Death and the Running Patterer Read Free Page A

unless he already knew the answer. Let’s see where this goes, Dunne thought.
    “I was sentenced in London to eight years for assault, 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 damned 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.”

    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 happened at the meeting.
    In the corridor, he buttonholed 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 bloody 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. Damn fine men. Fusiliers. Attached to Wellington.” He barked a laugh. “And he was attached to them!”
    Dunne raised an eyebrow. “Do they have an informal, affectionate name?”
    “’Course they do.