The Price of Murder Read Online Free Page B

There she lived, somewhere in a rookery that faced onto the square—in Cucumber Alley, which was known to one and all as a place of ill fame.
    It is well known and often said that Seven Dials is one of those parts of London that never close. Day or night are all the same to its denizens. Probably because most of them are so blindly drunk that they cannot tell the difference between sunshine and moonshine.
    I knew I was getting closer to Cucumber Alley when I began to descry bottles in the gutter. Soon I spied the fellows who had dropped them there; slack-faced types they were, but sharp-eyed in spite of all. They looked to be the sort who, at night, would follow you into the alley or the rookery and knock you down for any valuables you might happen to have upon your person. My respect for Mr. Patley, who moved through these dark precincts quite fearlessly, grew greater with each step I took.
    As I turned into the rookery, I held back before ever I stepped into the courtyard, lest I become the victim of some fellow awaiting me at the other end with a club in his hand. I stood for well over a minute in the short tunnel, listening for sounds of breathing, or the shifting of feet. There was nothing, and so I moved ahead. Coming out in the courtyard, I took a moment to count the doors behind which I must seek Alice Plummer who had, less than a month before, reported her daughter missing. A dozen, there was. There were neither names nor numbers upon the doors. It was evident that if I were to find the woman, it might be necessary to knock on each one.
    ’Twas a bootless task. Of the first half dozen I knocked upon, only two were answered. I wondered, would there be any point in knocking upon the rest? Well, putting my doubts behind me, I stepped up to door number seven and beat a harsh tattoo upon it. At first, I heard nothing at all, but then there were faint sounds stirring beyond the door, and a moment later, footsteps and a challenging shout.
    “What do you want?”
    It was a woman’s voice, gruff and harsh, but, nonetheless, it was unmistakably that of a woman.
    “I am come from the Bow Street Court in search of Alice Plummer,” I shouted in return.
    “Well, I ain’t her.”
    “All right,” said I, “but perhaps you could point out her door to me.”
    “Maybe I could do that.”
    “Well?”
    There was a long moment’s hesitation as the woman behind the door considered my proposal. Then did I hear her begin to throw off locks. Yet before she threw the last, she shouted at me once again.
    “Now, you hear me now,” said she, “before I throws this last lock, I want you to know I’ve a pistol here in my right hand. And if you’re come to rob me, I’ll shoot you down. I swear to God I will.”
    I knew not quite how to respond to that, and so I offered her the most pacific response I could imagine.
    “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,