“Yes, it concerns the illness of Mr. Marsden. I visited him just this morning.”
“He has that new thing, influenza, hasn’t he? How is he?”
“He is a very sick man.”
“Truly? But I had heard that in its symptoms it was quite like a catarrh.”
“Well, that is in some sense correct. But there are important differences. For one thing, it is highly contagious. For another, while the symptoms are tike a catarrh, they are very much stronger. Influenza can kill.”
“Oh my, I’d no idea,” said I.
“Indeed, ” said he. “I wore a kerchief mask over my face and advised the woman caring for him to take the same precaution. I can do little for him, except to make sure that he takes plenty of water. He sweats so that he is in danger of drying out completely. I gave him a bit of cinchona bark to control the sweating. ” He sighed. “We shall see.”
“Indeed, I shall hope for the best.”
I tucked the letter away and made ready to go, but then a thought occurred to me, and I stopped.
“Mr. Donnelly, I’ve a question for you. When I returned from a task Sir John put me to, dinner had begun, and everyone at table was acting most peculiar. None spoke all through the meal, and it seemed that everyone there knew something I did not. Do you have any notion what that was all about?”
“Hmmm … well … yes, I suppose I do.” He seemed reluctant to discuss it, made uncomfortable by the matter.
“Oh, and one more thing,” said I. “Clarissa was not even there at dinner. I asked after her, and Lady Fielding told me that Clarissa was ‘indisposed.’ An odd sort of expression, don’t you think — ‘indisposed,’”
“Indeed, it’s one that women often use to prevent further inquiries.”
“What sort of inquiries?”
“The kind you re making of me right now.” He frowned angrily. “Oh, bloody hell,” said he, “why shouldn’t you hear about it? Why should you be kept in the dark? And I daresay you’d be more likely to get an accurate version of what happened from me than from anyone else.”
“What did happen? What is this all about?”
He heaved a sigh and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to think where he might best begin.
“Well,” said he. “When Clarissa came out of Number 4 without you, I sensed that there might be trouble, though I’ve no idea why I should have had that feeling. Everyone was quite well-behaved on the way to Vauxhall Gardens.”
“And afterward?”
“Well, yes, up to a point. Molly had brought a basket of dainties and cakes, which she had cooked that morning, and I contributed a bottle of claret. We had a grand time of it, eating and drinking in the fresh air beneath the trees, some of which had yet half their leaves. And right pretty they were, too — all particolored, brown and red, and in some corners there were remnants of the fall flowers, blooming still.. There were not many besides us there in the gardens, and so we may not have carried on as we did in other circumstances …”
“You mean eating, drinking, and making merry? “
“Well … no … you see, Molly and I became carried away by the happy occasion, and fell to kissing and fondling. Not indecently, you understand, but I must say, a bit passionately. And I fear we offered Clarissa and Tom rather a bad example. You must understand, Jeremy, that the Irish lack the reserve of the English, and — “
“Do sir, please, get on with your story,” said I, interrupting.
“What? Oh yes, sorry. Well, what then happened was that Clarissa and Tom went off to walk amongst the trees. That, in any case, is what she called to us as they left; I believe that she was somewhat embarrassed by our carrying-on, and wished to leave us to our amorous play. As for Tom Durham, it seems to me he must have had base motives in mind right from the start. Or perhaps Clarissa’s intentions were not the highest either, for in truth she had been flirting rather shamelessly with Tom from the moment we left Number 4 Bow Street. So in that sense, you might say that she brought it upon herself.” Mr. Donnelly let forth a great, deep sigh. Then, with a shake of his head, he added, “There you have it.”
“There I have what? You have not told me what the it is that I now have. What happened, sir?”
He was driving me quite to distraction, circling round and round, and shying from any sort of direct statement. I believe I preferred the silence of the dinner table to this.
“In truth, Jeremy, I’m not quite sure what it was,” said he. “All I can tell you is that some minutes after they had left our sight, we heard a cry for help. Molly identified the voice as that of Clarissa. We went running out to find them, and we did not need to go far before we did. They were just off the path, secluded somewhat in the grove of trees — though not actually hidden.” And having said thus much, he stopped.
“Well, go on, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. I’ve just taken a moment to find the right words. It is important, as you well know, to describe only what you have seen in such situations. What did I see, precisely? I saw Tom atop Clarissa, and she bellowing for all she was worth. I assure you that when I pulled him off her, he had not exposed himself, nor were his clothes in disarray. Yet clearly, his intentions were not honorable — or at least that was how Clarissa interpreted them. Hence, her cry for help. I believe it would be accurate to say that Tom Durham had made an improper advance.”
“I daresay,” said I. “At least that.”
“No, no more than that, I can assure you. Tell me, Jeremy, how old is Tom?”
“No more than nineteen. He is but a year older than I.”
“During my time in the Navy,” said Mr. Donnelly, “I knew many such as he. Boys they were, and little more than that. In matters of maturity you are years older than he. You know how to conduct yourself in the great world. You have met men of importance which Tom will only hear of during his lifetime. More important, however, you have learned, partly by observation and partly — I should think — through Clarissa, just how to get along with women. Whereas, a fellow such as Tom, because he spends most of his life aboard ship and in the company of men, will no doubt ever be awkward with females. Because he suffers the same storms of passion that all boys do, he will be the prey of prostitutes and courtesans who will flatter him and cozen him till his head spins. Only much later, should he be lucky enough to advance in the Navy, as he probably will, and reap the rewards of command, he will find a wife who will bring with her a considerable dowry and very little else. He will, in other words, likely go through life, from beginning to end, never once guessing the great secret that all wise men must learn: that in most of the ways that matter, women are not much different from men.”
I knew not quite what to say. I knew well that Gabriel Donnelly was given to philosophizing, but I had never got quite so much of it from him in a single dose. There was much there that I might disagree with, particularly that major conclusion of his (so I thought and still think). Yet I also felt that this was neither the time nor the place to do so. I would put but one more question to him.
“What happened afterward?”
“After what?”
“Why, after you had rescued Clarissa.”
“We went back, of course. There was no resuming our carefree mood after that, now was there?”
“I suppose not.”
“On our return, however, Tom rode beside me — not a word passed between us — and the ladies in the back of the wagon. I know not what was said between them, for I could not hear them, but the two of them buzzed and whispered all the way back to Bow Street.”
That was truly the end of his story, for he did leave them there at Number 4, and then did he drive off and return the wagon and team to the stable in Half Moon Passage.
“One last question before I go, sir.”
“Well, ask it quickly. I must be off to my dinner, Jeremy.”
“Oh yes, sir. Could you give me the address of our Mr. Lee?”
“Arthur Lee?”
“Yes, with whom we traveled to Portsmouth.”
“Hmmm, no, no I can’t. I know the house, but not the number. You know the house, too, of course. It’s that one just beyond my old surgery in Tavistock Street. I met him there — I forget quite how — and thought him an interesting fellow. And — well, you know it, I’m sure.”
“Tsvo stories, red brick with a flat roof? “
“That’s the one. He’s on the second floor.”
“Thank-you, sir. Enjoy yourself, and give Mr. Goldsmith my best.”
With that, I dashed down to the ground floor and out the door. My wish to make contact with Arthur Lee was an afterthought. Considering that, as I made my way back to Bow Street, I thought it perhaps odd that I had had afterthoughts of any sort after having heard Gabriel Donnelly’s account of the disastrous outing in Vauxhall Gardens. I could tell myself that if I had been along, things would never have come to such a pass — and no doubt I would be right in that. Still, no real harm had been done to Clarissa, for which I thanked God and all the saints. And I suspected that I had chosen right in remaining to hear Sir John’s interrogation of Dr. Franklin. All that had happened, in truth, was that Tom Durham had disgraced himself. And that he had done on at least two other occasions during this single stay. Had ever a visit gone so poorly?
Upon my return, I was given a bit of news that did not in the least surprise me.
“Tom will be leaving us, ” said Lady Fielding. “He’ll be returning to Portsmouth a day early. We should like you to give us a hand with his baggage, Jeremy.”
I had no choice but to agree. Considering that to be the case, I believe I acquiesced quite gracefully. I got from her his time of departure, and ascertained that he would be returning, as he had come, with naught but his sea chest.
“Then,” said I to her, “there should be no need for me to take the barrow.”
“That is entirely up to you, Jeremy.”
“As you say. Lady Fielding.”
Forcing a smile, she left me there in the kitchen and made for the parlor, where Tom no doubt awaited her. Then did I hasten to the little room on the floor above, which Sir John named his “study.” He often sat in the dark there, dark and light being as one to him, but on this occasion the room was well lit, for near as I could tell, the meeting had just been adjourned. There I found him, in any case, alone in the room, a glum expression upon his face.
“Who is there? Is it you, Jeremy?”
“It is, Sir John, and I have that report on Mr. Marsden’s condition which Mr. Donnelly prepared.”
“Then read it me, will you?”
That I did, and I found it more pessimistic than I would have supposed from my conversation with the good doctor. In it, he stated his fear that the “influenza” might penetrate Mr. Marsden’s lungs, leaving him with pneumonia. He promised to keep a close watch upon the clerk and inform Sir John regularly regarding his condition.
“Not a good report, eh?”
“I should not call it that, no sir.”
“You’ll not mind then carrying on as you are now?”
“Sir?”
“In Mr. Marsden’s place.”
“Oh no, Sir John, I rather like it.”
“Good lad.” He took a moment to rub his temple. That seemed to portend a headache; they did not often come to him, but when they did, they were most severe. “I suppose you heard an account of this matter to do with Tom from Mr. Donnelly.”
“Uh … yes sir, I have.”
“I’ve no doubt that the version you got was more accurate than the one I heard. What with Molly Sarton leveling accusations at Tom, and Kate defending him like the good mother she has tried to be, I’d no notion of just who I ought to believe — probably neither. Well, he’s going back a day early. That will take care of the immediate problem.”
“Yes,” said I, “I heard of his leaving from Lady Fielding.”
“Why did she tell you?” he asked sharply.
“She requested I accompany them to carry Tom’s sea chest.”
“Let him carry his own. He’s caused naught but trouble since he came. Why should we give him comfort?”
Because I could think of no good answer to that, I held my peace.
“Surely you can think of something better to do with your time in the morning,” said he.
“What I would like to do would involve you.”
“In what way? What is it you wish me to do?”
“I should like you to interrogate Arthur Lee.”
“Arthur Lee? Who … ? Ah yes, I remember now. He’s the fellow you suspect of complicity with Franklin.”
“I’m sure of it,” said I. “He is the link between Franklin and the burglars. ‘Twas he who brought the letters to Franklin.”
“All right, bring him in then. But mind you, Jeremy, this will in no wise excuse you from your duties as Mr. Marsden’s substitute.”
“Agreed,” said I.
Having met Mr. Perkins at the appointed hour, I set off with him for the Globe and Anchor hostelry at which George Burkett lodged. It was indeed one of the best in the city. Lord Hillsborough had not stinted in bringing this thief-taker extraordinaire to London.
As we made our way round Covent Garden and down Southampton Street to the Strand, Mr. Perkins questioned me intently regarding our visitor from America. It was, to say the least, most unusual for Sir John to have aid forced upon him by any member of the government, including the Lord Chief Justice. To my knowledge, it had never before happened so. It was plain to me, though not from any remark made by Sir John, that he was unhappy with this development. Yet Benjamin Franklin’s public admission of his role in passing the letters back to his compatriots in the Massachusetts legislature had put the magistrate at such a disadvantage that he felt he could not, in spite of his feelings, strenuously object. Eventually, however, I felt certain he would take up the matter with Lord Mansfield.
Constable Perkins had also asked among the Bow Street Runners if there were any precedent for this and found that there was none. This disturbed him no little, and he brought it up to me early in our journey to the Globe and Anchor. He did so by putting a question to me.
“Who’s been the longest in service of all the Runners? ” he asked me of a sudden, quite apropos of nothing at all.
“That would no doubt be Mr. Bailey, would it not?” I responded.
“So I thought, as well,” said he. “But it turns out ‘twas Mr. Baker. He goes back to the days of Sir John’s brother.”
“Henry Fielding?”
“Was that his name? I guess it must have been. Anyway, he wasn’t always the gaoler. He started out just like the rest of us, as a runner, but it was way back in ‘52. But when I found this out, I went to him, you see, and I asked him straight out if he ever heard of Sir John — or his brother, for that matter — accepting help from an independent thief-taker or any such. And Mr. Baker says to me, no, he never heard of it. He says it’s been years since Sir John would even let a thief-taker into his courtroom, no matter how many witnesses he might have with him to back him up.”
“That’s right, as far as I can tell,” said I.
“That’s right as far as anyone can tell. So just answer me this, Jeremy. Why is it now he’s started taking help from such as this fella Burkett? Has he changed his mind all of a sudden, or what? Have they cut the Bow Street budget so deep that he’s going to let some of the constables go and throw open the door to these independent thief-takers? I don’t mind telKng you that some of us are a bit worked up about this.”
I hastened to assure him that there was no reason to worry at all. No, the Bow Street budget had not been cut. No, Sir John had never expressed to me any desire to let thief-takers in the back door, as it were. He was, so far as I knew, opposed to these private operators and their practices, on both moral and legal grounds. He had only praise for the Bow Street Runners and had often said that he only wished he could hire more like those now in the force.
“In short,”
said I to Mr. Perkins, “neither you nor any of the rest have anything to woriy about.”
“You’re sure of that, Jeremy?”
“Sure as I’m here walking beside you.”
“Then what’s this all about?”
With that, I began a hasty explanation of the matter of the Hutchinson letters, and their importance to the government; of the role played by Benjamin Franklin in it all; and the personal insult which their theft did constitute to Lord Hillsborough. I left out many important details, but I did manage to communicate to the constable the outline of the situation, and stress to him the awkward predicament in which Sir John now found himself.
“Ah well,” said the constable, “he should have told us.”
“No doubt he should, ” I said, “but he knows that he made a mistake with Franklin, and you know as well as I how he does hate to be caught in error.”
“Well, none of us likes that.”
Mr. Perkins fell silent then. We had thus reached the Strand. The Globe and Anchor lay just ahead by a street or two. Having walked with him oft through the city, I knew his pace, easy but steady; ‘twas the sort one might use to walk the whole night long — and that he often did. I liked him well — and indeed I should have, for I owed him much. As Sir John had provided my intellectual development. Constable Perkins had contributed much to my manhood. He, it was, who had shown me how I might walk these dark streets of London and fear no man.
“What’s he like?”
The constable asked it in a quiet voice, almost as if he feared he might be overheard. My mind was elsewhere. His question brought me back to the present.
“What’s who like?” I asked.
“This fellow — what’s his name? Burkett? The one who came all the way from America just to give us a hand.”
His irony was not lost on me.
“He’s big,” said I. “Just a shade below giant size.”
“Big, is he? In what way is he big? Is he seven feet in height? Is his chest thick as a fifty-gallon barrel? Does the ground tremble when he walks?”
“Well, he’s over six feet. I fear he’ll grow no taller than six and a half. His chest is more in the forty-gallon range. And whether or not he makes the ground tremble, I cannot say. But I did notice that he has a way of making people tremble wherever he goes.”
An Experiment in Treason Page 22