The Printer’S Vampyr

By William M. Cullen

1725 London: A young Benjamin Franklin who, having been stranded in this city, uncovers a heinous scheme of murder against the children of this city! Franklin, along with his trusted friends a wise beyond his years apprentice by the name of Wygate, a seasoned printer by the name of John Trundle as well as the new found love of his life, a raven-hair beauty by the name of Vyola Wyck work with the ladies of Hyde Park in a scheme that will - hopefully allow them to capture this most horrible of fiends; thus, putting a stop to his reign of inconceivable treachery before another child falls prey to his dark deeds!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493184163

William M. Cullen

Author’s Bio: William Cullen, born in 1959, grew up in Portsmouth, Ohio. Currently, he resides in Greenup County, Kentucky. Mr. Cullen attended The Ohio State University - Mansfield, graduating from Shawnee State University, in his native Portsmouth, in 1993. Mr. Cullen then went on to attend Marshall University, graduating with an MBA in 1998. Mr. Cullen is an avid reader of historical fiction and enjoys traveling when he can.

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by William M. Cullen.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014904625

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4931-8417-0

                Softcover        978-1-4931-8418-7

                eBook             978-1-4931-8416-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/10/2014

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter One:   Amongst the Rubbish

Chapter Two:   Learning

Chapter Three:   A Printer’s Job

Chapter Four:   Our Fifth Together

Chapter Five:   Soliciting Help

Chapter Six:   Our First Night Out

Chapter Seven:   Our Little Girl

Chapter Eight:   Looking Out For Our Own

Chapter Nine:   Critics

Chapter Ten:   Life Continues

Chapter Eleven:   A Special Day

Chapter Twelve:   Reflections

Chapter Thirteen:   Things You Never Expect

Chapter Fourteen:   Continuing

Chapter Fifteen:   Underground

Chapter Sixteen:   Meetings and Summation

Epilogue:

Appendix I:   A Brief History of Blood Transfusions

Bibliography

Dedication

I dedicate this work to progressive thinkers.

In questions of science, the authority of a thousand is not worth the

humble reasoning of a single individual.

Galileo Galilei (1564—1642)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank the good people at both the Westerville Public Library and the Worthington Public Library, both in Ohio, as well as Wikipedia.com for their valued assistance in the making of this narrative.

INTRODUCTION

I, Benjamin Franklin, a native of Boston, Massachusetts who, as of late, Resided in Mother England’s London, hereby wishes to give a Full Accounting of a Horrific Ordeal that I and my work-mates endured. Not only was it horrific for us but it was shocking in its bold conclusion. It was an event that was so tragic that it not only astounded my own sensibilities but that of my mates and Greater London as well.

At the time of this writing Dear Reader I am aboard a hearty vessel—the Berkshire—a ship partly owned by my new Employer, and Dearest of Friends—one Mr. Thomas Denham; and with weeks of vast seas before us, I’ve decided, at Mr. Denham’s urging, (in order to pass the time) to give a full account of that horrifying ordeal whereby I, along with my brave mates, as well as others, set up a clever ruse in order to capture this most insidious man. Starting with my original notes, which I began when I first arrived in London—by deceitful means mind you—I shall unfold this delicate venture by describing all of our endeavors in this investigation, which imperiled our very lives. And, to say the very least Dear Reader, it turned out to be a most nerve-wracking scheme that any of us had ever undertaken; and what we learned from this endeavor was that this man had harbored and aided a bizarre looking man he had called a Vampyr—a creature, he said, needed the blood of others in order to survive.

Thus, our tale in how we came to put an end to this man’s most nefarious scheme.

Sincerely,

Benjamin Franklin: Merchant Esq.

24 July, 1726

CHAPTER ONE

Amongst the Rubbish

Thursday, November 1, 1725

In London I had been a little over ten months when I became involved in a most perplexing hunt for a most horrifying kind of killer—one who preyed upon the innocent children of London for their blood. My involvement in this most bizarre tale began shortly after I had been hired on at Watt’s Printing, a local printing shop in the Lincoln’s Inn Fields district of London. Before Watt’s, I had been a compositor at Palmer’s Printing, located in the Smithfield district; however, I wanted a pressman’s position due to its better pay, and that’s what I got when I hired on at Watt’s this September past.

While working at Watt’s I got to meet and know a very special young lad by the name of Wygate, who was one Mr. Watt’s apprentices. It was with young Wygate that this most peculiar hunt began to unfold. It began on the morning of All Hallows’ Day, which had been a cool and crisp autumn morning, when we, the men in the printing shop, heard our young Wygate come screaming down the lane, bellowing with much excitement. Bennn! Bennn! We turned to look for him, looking out the front windows of our shop, noticing our young Wygate running past some fine gentlemen, who happened to be walking by and then cut-off another as he rushed to the printing shop door, clasping its handle and opening it in quite a hurry. He rushed into the shop, still screaming at the top of his bloody lungs… .Bennn!

Dear Lord, Wygate! I exclaimed sternly as he skidded to a stop, disrupting all who were still working. What in God’s good name is your concern! glaring at him with considerable dismay. Don’t you know better than…

Ben, come quick! ignoring my reprimand, There’s… panting profusely while pointing back towards the open door,  . . . there’s been a murder! looking at me with his wide-eyed look, a look a child gets when they have seen something truly astonishing for the first time.

A murder, I exclaimed in return, taking a step towards him, puzzled at what he really meant.

Aye sir; a murder! he replied, Back… in a close… still gasping for some more air while pointing again out and beyond the door, . . . towards Thomas Lane! finally getting his breathing under control.

Wygate, I replied, being somewhat skeptical, perhaps it is a drunkard just sleeping it off after last night’s revelry.

Nay Ben, pleading his case, tis no sleeping drunk sir; not like this, I swear! confident about what he had, apparently, seen, shaking his young head.

Not like this? I answered back, bewildered, noticing that Mr. Trundle, our senior pressman and shop foreman, was stepping out from behind the press we operated together, obviously wondering what Wygate was going on about while motioning for the other men to return to their work.

Aye! said young Wygate, still heaving a bit, looking from me to Mr. Trundle and back again, Come, Ben! gesturing for me to follow him, Let us not make haste before she’s taken away!

She? I replied, even more puzzled than before. I knew Wygate well enough to know that he would not lie about such things, especially if it involved a young girl. It was my guess that this was his first time actually seeing a dead body, up close, lying in the streets, tho’ it was not my first time; and as much as we wish to shelter our young ones from seeing such a tragic display it is, I’m afraid, all too common a sight in the fair streets of London. Grabbing my printer’s apron, I stepped away from my press and began wiping the ink from my hands, asking Wygate, What’s so special about this girl?

You’ll see, he replied, in earnest, gesturing towards the door.

All right now, I said, reassuringly, releasing my apron. But first, why don’t you tell me what you have seen?

Well… quickly forming his thoughts, Tis a girl, no older then I.

All right, I replied, still dismayed at the thought of a young lass lying dead in the street.

Aye, a bonnie lass! he replied excitedly, suddenly realizing what he was reporting, acquiring a much more solemn expression and tone, or so she once was, looking a bit uncomfortable with himself about having been so excited over such a find. I-I took a quick look at her Ben as a crowd began forming; and then I realized that I needed to come back here and report it, and that’s when I…

Ah. Good. Now, pray tell, what else did you see?

She looked… , she looked quite pale; quite pale indeed, forming an ill look about his youthful face as he contemplated her dire looks which caused him to, finally, remove his hat with some thoughtful respective, showing his thick blonde hair.

I see, wanting to approach this cautiously, concerned about his young feelings. Now Wygate, you know a body turns pale when it dies.

Aye, I do, sounding more calm, for I have attended many a funeral; but I have never seen anyone look this pale before Ben, not like this, releasing a long heavy sigh. Then, something clicked in his young mind, for he took a quick draw of breath and exclaimed, Maybe you can figure out how she died!

Well I… trying to figure out how to respond since I’m neither a magistrate nor an anatomist.

Ben, it was Mr. Trundle, who came up alongside me. Go with young Wygate; maybe, there’s something you can find out. Besides, I’ve got this, indicating the press.

You sure John? wanting to be respectful of him.

Aye, I’m sure, waving me off. Now go and have a look.

What if Mr. Watt wants to know where I am? I asked, as I untied and removed my apron, hanging it upon its hook.

Don’t worry, he replied solemnly. I’ll tell him the truth; so, be quick about your work, wiping his own hands upon his own printer’s apron.

Aye, I replied, nodding respectfully to Mr. Trundle’s authority; and with that I turned and reached for my hat and coat, which hung alongside my apron. Wygate and I were about to make our exit one of the other pressmen, Bixer, a brutish man, who happened to be working nearby, quipped that young Wygate will be ‘murdered soon’ if he doesn’t bring back the ale he was supposed to get. (Bixer, at that time, had a most unfavorable way of getting the apprentices to work for him. He liked to threaten them and slap them about. It was certainly something I had wished to talk to Mr. Watt about, when I could get the time.) Wygate turned and began assuring the wretched man that he had been on his way to get the ale when he came across the dead body and knew that his duty, his moral obligation, had changed; thereby, coming back to get me. Bixer was about to say something coarse to Wygate but I intercepted him and assured him that Wygate would get the ale in time for the mid-day meal. (Another issue I wished to discuss with Mr. Watt, about the men drinking so much while working. It was most out of hand.)

You see that he does, he replied wretchedly to me, giving me and Wygate a stern and nasty look before going back to his own duties. And with that Wygate and I made haste of our exit. As we made our way towards Thomas Lane we saw the crowd, of mostly women, that Wygate had mentioned before. They were milling about in the close that was just off of Thomas Lane. Upon our arrival Wygate and I immediately began working our way through, trying to get back to where the young girl was lying.

Where is she? I asked about, prompting a nearby elderly woman to reply, through sobbing voice, that ‘she lies just beyond the entrance to the close, near a building where its rubbish was kept’.

Tossed out liked yesterday’s spoils, said the women standing next to her, sobbing as well. The other woman said that the King’s men had been sent for and that they were offering their vigilance while waiting for them to arrive. It was then that I directed Wygate to go and get the ale as promised. He began, as I suspected, to give me some grief about staying and helping me. However, I told him I had this covered and that he needed to complete his chores or the others—our fellow printers—will surely become unruly if they don’t get their mid-day ale. Wygate, begrudgingly, knew I was right, suspending his argument. I could see he felt as if he were being ceremoniously dismissed; therefore, I promised him that I would share with him everything that I had learned, and mention his name in the article.

Promise? he asked, elated by the idea.

Aye, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. I promise.

All right, he replied. I trust you.

Good. Now go, I said, waving him off. And with that he nodded respectfully, taking off to do his duty. With his leaving, I was able to turn towards the crowd. As I made my way through I kept asking, anyone, if they knew her, tho’ no one seemed to know who she was. Finally, I was able to make my way through the crowd coming upon a scene I wished, to this very day, I had never seen.

There, along the back alley wall of this building laid a young, once beautiful, dead young girl. She was lying slightly askew to the building, resting on human waste that lined this dank close. Apparently, it seems, someone from an above window had poured out the contents of their chamber-pot recently, not knowing she was lying down below. As I stepped closer I could see her face, her sweet bonnie face, (ah, Wygate was right, she had been a bonnie lass indeed) looking ever so peaceful as if she had just taken a moment to lie down and rest. Her hair—sans a bonnet—was golden blonde. I recall thinking how it must have looked flitting about in the sunlight when she was alive, like fine straw in the cool London breezes; and now it was all matted about her face, her pale little face.

I noticed that her tiny thin lips were pale, quite pale, like one gets after taking a very cold bath. Next, inching in a little closer, I opened her closed eyelids; and just as I had feared her eyes were pale blue and lifeless. I shook my head in utter dismay, realizing that nevermore were they to sparkle in the light again. Continuing with my observation, I noticed her neck had several severe bruises about it; obviously, from whoever it was that strangled her. I could further see her little knuckles were badly bruised as well. She obviously tried to fight off her attacker as he was taking the life out of her.

I further observed she was wearing a long-sleeved closed-robe dress made of green silk, which appeared to be tailored made for her petite frame. The lower half of her dress, which covered her petticoats, had various blotchy stains. This, I imagined, was probably due to her work as a kitchen maid; or as such. I pondered my next question with a heavy heart: Could she have been raped? And if so, why would a man have to force himself upon such a young innocent child when there are so many willing women all over London, especially for a price? I knew I would have to wait to see what the doctor, one who would examine her, might find.

It was then I realized she had early morning dew lying all about her body, indicating to me, that she had been lying there for quite some time, several hours in fact. Plus, it looked to me that her killer had just strangled her right here, and then just left her. Behind me, I could still feel the crowd milling about as I pulled out my writing pad and pencil, wanting to make notes of what I saw, as well as to make a quick sketch of her. ‘Dear God!’ I thought, as I began making my drawing, ‘what sort of man would do such a thing? How callous could one man’s heart be towards another person’s life; especially towards someone who was so young and so fair?’ Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted when I noticed a man, a King’s man, slip down beside me. He had been sent by his Captain.

Do you know her? he asked, pointing at the girl.

No sir, I replied in earnest. I’m a printer from Watt’s, and I was sent here to see what I could make of this tragedy.

I see, he said, taking a slight tone with me. Need some filler, eh? being more a statement than a question.

I was just about to tell him I was just taking notes so we could inform the people of her death when he began telling me, from his rather casual observations, that ‘she’s probably just another whore who was killed during last night’s revelry.’ My God! I thought, looking at him. How could he be so cavalier, so callous about this poor child’s station in life? (As Wygate had said she appeared to be no older than he, who, at that time, was a mere lad of fourteen, some five years my junior.) I had to ask the guard, How could she be taken for a whore?

The guard looked at me and simply said, She’s lying dead in a disgusting close, is she not? I glared at him in disbelief. He sighed, offering this explanation, You see printer, girl’s like this begin learning the ways of their ‘profession’ very early in their young lives by helping out their mothers, or others, who might already be in the ‘profession’. As soon as they start showing a hint of a bosom, as this one so obviously had begun, they are ‘encouraged’ into the ‘profession’; and a pretty little girl like this could have, very easily, made much with last night’s revelry; and then was killed for her earnings.

Dear God! I uttered under my breath, having never thought of it that way. Now, don’t get me wrong Dear Reader, for I’m no saint for I have been with ‘lo’ women before, especially over at Hyde Park; however, I have never been with one as young as this; nor would I ever even entertained the notion of doing such a thing. It’s just that I had no idea that they were ‘started’ at such a tender age. The very idea of it insulted my mind. The ‘lo’ women I had known had all been grown women, quite mature in fact, that I can assure you. So… , who would do such a thing? I asked, indicating the girl, wanting to refocus my attention back to the task at hand.

He gave it a moment’s thought. Probably some bloke who was to bloody drunk to raise his staff, if you catch my meaning, (I did) and the girl, unfortunately, made the beginner’s mistake of laughing about his ill-fated attempts to ‘fulfill’ their bargain, which caused the stupid bloke to become so humiliated that he killed her out of spite, taking his money back and whatever else she may have had on her.

Humility and spite, I reiterated, quickly writing that down.

We then heard the clops of a horse drawn cart arriving, carrying a fellow officer.

As I said printer, turning back to me, it was probably some drunk last night who couldn’t ‘perform’ so he… , well, there she be; and I’ll probably have a dozen more just like this before my day is done.

Aye, probably, pondering his theory, having heard variations of the story before. However, my instincts had me believing that she was an innocent and not a whore as the King’s man had suggested.

As he stood up, he tugged on my coat, wanting me to stand along with him, which I did out of respect for his authority. Now printer, help me to clear out this bloody mob, indicating the lingering crowd. I nodded my compliance as I slipped away my pad and pencil, wanting to be cooperative with him. I was actually pleased to help since I too no longer wanted these people gawking about over this young girl’s body.

What will happen to her? I asked the guard, as the other one began approaching. (I already had my suspicions but I wanted to hear it from him, for the record).

St. Barts, he said without hesitation, indicating in the general direction of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Instantly I knew she was going to London’s oldest hospital for examination and then, most likely, a pauper’s grave if no family came to claim her. I felt like claiming her right then and there; however, I knew I would be questioned as to my legal right to make such a claim; thus, I kept my tongue.

The arriving guard assisted us by calling out for all to go about their business, which caused the majority of them to take positions alongside the close and lane. The man then made his way down the close, walking with a mournful sense of purpose. Once at the girl, he knelt down slowly beside her, giving a little prayer while performing the holy trinity over her. Next, he cautiously slipped his arms up under the girl, bracing her back and then her legs; then, with considerable care and skill, he picked her up. As he moved deliberately towards the cart he drew her little body in closer to his, as if to protect her from any more harm; and as he carried her past the many onlookers they, too, began making the sign of the holy trinity, especially the women. It was all I could do to keep from crying myself; therefore, like most of the men there, I just watched with deep sorrow.

But I also felt great anger, for I wanted to know who could have killed such a beautiful child; and why? I heard what the King’s man had said, but something about this did not seem… , well… , right; and, instinctively, I wanted to know more, to know who could be this bloody vicious.

I watched, along with the crowd, as the guard placed the poor darling carefully into the back of the cart. We could see him looking her over for a brief moment, shaking his own head in disbelief (a father no doubt), before covering her over with a linen cloth.

The guard that I had been talking too began telling the onlookers to go, elbowing me to gesture my arms like he was doing. As I obliged him, I could see the other guard getting back up into the seat of the cart, grabbing the reins and slapping the back of the horse to get it moving. It would not be the last time I saw her, nor would it be the last of what I would come to know about her tragic death.

After dispersing the crowd, and bidding the King’s man good-day, I quickly finished my notes about the area and left; and as I made my way back to Watt’s, my desire to know who did this grew. I did not know whether it was more my printer’s instinct for news that caused me to want to know more or my deep moral obligation to my fellow man (or in this case, young girl) to find out who did this. However, whichever it was, I knew I had to know more about how she died for her death did not seem, to me, to happen quite the way the King’s man had described it.

Once back at the shop I was informed by Mr. Trundle that Mr. Watt wanted to see me straight away. I went and found him in his office, standing near the window, watching others go about their business. He turned, greeted me, wanting to know what I had seen. I then spent the next few moments telling him how I would like to investigate this little girl’s death. After listening, Mr. Watt indicated this death did not sound all that unusual since children are commonly found dead, for any number of reasons, in and around London, asking, Why should we spend another moment on it, other than writing up what we already know? I did not realize it then Dear Reader but he was testing my dedication to the story. It was then I recalled what Wygate had said—’not like this’—about the way this young girl had looked. I conveyed this sentiment to Mr. Watt telling him there was something curiously wrong about the way this girl was murdered. In what way? he asked, giving me an inquisitive look.

I had to admit to him that I hadn’t quite figured it all out just yet. It’s the queer paleness of her skin that has me perplexed, sir.

Ben, you know people turn pale when they die, except the Africans of course; and you know that.

Aye sir, I do; however, this girl seemed much paler than the norm, much paler.

Much paler, he reiterated, looking quite concernedly at me. Whatever do you mean?

That’s the rub sir, wanting to continue to press my point with him, "and that is why I wish to investigate her murder, using Wygate as an assistant in order to teach him the fine art of investigating a story. Plus, sir, I truly do believe our readers would want to know who did this; and more importantly why it had to happen." I knew I had him on that last point, for he became very quiet, very still for the moment pondering my points, as well as many others, over in his brilliant mind; and for a gentleman of nearly three-scores he still had quite the sharp mind; and to let you know Dear Reader, Mr. Watt had nearly forty years of experience in the business of printing, with a honed sense of when to work a story. As he contemplated my request, he began walking to and fro, slowly tapping his right forefinger upon his right temple.

After a few tense moments of waiting he turned and looked at me and said, Here’s the deal Ben, since I have to get ready to deal with the bankers and insurers later on today I want you and Wygate to put your stories together this evening; and, then, in the morning we’ll meet again to discuss its merits. If there is enough detail and interest there then I’ll allow you to investigate; but on your own time, you hear.

Aye sir, I replied, pleased to get that much from him.

Now, get back to work, waving me off.

Aye sir, and with that I took my leave and went back to work with Mr. Trundle.

About twenty minutes on, Wygate came back carting six small casks of ale. We glanced at each other, but we did not speak again until later that day.

What do you mean? I asked of Wygate as we stepped outside of the printing shop and into the service lane behind the shop, in order to enjoy our mid-day meal. He had just mentioned to me how odd the dead girl had looked as we strolled along to our usual location, which was a series of benches aligned alongside the back of the building.

It was the paleness of her face Ben, he replied, contemplating what he recalled,

Aye, I replied. I noticed it too, and I told Mr. Watt of it; but, what of it to you my friend? taking a seat on one of the benches.

Well, contemplating his thoughts. No dead body I ever seen looked that pale after they had died; no one, sitting down beside me, It tis quite puzzling.

Aye, I agree, thinking on it. I then noticed that Wygate looked a bit uneasy, a tad bit queasy in fact. What else ails you my fine friend? sensing there was a bit more to tell.

Well, he answered hesitantly, thinking it over. "Did you happen to notice that there was no blood about her, at all; and for someone who was that pale wouldn’t you think there would have been some blood lying about if she had been murdered there?"

I was taken aback by the statement, realizing he had made a very a distinct observation that I had not for I didn’t recall seeing any blood about her, realizing I had spent most of my time looking at her destroyed beauty and the bruises about neck, to think about where her blood was. I shook my head in disbelief, feeling quite foolish for not picking up on what Wygate had. I made a point of being more observant in the future concerning such matters. You are right Wygate, I finally said. I don’t recall seeing any blood around; however, I do say she was still strangled.

Aye, I agree Ben; but, still, there should have been some traces of blood, not only on her, but around her if she was murdered in that close.

Aye, I agree, I said, nodding. Then I asked him, Wygate, how did you come to find her in Thomas Close and surmise that she was dead? Don’t you usually pass by Thomas Close when you go to and from Baggots?

Aye, he replied, I was on my way when I saw and heard a few people milling about in Thomas Lane, more than usual, and being of a curious nature I decided to take a moment to see what was going on; and that is when I heard someone mention a dead body.

Ah, a printer’s instinct for news. Now I see why Mr. Watt took you on as an apprentice.

Aye, I suppose so. But I thought it was because I could translate French into English.

Aye, there is that, giving him a knowing smile. Please continue.

Well, reorganizing his thoughts. I went to where the others were milling about and saw the girl just lying there. Well, to say the least, I was shocked; but no so shocked that I couldn’t take a further look; and I noticed something quite queer—she just didn’t look right; therefore, I had to check her myself to see if she really was dead.

I see. Good. What did you do next?

Well, thinking, I nudged her, trying to wake her up. However, she didn’t do anything. Then I nudged her some more, a little harder you know. Then I had an awful feeling come over me, a feeling that she was truly dead. So I reached out and touched her throat, to see if I could feel a pulse, and there was none; plus she was cold, so very cold, shivering at the thought of her cold dead body in his hands, I then withdrew my hand, for I suddenly felt as if I shouldn’t be touching her at all; and that’s when I knew I had to come back, to let you know.

I see, trying to be sensitive to what he was conveying to me. I noticed his eyes began welling up for he was beginning to sense grief; plus, he was wiping his runny nose onto his sleeve, which was followed by him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He slouched over towards me and began to cry, seeking solace for her death. I placed my right arm around him, holding him warmly, telling him, It’s all right Wygate; it’s all right, patting his left arm, telling him, We’ll look into the cause of her death, this I assure you.

He sniffled some more, wiping his nose onto his sleeve again, We will?

Aye; and stop that.

What? sniffling.

Wiping your nose onto your sleeve, you’re not ten anymore, you know.

Right, taking his shirttail out and blowing his nose in it. Dear God, I just had to roll my eyes. Ben?

Aye?

Are we really going to look into the cause of her death?

I certainly think it warrants our attention, don’t you?

Aye sir, I do. But will Mr. Watt allow us?

He’s thinking it over, but I think he’ll consider it. Question is, giving him an inquisitive look, will you help me if he does allow us?

Yes sir! bolting upright, feeling better about his himself. You know I will, his eyes red from crying, No matter what.

Good, for we start tonight.

Tonight?

Aye; you’re going to write down everything you can recall from what you saw this morning; so think upon it as you work the remainder of your day.

Aye! I’ll do it! rubbing his hands together excitedly, priming himself for the assignment. He then gave me a somber look, saying, "You know Ben, whoever did this certainly wanted