The Price of Murder by Bruce Alexander

major race meets round London. Betting on himself, and only on himself, he had made himself a small fortune.
    “Racing, lad,” said he to me, “ ’tis the only way a fellow small as me has the advantage.”
    I recall that we two were walking cross Covent Garden when he did speak these words, and it was there in the Garden, as well, that I took proper note of the reaction of the crowd to him. Early on, out in the street, I had seen the young, the ignorant, and the rude point at him and giggle at his size. He gave them no heed whatever, so well accustomed was he to such treatment by such ne’er-do-wells. Nevertheless, it was in Long Acre, or perhaps James Street, that I first noticed a different sort of reaction to my companion—and always from men. They noticed him most respectfully. A few did pass us with a smile and a nod; another, just at Mr. Tolliver’s meat stall in the Garden, stepped aside and removed his hat; and indeed, he all but bowed to Deuteronomy Plummer. Previous to this fellow, little attention had been paid to them all by Mr. Plummer. We were not yet past him when the man beside me offered a dignified smile and touched his own hat in response. Then did he wink at me.
    “Who are these people?” I asked. “They seem to know you.”
    “In a way, I suppose they do. That last fellow, the one who took his hat off to me, I see him at every race meet I run. He seems to follow me round, he does. Probably made a good deal of cash just betting on me.”
    “Then you’re a sort of hero, a champion to him,” I suggested.
    “Something like that,” said he pridefully yet modestly.
    “Hmmm,” said I, considering what he had just said. It was an odd idea to me, this notion of fame. In a sense, Sir John had fame, yet his face was so familiar here in Covent Garden that his appearance hereabouts was unlikely to cause the sort of notice that Deuteronomy had caused already. Deuteronomy? Indeed, I must ask him about that.
    “Sir, may I put to you a question that may cause you some embarrassment?”
    “Certainly you may. Though if I find it too embarrassing, I might not answer.”
    “Your name is a rather singular one. How did you come by it?”
    “Plummer?” He seemed to be toying with me.
    “No, Deuteronomy.”
    He laughed at that. “Sooner or later they all get round to my name. I give you credit, lad. You held out longer than most,” said he. “But, well, it’s simple enough, you see. My father was, in his own way, a very pious man, a great reader of the Bible, in particular the Hebrew portion. He had five sons, of which I am the fifth. My brothers’ names are Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers. You see? It makes perfect sense.”
    “All except Alice.”
    “Ah yes, our sister, our only sister.”
    “What of her? I should think a name such as Esther or Ruth would have been more consonant with your father’s past practice.”
    “Perhaps, but it was never discussed within my hearing, nor was I bold enough to ask either of them about it. What I have ever assumed, though, is that my mother, who was also a strong-willed person, said that my father had had the pleasure of naming boys, for he was the father of them all. Yet, she said that since it was that the baby just born was a girl and she the mother, ’twas only proper she should do the naming of her.”
    “And the name she chose was Alice?”
    “Just so.”
    “Why that name? Why Alice?”
    “Oh, probably because it was her mother’s name.”
    “Only that?” He had disappointed me. I felt almost cheated.
    That was quite enough for Deuteronomy Plummer. He halted there, in the middle of the Garden, and where he halted, he fair exploded, stamping one foot and then the other as he shouted out his anger. All of those round us turned to look and wonder.
    “How should I know how that silly cow of a sister got her name?” he cried. “What should I care?” Then, having seen the audience he had created for himself, he lowered his voice to