being here on an entirely different matter.” He pulled forth his identity card. “The name is Crump, and the address is Bow Street.”
“A Runner!” Willie clasped his hands to his chest. “You brave, brave man! Leda, why didn’t you tell me you’d seen fit to notify Bow Street?”
With an ink-stained hand, Leda pushed straggling white hair off her forehead. “Because I didn’t. Be off with the lot of you!” The others filed into the printing room, where a man and a boy were busy at the press, but Willie remained behind. A sudden silence descended. The ill-fitting windows rattled with the beat of passing horses’ hooves, the cries of peddlers, the shouts of the newsvendors.
“Notify Bow Street of what?” asked Crump. Now that Leda was safely in his grasp, he could afford to take his time. There was much in the present situation that aroused his curiosity.
“Of robbery!” said Willie, almost hopping up and down. “We have been violated, Mr. Crump! Yesterday afternoon I returned to the office to find our priceless prose scattered about the floor, trampled on, our most stunning bursts of rhetoric burnt to ashes in the grate!”
Crump peered around the cluttered room and wondered how anyone could detect, amid such muddle, that robbery had taken place. “Was anything stolen?” he asked, though with little interest. The Runner had more than sufficient experience to smell a red herring when one was dangled under his nose.
“Nothing to signify.” Leda rose to her feet and wiped her hands against her skirt. “Some personal papers, my pistol, a pair of my shoes.”
“Ah, now, you’ll be pulling my leg.” Though he appeared bland, the Runner’s senses had come to attention at mention of that pistol. Well they might claim it was stolen, since that item had caused a man’s death.
“Mr. Crump!” tittered Willie, as he sidled closer to the Runner. “We wouldn’t think of doing such a thing. Highly improper it would be, though a delightful way to pass one’s time.”
“Behave yourself, Willie!” interjected Leda, before Crump could verbalize his indignation. Her brown eyes rested on the Runner, and in them was perplexity. “I didn’t call in Bow Street, considering our little burglary much too inconsequential to engage such great minds. Why are you here? I hope you will not take it personally, Mr. Crump, if I tell you your presence inspires me with a somewhat unpleasant presentiment.”
Well it should, thought Crump, for the weapon found by Warwick’s body had been identified as Leda’s pistol, and she was furthermore known to be a crack shot, as attested by a miserable wretch who, intent on breaking and entering her shop, had had an unfortunate confrontation with the business end of her gun.
Crump looked at Willie, who was capering about the room like a performing monkey. Why did Willie strike a chord of recognition when Crump had never set eyes on him before? “Just who is he?” the Runner asked Leda, with a jerk of his head.
Willie had heard. “I,” he announced, drawing himself up, “am the one and only William Fitzwilliam, my dear Mr. Crump.” When the Runner looked unappreciative, he held up one slender and somewhat ink-stained finger. “Ah, I see you do not recognize the name. Very well, I shall elucidate.” He took a deep breath. “ ‘Through the galleries of Windsor rambles the old mad king, wild of hair and eye, in his violet dressing gown, here playing a harpsichord for a heavenly chorus that only he can hear, there lecturing an equally invisible senate!’ “
“Willie writes a column for my newspaper,” explained Leda. “He calls himself the Bystander.”
Willie bowed. “I am entirely at your service, Mr. Crump. Only tell me how I may be of assistance.”
Crump was fast reaching the end of his patience. “You might cease pitching me gammon. Else I’ll see you in gaol.”
“Gaol!” shrieked Willie. “Witness me atremble with the palpitations in my heart!
“A Runner!” Willie clasped his hands to his chest. “You brave, brave man! Leda, why didn’t you tell me you’d seen fit to notify Bow Street?”
With an ink-stained hand, Leda pushed straggling white hair off her forehead. “Because I didn’t. Be off with the lot of you!” The others filed into the printing room, where a man and a boy were busy at the press, but Willie remained behind. A sudden silence descended. The ill-fitting windows rattled with the beat of passing horses’ hooves, the cries of peddlers, the shouts of the newsvendors.
“Notify Bow Street of what?” asked Crump. Now that Leda was safely in his grasp, he could afford to take his time. There was much in the present situation that aroused his curiosity.
“Of robbery!” said Willie, almost hopping up and down. “We have been violated, Mr. Crump! Yesterday afternoon I returned to the office to find our priceless prose scattered about the floor, trampled on, our most stunning bursts of rhetoric burnt to ashes in the grate!”
Crump peered around the cluttered room and wondered how anyone could detect, amid such muddle, that robbery had taken place. “Was anything stolen?” he asked, though with little interest. The Runner had more than sufficient experience to smell a red herring when one was dangled under his nose.
“Nothing to signify.” Leda rose to her feet and wiped her hands against her skirt. “Some personal papers, my pistol, a pair of my shoes.”
“Ah, now, you’ll be pulling my leg.” Though he appeared bland, the Runner’s senses had come to attention at mention of that pistol. Well they might claim it was stolen, since that item had caused a man’s death.
“Mr. Crump!” tittered Willie, as he sidled closer to the Runner. “We wouldn’t think of doing such a thing. Highly improper it would be, though a delightful way to pass one’s time.”
“Behave yourself, Willie!” interjected Leda, before Crump could verbalize his indignation. Her brown eyes rested on the Runner, and in them was perplexity. “I didn’t call in Bow Street, considering our little burglary much too inconsequential to engage such great minds. Why are you here? I hope you will not take it personally, Mr. Crump, if I tell you your presence inspires me with a somewhat unpleasant presentiment.”
Well it should, thought Crump, for the weapon found by Warwick’s body had been identified as Leda’s pistol, and she was furthermore known to be a crack shot, as attested by a miserable wretch who, intent on breaking and entering her shop, had had an unfortunate confrontation with the business end of her gun.
Crump looked at Willie, who was capering about the room like a performing monkey. Why did Willie strike a chord of recognition when Crump had never set eyes on him before? “Just who is he?” the Runner asked Leda, with a jerk of his head.
Willie had heard. “I,” he announced, drawing himself up, “am the one and only William Fitzwilliam, my dear Mr. Crump.” When the Runner looked unappreciative, he held up one slender and somewhat ink-stained finger. “Ah, I see you do not recognize the name. Very well, I shall elucidate.” He took a deep breath. “ ‘Through the galleries of Windsor rambles the old mad king, wild of hair and eye, in his violet dressing gown, here playing a harpsichord for a heavenly chorus that only he can hear, there lecturing an equally invisible senate!’ “
“Willie writes a column for my newspaper,” explained Leda. “He calls himself the Bystander.”
Willie bowed. “I am entirely at your service, Mr. Crump. Only tell me how I may be of assistance.”
Crump was fast reaching the end of his patience. “You might cease pitching me gammon. Else I’ll see you in gaol.”
“Gaol!” shrieked Willie. “Witness me atremble with the palpitations in my heart!
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