An Experiment in Treason

by Alexander, Bruce

  “Order!” said he. “I will have order here, or I shall clear this courtroom, if I must.”

  That was in no wise necessary, for immediately he had spoken a hush fell over the crowd. It seemed to me it had come to most that neither Marie-Helene nor Mr. Bilbo were present, nor would they be arriving late.

  “What is the difficulty, Mr. Marsden?” he shouted out to the man who sat next him. “You summoned the woman. Where is she?”

  “She does not appear to be anywhere in this room,” said Mr. Marsden.

  “Oh, she does not, eh? Well, we shall see about that, so we shall. If she will not come to the law, as she has been ordered to do, then the law will come to her.” He paused but an instant before bellowing out my name.

  I jumped to my feet, not quite knowing what lay ahead. “I am here, sir. What is it you wish?”

  “I wish Lady Grenville to be here in this courtroom, as was solemnly promised to me by her and by another party, whom I take also to be absent. Now, Jeremy Proctor, I do hereby deputize you as constable and direct you to arm yourself and proceed to the house in St. James’s Street, which is known to you, and bring back Lady Grenville to stand before me. Use all means necessary. Do you understand?”

  “I do indeed, sir.”

  “Then on your way.”

  As I slipped out of the courtroom, I heard Sir John ask Mr. Marsden to call forth the next case on the docket.

  Strange it was to perambulate the rooms of the house in St. James’s Street which I knew so well. They were empty — emptier than empty, for only a few remnants of furniture were left; and they, it seemed, belonged to another era, another time and place. I wandered about, looking into this room and that, so I might report to Sir John that I had searched every room. Nevertheless, it was evident from the way my footsteps echoed through the entire house that it was quite useless to expect to find any other living soul present.

  I had entered by the front door, for it was unlocked. As I made my inspection of the rooms, I looked forward to viewing the last there on the ground floor. And just as I expected, in that room, the entrance to the tunnel I had discovered a few years ago had been left open, revealing the final exit taken by Black Jack, Marie-Helene, and Jimmie Bunkins. They would have emerged in the mews out beyond the back hedges. There, Black Jack’s coach-and-four would have awaited them and taken them away to Black Jack’s Island Prince, which he had kept moored somewhere in Wapping. And from there, you could be certain, they would have sailed on the morning tide.

  Then, interrupting my ruminations, came the sound of voices from the front of the house. The door slammed. I heard footsteps echoing hollowly in the hall, just as mine had done only a few minutes before. By the sound of them there were but two men. If they were burglars or looters I resolved that I would chase them away. As the footsteps approached, I moved swiftly into the hall and, with pistol drawn, challenged them to identify themselves.

  One of them, well-dressed and properly bewigged, stepped forward and announced himself as William Slade. He looked familiar, and the name, too, struck a certain chord in my memory. Who was he?

  “I am the owner of this house,” said he. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

  I gave him my name and explained my errand. As I did so, I took note of the man beside Mr. Slade. He, too, looked familiar, and it did not take me more than a moment to identify him. He was the one I had seen in the King’s Pleasure in company with Arthur Lee. And Slade? Still I was unsure of his exact identity, yet ever so certain that our paths had crossed previously.

  I tucked the pistol away in its holster, which seemed to ease matters considerably between us.

  “I should have known that Mr. Bilbo would sell this house rather than simply desert it,” said I. “They have gone then?”

  “On the morning tide. He could be anyplace within a hundred miles by now.”

  “So he could,” said I. “I believe that we have met before, sir.” At last it had come to me.

  “Oh? That could be, I suppose.”

  “Weeks past you were alone in Mr. Bilbo’s gaming house one afternoon and were kind enough to help me find him.”

  “Ah, so It was,” said he. “Now I recall. ” I was not at all sure that he really did.

  “Since then, as I understand, you bought the gaming club from him. And now I find that you are the new owner of this house, as well.”

  “So I did, and so I am.” He seemed to be growing impatient with me.

  “And you, sir,” said I to him I had seen in the King’s Pleasure, “are you not the one they call the ‘Duke’?”

  The two exchanged glances of an uneasy sort. And did I perhaps detect a slight negative shake of the head from Mr. Slade?

  “Aw, I don’t know,” said he in a thick London accent. “A body gets called one thing and another. I’ve no notion what name I might be given from one day to the next.”

  “And you are properly named … ?”

  Another signal from Slade: an all but unnoticeable affirmative nod.

  “Isaac Kidd.”

  “I’ve heard it said, sir, that you run a game of chance in one of the cellars along Bedford Street,” said I. “I’ve been known to try my luck now and again. Perhaps I might do so at your table.”

  “Aw no, young sir. I fear you’re mistaken, so I do. I run no such games, nor would I ever wish to in such surroundings.”

  “I can certainly understand that,” said I, “but — “

  “Mr. Kidd is a business associate of mine,” said Slade. “We have worked together for many a year. I can vouch for him.”

  “Oh, there be no need for any to vouch. I simply thought that — “

  Again he interrupted: “As I said I have bought this house and am now in the process of taking possession of it, which is to say, I must do a walk-through and take note of any and all items left or out of proper order. Much as we would like to talk further with you, Mr. Proctor, we must get on with it. Now if you will excuse us?”

  “Certainly, sir, and I thank you for putting up with my questions and satisfying my curiosity.”

  With that I bowed low and allowed them to pass.

  Upon my return to Number 4 Bow Street, I sought out Sir John to tell him what I had heard and seen in the course of my travels back and forth through London. Having thought through my presentation as I made my return, I offered it all to Sir John more or less in a single telling, tying that which I had learned regarding Albert Calder to my chance meeting with Isaac Kidd and Mr. Slade in the house in St. James’s Street.

  The magistrate sat, considering all that I had said. Then, of a sudden, he sat up and slapped the top of his desk.

  “Well, there, you see?” said he. “We have our mapmaker.”

  “Our … mapmaker, sir?”

  “Why yes, we agreed, didn’t we, that our burglars would have required a map of some sort in order to go direct to the study? Who knows what greater support he may have given them?”

  “But if Albert Calder were one of them, why was he then killed?”

  “Surely that should be obvious to you, Jeremy. Perhaps they feared he would snitch on them. It is always an advantage to burglars to have a man on the inside. Yet, as is so often said, dead men tell no tales.”

  “Admittedly,” said I, “Calder had the motive and the opportunity to pass on to Skinner and Ferguson — through Isaac Kidd — a plan of the house and other details that would have been necessary or merely helpful in the commission.”

  “Indeed,” said Sir John, “your man Kidd, the ‘Duke’ as he is called, no doubt put it to Calder that his debt — which must have been considerable, would be forgiven if only he would cooperate in the burglary.”

  “That’s as I myself supposed. But really, did he have any better motive or opportunity than Dr. Franklin? “

  “Ah, back with him again, are we? “

  “Indeed! Don’t forget that when Albert Calder was dealt that death-blow, he had a pistol in hand, and it seemed to be pointed directly
at the one behind the desk — which is to say, at the burglar, or one of them.”

  “Don’t forget, you say? What do you take me for?”

  “What do I take you for? ” said I, boldly. “Well, I must confess that ‘stubborn’ is the word that leaps to mind.”

  “‘Stubborn,’ is it? ‘Stubborn,’ indeed! How come you to such a conclusion?”

  “How can I avoid it? You refuse to pursue the possibility of Dr. Franklin’s involvement in the burglary. And now, for some reason quite incomprehensible to me, you seem also reluctant to pursue the matter of the late Mr. Calder’s guilt.”

  “Well, Jeremy,” said he, “the reason which you find so incomprehensible is, in fact, the same in both cases.”

  “It is? How do you mean?”

  “Well, I take it you have decided that I should charge or bring in for questioning this fellow Isaac Kidd as well as Arthur Lee — Kidd to establish the connection between the burglars and Albert Calder, and Arthur Lee to establish the link between the burglars and Franklin. Is that correct?”

  I gave that but a moment’s thought and agreed. But then did I add: “Truly, they all fit together, do they not? ‘Tis only a question of which provided the plan to the house and other information helpful to Skinner and Ferguson, is it not?”

  “We are not there yet,” said he, cautioning me. “The point is that none of them can be charged on the basis of what we now know — not even Skinner and Ferguson. What you have constructed, Jeremy, is a theory of the crime, and a rather good one it is. In other words, it all may have happened just as you suggest. But as for questioning any of them about it, why tip our hand? We don’t wish them to know what we suspect but can’t prove, do we?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Rather than bring it to a boil, we would do better to let the pot simmer for a bit, don’t you think so?”

  Reluctantly, I conceded the point to him.

  This spirited conversation took place in Sir John’s chambers upon my return from the fool’s errand on which I had been sent. I told him all I had learned whilst supposedly searching for Black Jack and Marie-Helene. Sir John knew, of course, even more certainly than I, that the two would not be present when I went to fetch them from that grand house in St. James’s Street, though it was news to us both that in addition to Mr. Bilbo’s gaming club William Slade had also purchased the former’s residence. And it was, indeed, news in which Sir John took considerable interest.

  “What was your estimate of this man Slade?” he asked me as I made ready to leave.

  “I was not favorably impressed,” said I. “He seems rather a slippery sort to me, but I daresay he seems also to have limitless money.”

  “Indeed he does. I fear we’ll be hearing more from him in the future.”

  “And I fear you’re right.”

  “Jeremy, I have one more task for you, and a rather onerous one it is. Still, if I’m to report this properly to the Lord Chief Justice, we must cover every possibility.”

  “Have I neglected something?”

  “The Island Prince,” said he. “I think you should go down to Wapping and confirm that Black Jack’s sloop did actually depart early today.”

  Sighing, I said, “All right.” Perhaps I even let out a bit of a groan.

  “It’s a bother, I know, but it must be done. Take a hackney to and from. Try to get the name of a witness and an estimated time of departure for the vessel.” He paused. “I’ll not need you further after your return, which is just as well, for you’ll no doubt need the rest of the day to prepare for your evening.”

  “What evening is that?” I knew not quite what he had in mind.

  “Why, your trip to the theatre. Don’t you recall? I’ve engaged you and Clarissa to chaperone Molly and Mr. Donnelly. Are you up to it?”

  To make quick of it, my journey to Wapping established that the Island Prince was no longer moored at the slip that had previously been her London home. And I managed to draw from one Ebenezer Tarkenton, wharfmaster, testimony to the effect that the sloop had sailed at 7:06 in the morning. He was able to be quite exact in this by consulting the wharfmaster’s log. Destination? Timbuktu — or so said his log. That seemed no more than a thumb of Mr. Bilbo’s nose at all who might think to pursue him.

  I returned with this information for Sir John, and, having delivered it, made straightaway upstairs to prepare for the evening’s entertainment. Only Molly was there in the kitchen, running about this way and that, doing her valiant best to cook an evening meal for Sir John and Lady Fielding before the rest of us left for the theatre. I greeted her and made an attempt at conversation but was properly rebuffed.

  “Oh, Jeremy,” said she, sounding a bit desperate, “I’d like to talk, but I can’t. Lady F. will soon be here, and I must have all ready for them before I can even think about readying myself.” And so it was brought home to me that I must also hurry — if only to get into the proper spirit of the evening. I washed well, shaved, and daubed myself here and there with rosewater, so that I was at that moment quite the cleanest and sweetest-smelling I had ever been in my life. As I was pulling on my cleanest shirt, I heard Clarissa arrive with Lady Fielding. She immediately ran for the room she shared with Molly that she might also make ready. The long and short of it is that we three were all ready and waiting some time before seven whilst there was still light enough to walk cross the Piazza to the Covent Garden Theatre in complete safety — or so Mr. Donnelly declared as he started us on our way.

  We arrived in time for curtain and were seated most immediately in seats provided for us, we were informed, by the pla3rwright, Mr. Goldsmith. He, Mr. Donnelly’s fast friend, had put at our disposal an entire box and left word that he would join us after the performance. Molly was much impressed.

  For our part, Clarissa and I were more impressed by the play Mr. Goldsmith had written. We agreed later that She Stoops to Conquer; or, The Mistakes of the Night was quite the funniest comedy we had ever seen or ever read. The very walls of the theatre (larger than Garrick’s Drury Lane, though not so well-designed) did shake with laughter only minutes after the performance had begun, and they did continue to shake until it was done. Clarissa and I walked about the lobby during the two intermissions, at first discussing the matter of the play in a manner most sober and in suitably serious tones. Yet twice did we conclude this exercise by reminding each other of the funniest lines and silliest situations in what we had just seen — and then how we would laugh!

  We came back giggling from the second of these outings, only to find our two companions staring silently and deeply one into the other’s eyes. He held her hand between his own. They appeared to have been discussing the very deepest questions, yet as we made our noisy entrance we saw and noted how they pulled away most quickly and how guiltily they did welcome us back to the box.

  After the final curtain, just as the cast was bowing to the enthusiastic applause of the audience, Mr. Goldsmith made his appearance in our box. Yet he barely paused to say hello, so rushed was he. He went straight to the railing, where he stood for a moment, tall and proud. I glanced down at the stage and only then did I begin to understand: The actor who had played Tony Lumpkin (and had made us laugh most) stepped forward and, with a broad, sweeping gesture, pointed up to our box, where Mr. Goldsmith waited. The audience, which had applauded the cast so generously, now turned to our box and clapped ceaselessly for the pla3rwright, standing and cheering. The members of the cast upon the stage applauded him — and so, of course, did we in the box. Oliver Goldsmith waved to all, accepting the tribute gracefully, if perhaps not humbly. The happy racket ended, and the honored playwright seated himself in our midst. He heaved a great sigh. During introductions, I noticed that he sweated profusely, either from extreme exertion or the drinking of spirits. His face shone red in the candlelight. I could see that what Mr, Donnelly said of him was true: He was not a well man. Nevertheless, he was one of the most entertaining of all in London.

  “Almost didn’t
make it this time, ” said he. “A fellow tried to rob me on my way over from Bedford Street. I brushed him aside. ‘Haven’t got time to be robbed,’ says I, ‘sorry.’ ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ says he, ‘I’ll catch you on the way back. “

  That won a proper laugh from us — but Mr. Donnelly was curious.

  “Nolly, you say you almost didn’t make it this time. Do you get such applause at each performance?”

  “I have so far,” said Mr. Goldsmith. “Isn’t it marvelous? I only wish David Garrick were present to hear it.”

  “Can he not come?” I asked. “Is he ill? “

  “No, he would not come — for I have proven him wrong in rejecting my first play, The Good Natur’d Man. Oh, it was not near as good as this one you’ve just seen, but it was good enough for him. Turning it down was one thing, but to say, or at least imply, that I would never be a playwright! No need for that.”

  “No need indeed!” said Mr. Donnelly.

  “Ah, but I’ll not dwell upon it. No need for that.” He then looked round at us and tapped his head knowingly. “I’ve an idea,” said he. “Let’s all of us be off for a meal of turtle soup.”

  “Turtle soup?” echoed Molly. “Can you make a meal of it?”

  “You’ll make a meal of John Twigg’s turtle soup, for there’s none can eat a bowl of it without wishing a second. It’s thick enough to stand a spoon in it. And good? Good’s not good enough for it, and delicious won’t do. Why, I’ll have to coin a new word for it. But come, why delay when such delights await us only steps away from this theatre? I have reserved a private dining room for us. You’ll not be disappointed, I promise.”

  “What is the name of this most marvelous eating place? ” asked Clarissa.

  “Why, child,” said Mr. Goldsmith, “it is Shakespeare’s Head tavern and naught else.”

  Now, I had often heard the Shakespeare’s Head discussed, but never in quite such glowing terms as Mr. Goldsmith’s. I had been there once or twice and had eaten Twigg’s turtle soup, and while it was all he claimed it to be, it was not primarily for turtle soup that the place was known. Shakespeare’s Head was one of Covent Garden’s notorious meeting places for prostitutes and their clients. True enough, it was not near so infamous as the places in Bedford Street, and that was because it was attended by a higher class of whore. Nevertheless, it did have quite a jolly reputation of the wrong sort.