Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“Not yet, Caleb. Annie was a dipper, not a duchess.” There was no bitterness in Dorcas’s voice. We both knew the ways of this world.

The constable would be unpaid and unskilled, and even a country clergyman might do as well. And I could refuse Dorcas nothing.

I was quickly out that morning. I could not wait for breakfast at ten but would take a coffee in the Coffee House. Dear Jacob, who heard the news with perturbation, offered to accompany me to the Sussex Tavern, where he had been told the coroner was to hold an inquest at two o’clock that afternoon and where the constable might now be found. I refused Jacob’s offer, to his relief. I would be better on my own, as I could more easily assume the role of well-intentioned, meddling old parson rather than that of an aspiring Bow Street runner.

“Oh, I solved it already, Parson,” young Constable Wilson said with some pride, when I found him in a rear room of the Tavern, the grounds of which abut the Lower Walk.

It was my turn to be relieved. “Who committed this terrible crime?”

“Jem Smith, Annie’s sweetheart. ‘Twas a lovers’ quarrel. Killed her late last night and the body was found early this morning.”

“A lovers’ quarrel?” I said, forgetting my planned role. “And he happened to be carrying a paper knife with him while he was wooing her?”

The constable gave me a strange look. “Must have been,” he pointed out kindly. “That’s what killed her, see? That’s the evidence, that is. Proof for the magistrate. Jem will be up in front of Sir John Nicholls after this inquest and then be in the lock-up until the assizes.”

So much for justice. The lad was already condemned, it seemed. I resolved to return here at two o’clock, but in the meantime I would stroll in the Lower Walk. I have not yet explained that the Lower Walk plays just as important a role as the Upper. By unspoken assent, the gentry and aristocracy gather alone on the Upper Walk, and at times dictated by the strict timetables that have been in place for many decades. In the Lower Walk, however, the tradesmen and citizens of Tunbridge Wells flock through for the whole of the day, and it is here on the steps at the far end that the market is held from seven to ten o’clock each day.

Here, if Jem were innocent, I might learn the truth. I was uneasy about that paper knife; it spoke of planning and preparation not of a lovers’ quarrel, and I was even more uneasy about the coincidence of a death on the Walks so soon after the threat to Miss Cherrington — although, of course, the verse had been anonymous.

I stopped so suddenly at this thought that I received a sharp blow in my back followed by a curse. A pedlar had been following in my wake and my apology did nothing to assuage the glare I received from this individual. It was to be hoped that his demeanour would change before customers or he would do little trade. It was the tray he carried before him that had jolted my back.

“My apologies, sir,” I said once more. “My thoughts were with the poor girl who died last night.”

Malevolent eyes greeted me. “Aye. The girl-flirt.” His Kentish vowels were so drawn out it was hard to be sure of what he said.

“That is a harsh word,” I answered him.

“I’ve worse.” He peered at me and so strong a sense of evil seemed to come from him that I almost stepped backwards. “The devil’s filly she was.”

“The constable has taken up Jem Smith for her murder,” I remarked.

He stared at me. “There’s plenty had cause.”

Including himself, I wondered? “Was Lord Foppington one of her suitors?” I thought of that anonymous poem.

A grimy finger touched the side of his nose in a meaningful way. “Could be. And that gentleman friend of his — the one with his nose in the air and his stomach before him.” I identified this as the Honourable Percy Trott. “Then there’s Black Micah,” the pedlar added maliciously. “Saw him here last night. Him who sweeps the Walks.”

“And he found the body this morning, I understand.” This was usually an interesting starting point to consider. When Widow Hart was found dead in Cuckoo Leas, her neighbour had found the body — and it was he had done the frightful deed. “Did you see Annie Bright here last night?”

I saw sudden fear on the pedlar’s face and in answer he pushed rudely past me. I glanced at his tray, with the usual ribbons and pins, but pens and knives also. Did he sometimes carry paper knives, I wondered? I could see none, but perhaps because one had found a tragic home last night.

I could see the crossing sweeper, seated on the shallow steps that led to the trees lining the Upper Walk. Black Micah was a solitary figure, bent in gloom, though many people went up to him and spoke a few words. I went to greet him, introducing myself as a parson — much is forgiven of such a calling which in others would be impertinence.

“A great shock, sir, finding Miss Bright’s body.”

He looked up at me; tears were clearing a path through the grime of his face. “My Annie,” was all he could say.