Chapter 15

Scotland Yard overflowed with activity. The old gig, which was our transportation when we were on the police force, was parked in a corner of the yard, not being used.

“There’s a damn shame,” Blathers said. “No one usin’ that little gig, and me wi’ me feet just a-murderin’ me.”

“Maybe, if we make some money off this case, we can come back and the Police will sell the gig to us.”

“An’ old Pincher must be part o’ the deal. A gig is no good wi’out a horse.”

“Right you are. Pincher is a fine horse. That fellow seems to be on guard. Let’s ask him about Jerry.”

The guard informed us it was Jerry’s day off, and he was most likely to be found at The Blue Bear enjoying a pint or two with his dear old dad. “’Is dad’s retired now. As Young Jerry has a steady job wi’ the Peelers, he can ’ford ta buy the ol’ man a pint now and then.”

Blathers moaned, “Does this mean more walkin’?” He looked at the guard. “Is anyone usin’ that there gig, I wonders?”

“Ya can’t use that gig. That’s reserved for personal use of the superintendent hisself. ’He loves that horse; Pincher is its name. And that brougham o’er there is the carriage of the Prime Minister.”

I said, “Is Sir Robert on the premises at this time?”

“He is, but he only will stay a wee bit. He and some others is visitin’ wi’ the superintendent. Wait one second, and you’ll see him come out.”

Blathers nodded and said, “We might as well stand here a few minutes and see the man what’s payin’ our bill.”

I just rolled my eyes. “Discretion is the art of princes and kings.”

As Blathers was wondering what I was talking about, Sir Robert Peel, founder of the Metropolitan Police and recently made Prime Minister, appeared in the yard. He was a neat, hawkish-looking man. He appeared very set in his ways. For six years he had served as Chief Secretary of Ireland. His efforts to maintain the Protestant ascendancy during that period made him hated by Irish Catholics on a par with Cromwell himself. The great Duke of Wellington, called by all The Iron Duke, and a thin man in very expensive-looking attire accompanied him. They took turns shaking hands, smiling, and nodding to each other before they all three climbed into the waiting carriage and drove off.

****

At The Blue Bear, we found Jerry and his father sitting on a bench at a pine table near the fire. They each had both hands wrapped around a pint glass full of dark ale. Blathers spoke to the old man. “So this is your occupation now, Old Jerry?” On the street, people called them Old Jerry and Young Jerry. “Seems ta me I remembers a time when livin’ weren’t so elegant.”

Old Jerry remembered us, particularly Blathers, since he had interfered the most with the resurrection business. “Ain’t ya boys proud o’ me son ’ere? One o’ you’s own now, ain’t ’e.”

Blathers explained, “We ain’t wi’ the Peelers, ya knows, Old Jerry. We is in the private inquiry business, and that’s why we is here. We needs your fine, bright son here ta helps out wi’ a problem. You’d like ta helps us, eh, Young Jerry, ta shows your fine father what a bright boy ya is, wouldn’t ya now?”

Young Jerry seemed leery, but Blathers knew how to get the most out of him. “We’ll just sits down here wi’ ya now and gets ya another pint, and ya can show us all how smart ya is. Duff, I’m supposin’ ya wants tea, and ya gents is drinkin’ dark.” Blathers went to the service bar and ordered the drinks. “Mr. Duff, o’er there, will pays ya.”

When the serving girl had brought the drinks to the table, Blathers said, “Duff, why don’t ya explain our problem ta Young Jerry here, so’s he can show his da how smart he is.”

I said, “You see, it’s like this, Jerry. We had information the murder victim was named John. Now we read in the paper his name was Benjamin Allen, and we don’t know if he is the person we thought he was or not. You could help us out if you could tell us all you know about the victim. For example, did you see the body, and can you describe it?”

“I seen it, yes, and yes, I can describes it.” Old Jerry beamed with pride. Young Jerry, in an effort it impress his sire, continued. “’E were a wee, skinny littl’ feller from Dublin. ’E ’ad almost no ’air on ’is ’ead, ’cept a big brush o’ a ’stashe. On a runty little fella likes ’im it looked out o’ place, donch ya see.”

I said, “Do the Peelers have any suspects you know of, Jerry?”

“They ’as put the best men on the job. They is ’fraid of some Catholic plot.”

“Ah! Them Catholics, is it. I has told ya so, Duff.”

Jerry continued, “That’s just some o’ them. Others thinks it might be a bunch just gettin’ started what’s callin’ themselves soomthin’ ’bout charts.”

I said, “The Chartists. I’ve heard of them.”

“And there’s always them folks wants ta do soomthin’ ’bout the factories. There’s a lot o’ trouble out there.” Old Jerry, in support of his brilliant son, brought the wisdom of his maturity to the discussion.

“Then they don’t think it were just a robbery or somethin’ like that?” Blathers asked.

“Oh, no! Because the feller were an Irishman, that’s why they thinks there be some plot goin’ on, donch ya see.”

Blathers ordered another round. I declined another cup of tea and asked to be excused for a personal moment in the rear yard of the pub. When we all were settled again, Blathers said, “Young Jerry, ya has been of great help ta us.” Old Jerry beamed brighter. “We certainly hopes we can rely on ya in the future ta help us out likes ya has done here.”

Old Jerry made the commitment. “Yous can count on me boy anytime, I’m sure.” Young Jerry winced.