An Experiment in Treason

by Alexander, Bruce

  “And what about us?”

  “You can take the hire coach back. Just explain to them that I’m remaining. It’s all taken care of.”

  (Frankly, I was pleased, reader, for I had no wish to return with Lee, having earlier been so sharply corrected by him.)

  “Well, all right,” said Mr. Donnelly to Lee. I could tell he was not pleased. “Stay if you must. We’ll be leaving shortly, I suppose. It was an honor to participate in the experiment, even in a minor role. We thank you for that.”

  “What? Oh yes, certainly.” He returned to his seat in the bum-boat and signaled to the boatman that he might proceed. “Good-bye to you then, Mr. Donnelly. I daresay I shall be seeing you soon in London.” He waved as the boat pulled away,

  “Well, Jeremy,” said Mr. Donnelly with a sigh, “it seems that we are on our own.”

  “It does indeed. Shall we then hasten to claim our coach lest it be taken by some of those who watched with us on the beach?”

  “That seems to me an excellent suggestion.”

  And so, up the hill we went to the George, and there we separated. I went to collect our bags from the room and Mr. Donnelly lo settle up at the desk for our stay. I returned to find him, red-faced, in loud conversation with the driver of the coach. I perceived at once that this was no ordinary disagreement but a proper battle, involving the driver, Donnelly, and a third party, Arthur Lee, not physically present yet perhaps the cause of it all.

  “Jeremy, do you know what this fellow tells me?”

  “Let me guess. That all has not been taken care of as regards the return fare to be paid for this coach-for-hire.”

  “Exactly. And the worst of it is, I’m inclined to believe the coachman rather than Lee.”

  “Well, thank God for that, sir,” said the driver to Mr. Donnelly, “for I ain’t the sort to go chargin’ a man for what’s already been paid. But I tell you fair, the way back just ain’t been paid — not by him, not by anybody. What I was told by Mr. — what’s his name? ‘

  “Lee, Arthur Lee.”

  “That’s right. That’s him. What Mr. Lee said was, ‘Here’s for the trip down to Portsmouth. I ain’t sure I’ll be making it back with you, but the gent who’ll be traveling down with me certain’y will. You can get the fare to London from him.”

  “There was never any hint given to me of such an arrangement.”

  “Oh, I believe you, sir, and if I understand your remark to the lad here a-right, you believe me, as well. That’s a good start for workin’ out some sort of a deal, wouldn’t you say so?”

  “Well yes, I suppose I would,” said Mr. Donnelly after a moment’s careful consideration. “What sort of a deal did you have in mind?”

  And with that began a session of hard bargaining there in the lobby of the George, which must have lasted near ten minutes. Gabriel Donnelly was, as Sir John had often said, one Irishman who was as tight with a shilling as any Scotsman. He demonstrated it then and there as he haggled histrionically, at one point offering to walk to London rather than pay such an exorbitant fare. (I hoped sincerely that it would not come to that.) For his part, the coachman was equally dramatic. He alternated demanding with pleading in a manner quite outrageous. He shouted dramatically that he had a wife and children and would not see them starve with such an offer as Mr. Donnelly had put forth. “Have you no conscience, sir?” (This, I’m sure, was said for the benefit of the crowd that had gathered round them in the lobby.)

  It came as a surprise, at least to me, that they did at last settle upon a price. Could it be said that the agreed-upon amount was thought by both to be fair? No, say rather that each for his own reasons seemed to think it unfair. Nevertheless, their onlookers were so relieved that the matter had been settled without resort to violence, that quite spontaneously they burst into applause. Caught by surprise, the two negotiators turned to the crowed and acknowledged the response with waves of the hand and nods of the head. Then, obeying the custom, they did solemnly clasp hands on the matter, thus sealing their hard-won agreement before witnesses.

  In no time at all we were in the coach and well-begun upon our journey. I know not the cause — perhaps that the load was lightened so by the absence of Dr. Lee (though he was in no wise an extraordinarily large man) — but the journey seemed to go much faster on the return trip to London.

  At first, Mr. Donnelly would do not more than grumble that he had been bested in the haggle with the driver, yet it was not long until he put blame where it belonged and began to assess the extent of Dr. Lee’s guilt in the matter.

  “Why would he do such a thing?” said he to me, honestly seeking some explanation for the fellow’s behavior.

  “Well,” said I, “perhaps he was financially embarrassed and wished to keep it a secret.”

  “Yes, but to tell the coachman that he would have to seek payment for the return trip from me without ever broaching the matter to me — that does exceed the limit, don’t you think? And as for the possibility that he might be, as you suggest, financially embarrassed — well, all of us are from time to time, but, damn his eyes, he should have told me. He should have asked. It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. But then again, I do not think these colonial fellows are much concerned with proper behavior — no, not even their champion, Dr. Franklin. He, so they say, is no more a gentleman than this man Lee.”

  That interested me. I wished to hear more. Nevertheless, it was evident that he intended to add nothing. Something in his eyes, as he glanced in my direction, seemed to say that he regretted saying all that he had, and that he would tell no more. Under the circumstances, it would have been rude to pursue the matter. And so, did we lapse into silence. He, for his part, sat staring out the window. I, for mine, looked at the colors of autumn reel by and wondered, as I did so, in what way Benjamin Franklin failed to meet a gentleman’s high standard. Could it have something to do with his attractiveness to women? I pondered that for a while, yet could do little with it, for, in all truth, I could not suppose for a moment that a man of such an appearance could be attractive to women. But then, having thought long enough upon it, I put it out of my mind and succumbed to sleep.

  When I woke, it was dark enough so that I had a bit of difficulty in discovering just where we were. Staring out the window, I saw lights aplenty in the near-distance and realized, after a bit of staring, that the surrounding darkness was naught but that which encircles on all sides as one crosses the Thames by way of London Bridge. We were, to my astonishment, quite near home. Depending upon the number of coaches and hackneys on the streets at whatever hour this might happen to be, we were no more than minutes away from Number 4 Bow Street.

  “Ah, awake, are you?” It was Gabriel Donnelly, leaning for-ward to catch the light in my eye.

  I sat up straight, blinking, and then nodded my reply.

  “I’ve no idea how you managed to sleep, the way we were bouncing along on those country roads, ” said Mr. Donnelly. “You’ve a talent for it, I do swear.”

  “A talent for what?” My voice cracked as I tried it for the first time in hours.

  “For sleeping,” said he.

  “Perhaps I do, but so few are my opportunities to exercise it that I lear it may eventually be lost.”

  At that he merely chuckled.

  “Did you sleep? ” I asked him.

  “Oh, I dozed, little more than that. Unlike most, the movement of the coach upon the road tends to keep me awake.”

  We were now across the bridge and into the maze of Hghts. The driver swung left into Thames Street, following a line of hackney coaches. It must not have been long past dark, for there were indeed a flood of vehicles in the street. At such a time, in such a season of the year, London was at its most handsome — certainly the best-lit city in all of Europe; visitors came from all over to admire the oil-burning street lamps that gave light even on the darkest, foggiest nights. The blinking lights of the coaches and carriages added their bright pinpoints to this vivid picture, as did the
torches that lit the door of each tavern, inn, and eating-house along the way. I was altogether fascinated.

  “Tell me, Jeremy,” said Mr. Donnelly, “are you disappointed in our expedition to Portsmouth?”

  Pulling myself away from the coach window, I gave that a moment’s thought.

  “Disappointed in the failure of the experiment, yet not sorry to have been present.”

  “Nicely put,” said he. “I should say I felt the same. I was, how-ever, disappointed in the behavior of our supposed host — but at this point, the less said about that the better.”

  With that I concurred, and our conversation then drifted aimlessly to Dr. Franklin’s political position, a question much discussed during those days. Was his first loyalty to England, or to those colonies which paid him a salary to represent their interests in London? As an Irishman, Mr. Donnelly knew something of divided loyalties, yet he made no reference to his personal feelings in the matter — that would have been quite unlike him.

  This took us to Number 4 Bow Street, where the driver came to a halt, and we climbed down. Mr. Donnelly paid off the driver down to the last penny and appeared ready to bid me a good night and make his way home.

  “Why not come up? ” I offered. “Though they’ve likely eaten dinner, there’s sure to be enough left over to feed us both. You’ll have the chance to meet our new cook, Molly Sarton.”

  He confessed he had no wish to go home and try potluck for one, nor even less visit one of the rowdy dives surrounding Covent Garden; and so he happily accepted the invitation. We marched up to the top of the stairs and into the kitchen. There at the table sat Molly Sarton and Clarissa Roundtree, who served as Lady Fielding’s secretary.

  We were in luck. Dinner had been eaten, yet I was expected, and the stew left over for me was more than enough for two. So said Molly, in any case, as she poked up the fire to warm the pot. I sensed an immediate spark between the surgeon and the cook when I introduced them. As she stirred the stew, he stood nearby, telling her of our bootless journey to Portsmouth, yet making of it a great long joke, wherein he himself was the butt of the story. It was evident that he was attempting to charm her. She laughed. She smiled. She glanced neither left nor right but gave to him all her attention.

  “Goodness,” whispered Clarissa to me, “they’ve certainly hit it off, haven’t they?”

  A word about Clarissa: She and I had come to Sir John Fielding’s household by way of similar paths. While I was popularly thought to be a “court boy” (one snatched away from a life of crime and put to useful work). Sir John perceived in my appearance as prisoner before him that I stood falsely accused. He opened his home and his heart to me, an orphan, and had treated me ever after more as a son than a servant. For her part, Clarissa was the daughter of one who would sure have been hanged or given transportation had he not been murdered by a criminal far more cruel and ruthless than he. She had escaped from the parish workhouse of Lichfield and would have, in the ordinary course of things, been returned there. Yet Lady Fielding, who had never had a daughter of her own, had formed such a great attachment to her that she would in no wise allow her to be sent back and she persuaded Sir John to allow Clarissa to stay on as her secretary. That was, if you will, a couple of years past, and it has taken Clarissa and me nearly that long to establish a modus Vivendi. Now, however, we seemed to have done so. Indeed, our recent trip to Deal, during which we spent a good bit of time together, seemed to have sealed our friendship. In any case, I hoped that this was so.

  “Where is Sir John?” I asked her. “Up in that little room he calls his study?”

  “Oh no,” said she, “he responded to a sudden call from Mr. Bilbo and went off to see him in the company of Mr. Bailey.” She hesitated. “Bailey’s his name, isn’t it? The great, tall man who is chief of the constables?”

  I nodded, yet still was I puzzled: “Mr. Bilbo is usually at his gaming club at this hour of the evening.”

  “Well, no longer, for it seems that he has sold it.”

  “Ah, so it has happened at last just as I feared it might.”

  “You know something about this?”

  “I believe I met the buyer — a Mr. Slade.”

  “I know not if he were the one. I heard Sir John say to Lady Fielding that there were a number who were interested in buying the club from Mr. Bilbo, but one who had an advantage over the rest.”

  “And what was that?” I asked her.

  “He had offered the most money”

  “Indeed that sounds like the sort of remark Mr. Bilbo would make.” Then did I frown and puzzle away at a question which I finally did put into words: “But why sell now? I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t? ” Clarissa asked with a knowing smile. “Then try this. Lord Mansfield sent word to Mr. Bilbo that the trial date for Lady Grenville has finally been fixed.”

  “So the French ambassador was finally unable to bring her back to France?”

  “It seems,” said she, “that our friend Marie-Helene must stand trial in an English court. All would have been well had she not bombarded English soil.”

  “When must she surrender to the court?”

  “I’ve no clear idea of that. In a day or two, perhaps. I should not be surprised if Mr. Bilbo asked Sir John to come and advise on what, if anything more, could be done to keep her out of court.”

  And if she appeared in an English court, she — a native of France — would be convicted, as Clarissa and I both knew. Marie-Helene, Lady Grenville, had undeniably been engaged in the smuggling trade with her husband; thus much was known by all. The matter was complicated, however, by the fact that Sir John’s great friend, Black Jack Bilbo, had fallen quite hopelessly in love with her and, to keep her out of Newgate, had given his promise that he would deliver her up for trial when the magistrate required. Now, it seemed, he must keep his promise. I wished to ask Clarissa how Sir John was taking all this, but there our discussion ended, for Molly Sarton called me over to collect my bowl of mutton stew.

  “Well, Jeremy,” said Molly, “you and Mr. Donnelly indeed had yourselves quite an adventure, did you not?”

  “Mr. Donnelly has told you all, has he?”

  At that she laughed. “Oh, I’m confident that he hasn’t. Still and all, from what I have heard, it sounds like the sort of lark my late husband used to love. ” She did lower her voice to add: “Though not near so dangerous.” Then did the smile fade from her face. “Ah, you men,” said she with a sad shake of her head.

  But Mr. Donnelly would have none of that. He stepped forward, bowl in hand, for his dip into the stew pot. “Jeremy,” said he brightly, “you should have told me you’d an Irishwoman in your midst. Had you done, I should have been here in a trice to welcome her to London.”

  I stammered out an excuse which was no excuse at all: “I … I … never knew that she was Irish.” And having said that, I was reminded that Sir John did hazard when first we met her that she seemed Irish.

  “But how could you think otherwise?” said he. “Hair the color of fire … eyes of cornflower blue … freckles … Why, she’s the picture of Irish womanhood.”

  “Mr. Donnelly, please, you’re makin’ me blush,” said Molly — and indeed she was blushing.

  She giggled. I had never before, in the three months of our acquaintanceship, heard her giggle. Nor, for that matter, had I ever seen or heard Mr. Donnelly play the gallant. I was greatly puzzled by their actions. They seemed, ordinarily and separately, to be such sensible people. I carried my bowl of stew back to the table and settled in next to Clarissa. For her part, she seemed quite fascinated — and secretly amused — by their odd behavior. In response to my frown, she gave me a wry smile and a wink.

  “Now, I believe,” cried Mr. Donnelly’ from the other end of the table, “that is the best mutton stew that I have ever in my life tasted!”

  “Ah, now, please do stop,” said Molly to him, blushing still.

  There was, it seemed, little could be done to halt him.
Yet in a last effort to divert attention from herself, she cried out, “Clarissa!”

  “What then, Molly?”

  “You must show these two we have our adventures, as well. Tell them how you spent last night, child.”

  Now was it Clarissa’s time to wriggle uncomfortably in her chair. She seemed not so much embarrassed as discomforted. This was clearly something she would prefer not to go into just at that moment.

  “Oh, let it go,” said Clarissa. “They’ll hear about it soon enough — Jeremy will, anyway.”

  “Do please tell, Clarissa,” urged Mr. Donnelly, then added, “I hope you were put in no danger.”

  “Oh no, nothing like that.” She threw an uneasy glance at me. “It’s the sort of thing that Jeremy attends to every week — or every day, for all I know.”

  “Well now,” said I, “you must tell us.” Though just at that moment I had no idea of what her “adventure” might have been, I would soon find out, for she seemed to take what I had just said as permission to proceed, and she did then begin to tell her tale.

  I take the liberty here of retelling it in my own words, rather than attempt a verbatim account, for on this occasion, as on so many others in those days, she missed no opportunity to digress, diverting her own attention, as well as that of her listeners, to unimportant details and parenthetical events.

  But now to her story: Clarissa was wakened in the middle of the night by Lady Fielding, who told her that she was needed by Sir John to accompany him to the residence of Lord Hillsborough where a burglary had taken place. Dressing hurriedly, Clarissa was ready to depart with him, and following the manner he suggested, she led the way down the stairs and out into the street with his hand placed upon her shoulder. Outside, in Bow Street, a hackney coach awaited them. Benjamin Bailey, the first of the Bow Street Runners, stood by and threw open the door to the hackney. He whisked them inside and jumped in after them.

  As the coach moved them on toward their destination. Sir John did carefully explain to her the part she would play in the action that lay ahead. (Here I quote him, as she conveyed his words to us there at the table.) “Clarissa,” said he, “as you know, I am blind. I manage to do the work of one with sight only with help, which is customarily provided by Jeremy. In his absence, I shall depend upon you to provide that help. In short, I ask you to serve as my eyes. When we arrive, I shall require you to describe to me all that you see at the scene of the crime. I shall prompt you and ask you questions. I shall ask you to be by my side when I interrogate any and all who may have information to give. I am capable of sniffing out all but the visible signs of lying. The smell of fear, the unsteady voice, the sound of the throat that must consistently be cleared, shortness of breath — all of these I can readily detect. But I shall depend upon you to tell me if there is overmuch sweating, or if there is an unconscious refusal to focus direct upon me whilst I ask the questions. Is all of that clear, Clarissa?”