that! Good day to you, young man.”
And so into the yard — coaches and horses and passengers waiting. There was a hum of excitement and expectation about the place, such as made me wish I were part of this congregation, portmanteau in hand, about to set off on some long journey to some distant place such as Bristol or Edinburgh, or even over the water to Dublin. The world was such a large place, and I was determined to see my share of it before I was done.
The Coach House Inn was but a modest place for eating and drinking, where travelers or those come to meet them might while away the minutes in a friendly setting. Though it was not near filled, the smoke of tobacco hung heavy in the place, darkening its ill-lit inside so that one might swear it were night outside rather than day. I took a place at the bar near the fireplace, and the barman approached, asking my pleasure.
“Coffee, sir, if you have it.”
“We have it. You want that with or without?”
I was puzzled. “With or without what?”
“With or without a flash of lightning — in the cup or on the side.”
“Oh, by all means without.”
He returned with a steaming cup which cost but tuppence. Indeed it was strong but potable — yet would it be so with gin, as the barman had offered it? How could one drink the two together? It seemed a confusion of purpose.
Once settled I played a game that many play in such situations — looking about at the travelers and attempting to discern who and what they are and where they might be going. All the while I kept a sharp eye upon the door, looking close at those who entered, lest I miss Ben Calverton.
When he did enter, there was no mistaking him. A great wide man was he, though not so tall. He swaggered a bit as he walked and carried a long whip taller than himself, such as all coach drivers use to urge their horses on. Two steps in the door he planted his feet and looked around. Then did he bellow forth, ”Oliver Tolliver/’ and roared a laugh so great it near shook the timbers of the place.
Heads turned, talk halted, and in embarrassment I waved him over to me. There, as if by magic, a tall glass of ale had appeared before he arrived at the bar. Alas, when he did, there was disappointment written upon his round face. I, it seemed, was the cause of it.
“You ain’t him,” said he. It came from him near in the nature of an accusation.
“No, sir, I’m not,” said I, speaking hastily. “It was about Mr. Tolliver I wished to talk to you. You see, I — ”
He held up his hand, silencing me in the instant. Then, propping his whip against the bar, he took up the glass of ale and drained it in a single draught. He held it up to the barman and another was immediately forthcoming. He seemed about to speak — but no. Again he held up his hand for a long moment, then did he belch magnificently.
“Now,” said he, “you wishes to talk to me about him. What is it you wishes to say?”
“First of all, do you remember him?”
“Course I remembers him. Great big strapping sort he is, taller than me by half. He rode up on the coach box all the way to Bristol one night about a month back. Oliver Tolliver! Who could forget a fellow with such a name?” He punctuated that with another laugh of a volume not quite so great. Then did his eyes narrow as he remembered: “That silly nit who sells tickets said it was a court matter. Is he in trouble?”
“Well, he could be, Mr. Calverton — that is, if he cannot prove he took the night coach to Bristol on a particular night and not on the next day.”
“Which night? Which day?”
“That’s as I hoped you could tell me. When did he ride with you?”
“Oh, now I must give that a bit of thought. I makes so many trips, I do.” Then did he glance down at my cup and saw it near empty. “Barman,” he called, “gives this lad another cup of what he’s drinkin’ — coffee, I s’pose it is.”
“With or without?” called back the barman.
“With, of course,” answered Ben Calverton, ignoring me as he stared off into space. “Now when was that?” he asked himself aloud.
The barman slammed down a full cup and pulled away my empty. I sipped it out of curiosity and found it seemed not so much different in taste as it did hotter in essence. It burned a bit — all the way down to my stomach. It wasn’t near as bad as I expected it to be. I took another sip.
“I remembers,” said Mr. Calverton, “he was traveling to Bristol to meet up with a lady he hoped to marry. You wouldn’t happen to know how that come out, would you?”
“Oh, he married her, sir,” I said. “Indeed he did.”
“You don’t say so! Have you seen her?”
“I have, yes. She seems … well, quite nice. She certainly pleases Mr. Tolliver.”
“Well, that’s the important thing, ain’t it?”
He took a deep draught of his ale, this time emptying no more than a quarter of the tall glass.
“What’s her name? Olivia?” He laughed again, something in the nature of a cackle. “But that wouldn’t rhyme so good, would it? Maybe call her Olivia Tollivia.” Again he cackled.
“Her name is Maude,” said I, wishing we might be past this.
“That name of his,” he persisted. “I teased him about it, I did. After he told me a little about hisself, I made up a little verse about him. I do often makes up verses in my head to pass the time on the road. I think I can call most of it to mind. Want to hear it?”
“Well, I…”
He took another gulp of ale, cleared his throat, and in a loud voice he began to recite:
“Oliver Tolliver
Rides on his way to Bristol,
And by his side he has him a pistol. Oliver Tolliver
By the light of the moon,
Off to Bristol to win him a boon. Oliver Tolliver
A butcher by trade.
He travels west to find him a maid. Oliver Tolliver
He don’t give a damn
For — ”
Then, of a sudden, he stopped and brought his fist down upon the bar.
“By God, that’s it — ‘By the light of the moon’ “Sir?” He had me confused. “I don’t quite understand.” “Why, I remembers it now like it was just the night past. There was a great big full moon that night. Oh, I remembers it well — what you call a ‘highwayman’s moon.’ That’s why I was right glad to have that big fellow Tolliver and his pistols up there beside me, with my coachman gone sick with the shits. Those out on the scamp do love a full moon, as you may know.”
“So it was the night of the full moon? You’re sure of that?”
“As sure as I can be. Not the last night of the full moon, mind. That was All Hallows Eve, as any fool knows. I don’t know the number of the month. You could get it in any almanac, but it was the night of the full moon a little more than a month past.”
“Would you be willing to swear to that in court?”
“Why not? It’s so, ain’t it?”
Finding an odd piece of paper in my pocket, I wrote on the back of it his name and the number of his dwelling place, which he gave me with directions to his room. Then, forgetting its potency, I took a great swig of coffee and made ready to leave.
“When you see Oliver Tolliver next,” said Ben Calverton, “tell him I wishes him good fortune. He may ride beside me any time he likes, and I’ll not tease him more about his name.”
I thanked him. He clapped me hard upon my back and sent me on my way.
It was not until I stepped out into the coach yard that I felt the full impact of the gin I had imbibed so freely. I felt perspiration upon my brow at a time when the rest of me felt the nip of the November morning. My head was all at once both sluggish and light. It was indeed the strangest set of sensations ever I had felt — nothing at all like the time or two I had drunk a glass of wine too many. I set off for Bow Street, knowing the way perfectly well, only to discover, after walking half the length of a street, that I had set off in the wrong direction. I stood there befuddled, seeking my bearings, buffeted by the crowd which flowed round me, forward and back.
This would never do, of course! Giving some thought to the matter, I turned about and retraced my steps. I found the way back by the way I had come, though giving a wide berth to Mr. Tolliver’s comer of the Garden. To my mind I’d spent enough time talking to him that morning and far too much with Ben Calverton — though with both it was time well spent. Sir John would have expected me back in minutes, and I was aware I had been gone well over an hour. Not only that, but I was returning in a state of less than complete sobriety. My feet were working better and took me where I wished to go. My brains had cleared sufficiently so that I realized that I had now testimony that would satisfy Sir John.
When I presented it to him, however, he seemed less than happy with it. I explained to him that I had gone to the butcher’s stall and smelled nothing of rot or stink. But thinking to help things along, I took it upon myself to go to the coach house and inquire when the night drivers might be available for questioning — omitting my conversation with Mr. Tolliver, of course. By chance, said I, one Ben Calverton was available, and he did confirm that Mr. Tolliver had been beside him on the coach box all the way to Bristol on the night of the full moon in early October.
“Did you prompt him?” asked the magistrate.
“I did not, sir. No matter how I may have wished to do so, I did not.”
“Ben Calverton, is it? I take it you got from him how he may be reached?”
“Yes, Sir John.”
“Well,” he said, “though you have exceeded your brief, you brought back information of some importance. For that I commend you.” (It was said, reader, in a manner most half-hearted.) “That you return, however, smelling of gin I find less commendable.”
“I can explain that, sir. When I — ”
He raised his hand, silencing me. “Another time, perhaps. For now I think it best you go upstairs and ask Lady Fielding what needs be done there.”
I learned that later in the day Sir John had sent Mr. Fuller to bring in Mr. Tolliver that he might be interrogated again. I, at the time, was occupied scrubbing up my attic room. Lady Fielding had noted on her nursing visits to me that conscientious as I might be in cleaning and scrubbing the rest of the house, I had let my own little dwelling place fall into a fearful state of neglect. And it was true enough: dust had collected in curls in the comers; there was a fine coat of it covering those books stacked against the wall which I had read; cobwebs had collected against the ceiling. I had never noticed until she called it to my attention. Thus my day was filled. I had no knowledge of Mr. Tolliver’s visit until Sir John mentioned it at dinner.
As he chewed on a morsel of meat from Annie’s well-spiced stew, he said without preamble: “Mr. Tollivercame in again today to be questioned.”
Lady Fielding and I were suddenly frozen, spoons halted in midpassage to our mouths.
“He was more forthcoming this time and not near so disputatious. In short, he was more cooperative.”
We two looked one at the other.
Sir John continued chewing until, satisfied, he swallowed. “He is no longer suspect,” said he, then dipped his spoon again.
As the days went by, tension mounted once again. The capture and swift trial of the Raker had provided a temporary release. Yet word got out on the streets that there were two homicides, and them the bloodiest, to which he had refused to admit. One by one, the whores took the shelter of the gin mills and dives and began again to be more careful about those whom they accepted as customers. Lady Fielding reported that even after a spate of defections, the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes was once more filled to its capacity.
