An Experiment in Treason

by Alexander, Bruce

  Sighing, I took down the clothes from the hook where they hung opposite my bed. Yet, even as I changed, I thought of her and of the strange mixture within her which set romantic fantasy jostling with brutal reality. Still, within me was a mix of parts even more numerous and diverse — as I well knew — and in others of my acquaintance, as well. To myself I confessed that I had thought ill of her because she embarrassed me only moments ago. Now I determined to cheer her when I saw her again in the kitchen. But as luck would have it, she and Lady Fielding had left by the time I returned.

  The letters which Sir John would dictate were two. The first, to the Lord Chief Justice, was no more than a routine report upon the interrogation of Benjamin Franklin. It was actually little more than a summary, for it included few of the details and almost no direct quotation. It was simply a report — and nothing more. The second, which was addressed to Dr. Franklin, was remarkable only in that he both apologized for the trickery involved in bringing him to Bow Street and thanked him for submitting to it so generously. It was, to my way of thinking, far more polite in its tone than was necessary, and in that way was quite distinctive, if not unique, among the letters he had dictated to me.

  “And now,” said Sir John, “if you will but deliver the two letters, we shall be done with Franklin and be able to get on with the true business of investigating.”

  It was true then that I came closest to telling Sir John of what had occurred during the night past at the King’s Pleasure. Yet I did not, and I came to regret that. I had some daft notion that I would investigate the activities of Arthur Lee myself.

  “Have we an address for Dr. Franklin?” I asked.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Johnson delivered the invitation, did he not? Nevertheless, I beheve Mr. Marsden has searched it out. Check with him.”

  With that, I left with the two letters in my pocket and found, to my relief, that Mr. Marsden, court clerk and general factotum, did indeed have Benjamin Franklin’s proper address, so it was unnecessary for me to go seeking it out for myself. First, however, I headed north to Bloomsbury Square and the residence of William Murray, Earl of Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice.

  There was no need for me to wait for an answer. Thus was I able to hand the letter over to my old antagonist, the butler, and inform him of that. I was just turning to leave when a hand reached round the butler’s shoulder and grabbed from the latter’s hand the letter which I had just handed over. It was Lord Mansfield, of course, none but he would have the courage to do such a thing.

  “Here you!” said he to me in a tone betwixt loud speech and a shout. “Wait whilst I read this.” He elbowed the butler out of the doorway.

  “Will there be a response, my lord?”

  “How do I know till I read it?”

  His eyes hastily scanned the page. Was it possible that anyone could read so fast? Perhaps — yet I knew how little content there was to be found in the text of that letter. When he had done, he threw it down at my feet. I stooped to pick it up.

  “Yes,” said Lord Mansfield, “there will he a response.”

  “Would you care to pen it at the bottom of this report?”

  “No, you tell him what I have to say.”

  “And what is that, my lord?”

  “BAH! That is my reply, and be sure to shout it loud at him, as I have shouted it to you.”

  With that, he slammed the door shut, leaving me blinking in astonishment at his doorstep. Well, I consoled myself, at least he had omitted the boot in the arse, which usually puts final punctuation to such messcLges as this one. With a sigh, I dropped the letter in my pocket and started off to deliver the one to Dr. Franklin.

  Taking St. Andrews Street through the notorious Seven Dials, I found my way to St. Martin’s Lane and thence to the Strand. It was then just a few steps to Craven Street, which opened off the Thames side of the Strand. I had no idea it was quite so close to Gwent Garden and Bow Street.

  I knocked upon the door of Number 10, which was not by any means a grand house. My knock was answered by a pleasant woman, a little older than I had expected, who I later learned was Mrs. Stevenson.

  “I have a letter here from Sir John Fielding to Dr. Franklin,” said I to her. “There is no reply expected, so I should be happy to leave it with you.”

  With that, I offered it to her, yet she did not immediately accept it.

  “Ah well,” said she, “I’ll take it for him, if you like. But he is here in the sitting room and not presently engaged. Why don’t you step inside and let me announce you to him? “

  “Well … I … certainly, thank-you.” It would have been churlish to decline.

  As I took my place by the door, after closing it behind me, Mrs. Stevenson bustled off into the interior of the house.

  “Dr. Franklin had such a fine time at Sir John’s yestereve,” she declared, calling back to me. “He thought it a great joke that he had been summoned in that manner for interrogation.”

  “No ill will then?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Then did she disappear through a door (-which led, presumably, to the sitting room), and I took the opportunity to survey my surroundings. It was a pleasant little house, surely no more than two floors in height, but comfortable in a way few houses were — except for our own. No wonder if Franklin had liked his visit to us so much as this good woman had said. He felt at home.

  I heard the door to the sitting room open. Mrs. Stevenson emerged first, followed by Benjamin Franklin. She gestured rather grandly toward me as he came forward to give me welcome. He offered his hand and gripped my own very firmly, which, I recalled, was his wont.

  “We met last night,” said he, “though I can’t for the life of me recall your name.”

  “Jeremy Proctor, sir.”

  “Ah yes, you sat at the far end of the table, next to that charming young girl.”

  “Clarissa is her name,” said I. “Clarissa Roundtree.”

  “Ah yes, I shall have to remember that, eh?” Then did he wink rather rudely.

  Mrs. Stevenson giggled.

  “You, as I recall, had little to say, but you listened very carefully.” Then did he clear his throat and say, as one might speaking before an audience: “A good listener hath twice the value of a glib talker.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Oh, I know so. But I understand you have a letter for me.”

  “Yes sir.” I produced it and offered it to him. He accepted it, but gestured toward the sitting room where the door now stood open. “Why not come inside? I shall read the letter and give any comments to you I think suitable. And then perhaps we may have a chat.”

  Having little true choice in the matter, I did as he suggested and followed him through the door into a small, snug room altogether perfect for conversation. There were but two chairs, though facing them was a sofa of goodly proportions. Between them was a low table, and off to one side, a fireplace where a Ioav fire burned steadily, providing sufficient warmth for comfort. Dr. Franklin offered me a place at one end of the sofa, and as I settled myself, he sat down at the other. He brought out a pair of spectacles, opened the letter, and, with a nod to me, began reading. He smiled a few times, as if amused, before removing his spectacles and laying the letter aside.

  “I take it you took down the letter, and so you know its contents,” said he to me.

  “Oh yes. The words are his alone, however. I am simply his amanuensis.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that. He is the ablest blind man I have ever seen — or even heard of. Is it true, as I have heard tell, that there are thousands whom he can identify by the sound of their voice alone?”

  “I know not the number, nor do I think he does. Nevertheless, it is a great many, certainly over a thousand.”

  “Amazing, quite amazing.” Then did he pause for a moment, his eyes roaming the room, as if searching the place for the right words to express himself. Then did he speak. “As for what I might say in reply to Sir John’s generous letter, all I ca
n think of telling you is this: Please give him my deepest thanks for the most unusual evening I have had in Lxjndon in quite some time. I found it both entertaining and intellectually stimulating. The food and the company were quite beyond compare. I look forward to repeating it sometime soon.” Again, he paused, then leaning toward me, he smiled a smile of keen interest, and urged, “And now, Jeremy, do tell me something about yourself.”

  There is one invitation that I, like the most of mankind, could not at that age decline, and that is the one just extended to me by Benjamin Franklin. Once I began talking of myself — how I was orphaned, how I came to London, how I was brought before Sir John’s magistrate court on a false charge by a pair of villains — there was simply no stopping me.

  Not, in any case, until Mrs. Stevenson came through the door bearing a tray well loaded with cups, a teapot, and a plate of scones. I rose from the sofa and made to help her with the tray.

  “Oh, no, no,” said she, “I can do quite nicely by myself. I was just about to make some tea when you came along, young sir. I’m sure you’ll join us, will you not? Do sit down.”

  And having no excuse for hovering about, I resumed my place upon the sofa. She set the contents of the tea tray on the low table, poured tea for all, and handed the plate of scones about.

  “I was struck,” said Dr. Franklin, “by certain similarities in our personal histories. For instance, we did both begin in the printing trade. Thus did I become engaged in writing. And I do believe that my attitude was much like yours is now.”

  “How do you mean, sir? “

  “Well, when I was your age and attended such occasions as last evening’s, I would have been every bit as silent as you were then. I listened and learned, as I believe you do now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He had by that time quite overcome my resistance. Let none be deceived in this matter: Benjamin Franklin had a good deal of personal charm. It was, I believe, a matter of his power of concentration, for he had a manner of giving his listener his attention so completely that it quite flattered me. I was not used to such attention from one so renowned.

  “Oh,” said he, “and I had great ambitions, just as you do — or so I believe.” He waited for me to confirm that. But I, with a mouthful of scone, could do naught but nod. He continued: “Mr. Johnson told me that it is your ambition to become a lawyer.”

  I swallowed. “Yes sir. It is, sir.”

  “Aiid’toward that end, you are now reading law with Sir John?”

  “That is true, sir.”

  “Well then, you are well along for one of your years. Do you intend to be, as he is, a magistrate?”

  “I would follow a somewhat different path,” said I. “I have it in mind to be a barrister.”

  “A barrister, is it?” He let loose an indulgent cacklef “Well, you have your work cut out for you then, haven’t you? You must not only learn the law, but also learn to think as a lawyer.”

  “So says Sir John oft to me.”

  “And to think quickly.”

  “Yes, that also does he tell me.”

  “Mrs. Stevenson,” said he to her, “have you some notion where the almanacs might be? After the move I fear I have little idea of the location of anything.”

  She jumped immediately to her feet. (She was quite spry for a woman of her years.) “Why, I know exactly where they are,” said she. “Shall I bring them down?”

  “Not all, no. One or two should do.”

  With that, she went off to another part of the house — to the rear, certainly, perhaps to the cellar. But what was that? A voice from someplace deep in the house? What sort? Male? Female? Yet Franklin did not notice, nor did he wait for her return. He simply continued questioning me, more or less along the same line.

  “I noted that you were called away from the table early. Are you learning the duties of a constable, along with all else?”

  “Oh no, not really. I fill in for a constable now and again. Occasionally I accompany one of them on some special errand — an arrest or some special undertaking.”

  “And last night? Was that something of the latter sort?”

  Why was he asking me such questions? Though his tone and manner of speech were relaxed, almost casual, he leaned forward in a manner most tense and uncomfortable. His eyes, too, had an anxious look to them.

  “Oh no, nothing of the sort,” said I, lying with a facility which, frankly, shocked me. “The constable who called for me is taking a leave of absence, and I shall be filling in for him. He wished to acquaint me with his territory.”

  “Ah, I see. So they really do keep you busy, don’t they?” He relaxed a bit with that, settling back at his end of the sofa.

  As I cast about for a proper response, there were the sounds of steps and of a second door opening. Mrs. Stevenson entered, waving two small booklets of about the size and shape of the pamphlets which were printed in Grub Street and hawked all over London.

  “Here they are,” said she. “They’re a bit dusty, but no worse for it.” She picked up a napkin from the tea tray and gave them a quick brushing off, then handed them over to Franklin.

  “Ah, very well,” said he to her, and then to me: “This was a project that occupied me for over twenty years and brought me a good deal of money. You’ve seen these almanacs, have you not, Jeremy?”

  “Oh yes, my father printed one or two, as I recall. They were assembled by a local man in Lichfield.”

  “Yes, assembled, rather than written. That’s fair enough. Still, they are useful. They predict the weather with fair accuracy, which is useful for farmers, offer facts and advice, and give bits of wisdom for one and all. The last I took particular delight in writing. Such bits are as difficult to write as poetry, and, in fact, achieve a kind of poetry in their brevity and pithiness. Let me show you.”

  He opened one of the two almanacs and rustled through the pages.

  “Here’s one from 1737: ‘A Penny saved is Twopence clear. A Pin a day is a Groat a Year. Save and have. Every little makes a nickle.’” He looked at me with a smile. “What think you of that?”

  ” ‘Tis a good argument for thriftiness.”

  “Well said. And what about this from 1739? ‘Prithee isn’t Miss Cloe’s a comical Case? She lends out her Tail, and she borrows her Face.’” Then did he offer the same sort of rude wink he’d given me earlier.

  “Dr. Franklin,” scolded Mrs. Stevenson, “shame on you.”

  “Heh-heh” — a mirthless laugh — “perhaps you’re a bit young for that one. Heh-heh.”

  He offered the two almanacs to me. “Wouldyou like these?”

  “Why, certainly.” Yet, as I reached for them, he pulled them back.

  “Or perhaps you would wish me to sign them?”

  “Even better, sir.”

  He rose from the sofa and went to a small writing desk, whereon a few loose sheets of paper sat, perhaps a letter he had been writing when I arrived. Taking a quill, he dipped it and then, with practiced authority, signed his name to both almanacs. He blotted the ink on both, turned, and offered them to me again.

  I, sensing that my visit had come to an end, rose to my feet and accepted them with thanks. I then said my good-bye and, with a bow, took my leave of him. Mrs. Stevenson took me to the door.

  “So nice of you to come,” said she. “Dr. Franklin so enjoys talking with young people. He says it keeps him young, too.”

  Then did she open the door for me. I bowed to her, as well, as I left.

  Outside, in Craven Street, I turned toward the Strand. Upon reaching it, I sought a place away from the crowd, secluded from sight, where I might wait and watch. I found quite the perfect spot in an alley which led to St. Martin in the Fields. There were various goods boxes piled high near the entrance. I slipped behind the pile and saw that I had a good command of Craven Street from this point. And anyone leaving Number 10 Craven would turn up here, in the direction of the Strand, for to turn in the opposite direction would take him straight to t
he river, with no other exit.

  I became suspicious only gradually after Franklin began asking me about my duties there at the Bow Street Court: whether I had some authority as a constable, or any duties of that nature. This, of course, led to the question of why I had been called away from the table, which I answered by improvising a leave of absence for Constable Perkins. Dr. Franklin seemed to accept that. At any rate, he asked no more questions. There was also the matter of the voice heard when Mrs. Stevenson went off to fetch the almanacs. Was it a voice — or my imagination? And what if it were a voice? There might indeed be other residents in the house — servants of Dr. Franklin or Mrs. Stevenson, her sons or daughters. So, all in all, I was less concerned about the unidentified voice than I was regarding Franklin’s curiosity in the matter of my early departure.

  What good it would do to wait here I knew not, nor was I prepared to remain long at the mouth of this smelly alley. I heard the pattering of rats’ feet all round me, and yet I was determined to watch Craven Street for ten minutes, give or take a bit, just to see who, if anyone, would emerge, and what, if anything, they might do. There are times, after all, when one does something for no better reason than it feels like the proper thing to do.

  It did not take nearly so long as I had prepared to wait. There could not have been more than five minutes passed when Arthur Lee came hurrying up Craven Street in that same ungainly manner I had seen him run for the door last night at the King’s Pleasure. Clearly, he was a man with a mission, though what it might be I could not say.

  He turned onto the Strand heading east. Mr. Perkins had taught me a good deal about trailing people in the street, though I had not, until that moment, had occasion to put what I had learned from him to use. The constable had told me that it was best done when there was a bit of a crowd about, so that he who did the trailing might hide in the crowd. “Don’t stay close behind,” he would caution me. “Just stay close enough so that you have him in sight, but always try to keep at least two or three people between you and your target.”