Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

  “Is he so terrible?”

  “No, but he inspires awe in everyone.”

  “Pooh!”

  “Very well, Miss Pooh,” said I. “My purpose was to search this room, and search it I shall. You may sit down in that chair while I do” —I pointed to the only chair in the room — “or you may continue to stand where you are. But do not try to prevent me.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “A caution.”

  I must have managed to intimidate her at least a little, for she said nothing as I set about my task. She remained standing. Out of the corner of my eye I kept check upon her, lest she make some sudden dash for the door. In truth, there was not much there to search. I looked beneath the bed, first of all, and found naught but a trundle bed —for Miss Pooh, as I perceived, though no doubt a good fit for her in her present proportions. The wardrobe had little but Roundtree s greatcoat, which he had foolishly left behind, the pockets empty, and a suit of clothes for a boy of about the age of Miss Roundtree — and a second frock, which it seemed would fit her as ill as the one she wore. The curtained closet contained no more than a nightgown, a shift, and a smelly chamber pot.

  “This pot could use an emptying,” said I to her.

  “You go too far!” said she.

  And probably she was right.

  I went to the chest of drawers which I had knocked over in the course of my entrance into the room, righted it, and pulled out the topmost of the two drawers. Then did she fly at me.

  “You’ve no right to look in there. That is my drawer.”

  I grabbed at her shoulder and held her at arm’s length.

  “All the more reason to look,” said I. “If Thomas Roundtree wished to sequester something, he might indeed mix it with things of your own.”

  “What is it you’re looking for?”

  “Something that will tell me where he is hid —since you will tell me nothing.”

  She shrugged loose from my grip and stalked away. “Go ahead, then. Look, if you must. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  And so I turned my attention to the drawer. Beneath mended hose and undergarments there were trinkets inside, though no more than any girl of her age might keep. I found an odd-shaped stone which glittered of crystal where it was broke and a feather from a falcon’s wing. There was a chain and locket; I opened the locket and found the delicate cameo of a woman, perhaps her mother. A doll with a broken china head was there, too. And I found three romances of precisely the kind I had suspected she read. No doubt she was better educated than her father; he, I supposed, was illiterate. I closed the drawer, feeling a bit guilty that I had pried into her collection of treasures.

  “My father made that chest/’ said she. “He is a great craftsman and can build near anything.”

  “So he says.”

  “In a while he will furnish a house for us in grand style.”

  “In a while he will be in gaol.”

  “Don’t jay that!” she shouted at me.

  “Well …” That was rather rude of me, I decided, quite uncalled for. “Then perhaps not. He has not yet pled his case before Sir John.”

  I knelt and opened the bottom drawer. It was all a jumble of worn hose, dirty linen, a neckcloth stiff with dried sweat, a few wipes, and a lally. It was the more filled of the two drawers, but beneath all there was little to be found but a knife with a broken blade and a collection of paper slips tied together with a bit of wine. I slipped one out for closer examination. There was a number writ upon it, a sum in shillings, and a signature scrawled upon it, no more than initials —an “M” and something else, quite indecipherable.

  “You leave those alone,” said Clarissa Roundtree. She made to sound bold, even threatening.

  “What are they?”

  “Never you mind. Just put them back,” she ordered.

  “You must tell me what they are, or I shall take them with me and show them about until I learn what they are.”

  There was silence from her as she considered my threat. Then at last did she speak up: “They’re pawning tickets is what they are. He’s had to pawn a few things for ready money. We’ll have them all back soon, though.”

  “Oh? You’re sure of that?”

  “Sure as I can be.” She said it with certainty to match her claim. “We shall be coming into money before long.”

  “I daresay one of these is for the vase stolen from the residence of the Lord Chief Justice.”

  “I know naught of any vase,” said she, then pursed her lips in a manner somewhat exaggerated as if to demonstrate her silence.

  “Do you know the location of the pawnshop?”

  “No.”

  “Never been there with him, have you?”

  “No.”

  Perhaps she was lying, and perhaps she was not. But if she was King, I knew of no way to force the truth out of her. And with that came the realization that to question her further would be only a waste of my time. I had come here to search the place, and I had done that. Now I had best be on my way to Mr. Bilbo’s. But then, as I was about to take my leave, something occurred to me: it was a matter of what I had not found in the course of my search.

  “You’ve neither food nor money here,” said I to her.

  “That is a matter that doesn’t concern you,” said she. “This room is paid up to the end of the month, so I have every right to be here. As for how and what I eat, well …” She hesitated. “My father provided for me in the past. He’ll do it in the future.”

  “Your father is a fugitive. He ran from me because he had not ten shillings to pay his fine. He had no money at all. I know he has been back here at least once, yet he left you nothing. When last did you eat?”

  “That is a matter that doesn’t concern you, either.”

  “Well and good,” said I, dipping into my pocket and pulling out a few shillings from my store. I counted out three and laid them atop the chest. “If you are as destitute as you seem and as hungry as you look, then you may take this and feed yourself and perhaps buy a little coal to warm this place a bit.”

  I smiled at her, expecting thanks. I received none. There was naught to do but leave, and so that was what I did, moving briskly through the door and pulling it shut behind me, tight as it would go. I lingered there for a moment and, as I expected, heard the chest slide across the floor until it bumped up against the door.

  Turning up St. James Street, I had the feeling that I would be arriving at my destination a bit later than I had intended. It was, of course, due to wasting time in Half-Moon Passage, asking useless questions. I had learned nothing—or so it then seemed to me. That silly girl who would be tortured rather than betray her shiftless father (tortured! what a notion!) had not even the grace to thank me for providing the means to sustain her wretched life a little longer. (Like so many others, reader, at that time in my life I performed good deeds in large part to receive the gratitude of others; if it was not forthcoming, I felt no little cheated.)

  Thus I arrived at Black Jack Bilbo’s domicile in a somewhat sullen state, unsure that I should find Annie there still, uncertain that Mr. Burnham would be available for a consultation, for as Bunkins had told me, he often took a midday walk when morning lessons were done. I rapped hard upon the door with the great brass knocker, and very shortly afterward Jimmie Bunkins threw open the door.

  “Hello, chum,” said he. “You look right done in. What’s got you down?” He beckoned me inside.

  “Oh,” said I, “naught that I wish to discuss at the moment. It’d take long to explain and embarrass me in the telling.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. As I stepped inside, I heard the sound of music in a room not far off. It was Annie singing one of those ballads she knew so well, this the very ancient one known to me by the name of “Greensleeves.” Yet in this instance I heard her accompanied upon a harpsichord —no more than chords struck and improvised bits beneath the sung melody. Whether it be the accompaniment or no, it cheered me to hear her sing so, for
in truth, she never sounded better.

  “Rightyou are,” said Bunkins with a wink. “It’s your Annie. She’s a proper chirrupin’ moll, ain’t she? I’d no idea of it. That’s Mr. Burnham playing alongside. He’s right taken with her, he is, says she got a talent for it.”

  How this had come about, I later learned, was that Annie had brought with her the music and text of the Ode for St. Cecilia d Day and asked if Mr. Burnham might teach her Dryden’s words that she might commit them to memory rather than go la-la-la-ing through the text as she had done before. He allowed this might be possible, depending upon her rote powers, but that he would first like to test her voice. And so, the morning lessons completed, he had taken her into the drawing room, seated himself at the harpsichord, and asked her to sing what she knew best; he followed rather than led her. Bunkins came along and provided them with an audience of one. Mr. Burnham was well satisfied by what he heard.

  The two had moved on to another as Bunkins led me into the drawing room. We proceeded upon tiptoes and caused no disturbance as we settled ourselves on soft chairs at the far end of the room. Annie, with her back to us, gave no notice at all to our arrival. Mr. Burnham offered nothing more than a discreet nod. Her song was now one of Scotch origin, “Barbara Allan.” How she came to learn it I’ve no idea, for I’d not heard her sing it before. She had so many songs and ballads in her head that it seemed her supply was quite inexhaustible.

  It went on a bit, as Scotch ballads will do, yet when they came together at last to the end, Mr. Burnham struck a final chord, then rose from his seat at the harpsichord.

  “That will do very well, Miss Oakum,” said he, smiling generously. “1 should like you to leave your copy of the score with me. I shall need it to learn the piece after a fashion, for as I said to you, to learn the text without the music is both foolish and dangerous.”

  “Oh, Mr. Burnham, I do thank you so,” said she.

  “And now your friend Jeremy is here to accompany you home, I believe.”

  At that she turned round in surprise and found me there with Bunkins. “Jeremy, how long have you been there? Just as quiet as a mouse, I swear!”

  “Not long,” said I, “though long enough to hear you sing one I’d never heard before.”

  “I know them all,” said she, laughing quite heartily. “Shall I get my cape?”

  “Please do.”

  As she made her way quickly out of the drawing room, I went direct to Mr. Burnham and without preamble asked if he had come to a decision on Annie. “Will you take her on as a scholar, sir?”

  “That will be my great pleasure,” said he. “She has a quick mind and is hungry to learn. And like so many who have good minds but are ignorant of letters, she has a remarkable memory. I do believe I can teach her the St. Cecilia d text before she can properly read it.”

  “She’s learned a good bit of Shakespeare in just that way, sir.”

  “And I understand you taught her. She said you began her instruction in reading.”

  “Oh, I was nothing as a teacher. I haven’t the patience for what you do so well.”

  “Perhaps you taught her better than you think. You gave her a good start. It should not be long until she has caught Master Bunkins up.”

  “And what about you, Jimmie B.?” I asked, turning to him. “Will she do for you, too?”

  “No question,” said he. “She’s a rum one. Make me work harder, but there’s still a thing or two I can teach her.”

  “And as you know, of course,” said Mr. Burnham to me, “she has quite a talent for singing —though I understand that her heart is set upon the stage.”

  “Oh, she’s told you that already, has she?”

  “Oh yes.”

  So it was decided —but for one matter: “Sir John said that he would be willing to pay for her tuition, within reason, of course.”

  “Ah yes, well, Mr. Bilbo has been so generous, providing me with salary, room, and board, so that I have both my needs and wants taken care of. You have heard Master Bunkins say that her presence will make him work harder. That should be payment enough for me. You may tell Sir John Fielding that I shall require nothing from him for the present, though in the future there will be charges for books and such like.”

  I was quite struck by his generosity. “Oh, I will, sir. I shall tell him that. And may I take this opportunity to thank you for him. He …” I hesitated. “He is not a rich man.”

  “No, but I have heard he is a just one.”

  There was little I could say to that, and as it turned out, nothing was needed, for at that moment Annie’s voice rang forth from the rear of the room.

  “Ready to go, Jeremy.”

  She stood in the drawing room doorway, caped, a great smile upon her face.

  “And I am, as well,” said I.

  Then, thanking Mr. Burnham once more and grabbing up my scarf from the chair where I had left it, I made my way out. Bunkins accompanied us to the great door to the street. As he hauled it open, he detained me for a moment.

  “Just one thing, chum,” said he. “You remembers that thing we looked at in St. Andrew’s Churchyard? It’s been took down. They said it was going rotten. It’s now with that surgeon fella you know —the Irishman.”

  “Mr. Donnelly?”

  “That’s him. He’s got it in gin, which is said to keep it longer. I’d like to take another look at that mug, for I’m still sure I know that cod from somewheres. Would you take me there to have another look? Tell him I’m not some queer joe looking for a shiver?”

  “Right you are, Jimmie B. Let me know when.”

  “In a day or two. I’ll send word by Annie.”

  “Fair enough.”

  With that and a goodbye, I left him at the door. Annie waited upon the walkway, still beaming a smile broad as her face. We fell into step together, marching down St. James Street toward Pall Mall.

  “I have good news for you,” said I.

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  “Mr. Burnham has agreed to take you on as a scholar.”

  “Oh … well … I knew he would do that.” That she said in a most airy and dismissive manner, as if it could not have been otherwise.

  “Oh, you did, did you? And what made you so sure?”

  “We hit it off remarkable well, I would say, right from the start.” She seemed most pleased with herself. “Best of all,” she added, “he has offered to teach me the St. Cecilia d text.”

  “So I heard.”

  “He said I have talent as a singer.”

  “So did Lady Fielding. So did the choirmaster.”

  “Oh, I know, but …”

  “But what?”

  “Nothing.”

  What ailed Annie that she had suddenly begun acting and talking so queer? For near two years past, once that matter of Tom Durham was behind her, she had proved to be the very paragon of good sense. Now she was acting both smug and mysterious. What had got into the girl?

  “Jeremy?”

  “Yes? What is it?” I sounded a bit snappish, even to myself.

  “You did not tell me that Mr. Burnham was African.”

  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it should matter. Does it? Do you mind?”

  “I? Mind? Why, Jeremy, you’re bein’ quite ridiculous!”

  She was becoming more exasperating with each pronouncement. What might I say to her? Perhaps this: “Besides, Annie, he’s only half African, the other half being Shropshire English.”

  “Well, he look* African.”

  “And speaks as a proper English gentleman.”

  “Yes,” said she with a sigh, “isn’t it remarkable? He does remind me so of Othello.”

  My report to Sir John upon my visit to the room of Thomas Roundtree was not delivered until well into the afternoon. His court session intervened, and following that he was cloistered in his chambers with his clerk, Mr. Marsden, for an examination of the court accounts. A financial report on the year past was due by the end of t
he month at the office of the Lord Chief Justice. I waited patiently, seated upon the bench outside Sir John’s door, until at last they were done. When Mr. Marsden emerged, he offered me a nod, and I jumped at my opportunity and rapped at the door left open.

  “Who is there?”

  “It is I, Jeremy. I’ve something odd to relate.”

  “Then come, by all means. I’ve had quite enough of pounds, shillings, and pence for one day. Tell me a story, and be it rum or queer, you shall have me till it be done.”

  And so tell him I did, leaving out little or nothing. I described my surprise at finding the door to Roundtree’s room barricaded, and my greater surprise at discovering his daughter within. Clarissa Roundtree I described to the life and gave what was virtually a verbatim report upon our conversation, such as it was. Nor did I fail to mention the three shillings I had left for her upon the chest.

  “You will be recompensed for that,” said he to me when I had done. “It is in our interest to keep her alive, healthy, and in that room. You have only to ask Mr. Marsden for your three shillings.”

  “Thank you, Sir John. Perhaps more should be given her.”

  “Oh, I think not. Three shillings should keep her tidy enough for a week or more.”

  “I was thinking, sir,” said I, “that if I were to wait within sight of that court building in Half-Moon Passage, this fellow Roundtree would eventually appear on a visit to his daughter.”

  “Yes, but he might take days in coming. And suppose he did appear —unless you wore pistols you would have no way to enforce your order to proceed quietly to Bow Street. If you were to wear them —and in this instance I should forbid it, but only suppose you had them by your side—then if he chose to disobey, you would be faced again with the choice of shooting him or allowing him to run. I would not want you to have that choice again, for you might this time choose to shoot.”

  “I might indeed be able to subdue him with a club.”

  “You might, then again you might not. This time he may be armed, for all you know. Besides, you lack the authority to arrest, and I refuse to give it you, even on a temporary basis.”

  “Perhaps I could wait with a constable, and when I identified Roundtree, then he could be properly detained.”