“I’m with you there,” said he. “She U too small. She must needs have someone help her, or do the job for her. I can’t see such a woman as that usin’ a knife or a dagger in such a manner as killed him, much less sawin’ off his head. And as for the tale she told, it’s a tale like any other —might be true, more likely not.”
“Something in its favor,” I suggested, “is its temporary nature. She cannot keep him there in Warwick forever. He must return someday soon.”
“True enough,” said Bunkins. “Could be she has a buyer for the shop. It’s an easy matter to write his name on a bill of sale and make it look like he wrote it hisself.”
“Can you say with certainty it is Bradbury’s head you viewed at Mr. Donnelly’s?”
“Not sure certain, no.”
“Well, nevertheless, I think you should go to Sir John with your suspicions and your uncertainties. Let him decide what is to be done.”
He gave that a moment’s thought, then shook his head in an emphatic negative. “Naw,” said he. “I ain’t ready yet. Let me nose around a bit more. It might be if I keep an eye on the shop, I’ll be able to figure out just who it is was in on it with her. Now don’t that make sense?”
I admitted that it did, particularly in that it was him who had put the name Bradbury to the head in the first place. It seemed he had every right to withhold his suspicions until they became something more. And so we parted at that — he off to his afternoon lessons from Mr. Burnham, and I to Bow Street. Though I could not say that I was entirely satisfied, I was at least prepared to admit that this was Bunkins s matter, and up to a point he had the right to handle it as he would.
Days passed. The week went. Lord Laningham would be buried with due pomp on Monday. Since Sir John heard nothing from Lady Laningham in the days leading up to the funeral, he assumed quite rightly that with her silence she had declined his request for an autopsy. Commenting upon this, he slyly revealed a possibility he had not earlier made clear, one I had not so much as considered.
I, who had seen the funeral procession while out on my morning errands, mentioned it to him as he left his court that day
He nodded slowly, signaling his understanding. “.And with him will be buried our chance to have a look inside him, whatever that might yield.”
“As you say, Sir John. It would take an unusual circumstance to dig him up again.”
“Lnusual indeed,” said he, “since all seem to be against it.” Then did he add: “You know, Jeremy, Lady Laningham assumed I suspicioned her nephew and Lord Laningham s heir, .Arthur Paltrow. I suggested that the server, who to this day has not come forward, might also have had the opportunity to alter the contents of the bottle of wine.”
“I do remember, yes sir,” said I, “but I have given some thought to it, and I must say to you that when Lord Laningham hailed the server and sent him off to bring the bottle of wine from his table, he seemed to choose the fellow quite at random. He took the one who was nearest at hand.”
“I had thought as much,” said he, “and would not have mentioned it to her at all, save for the troubling fact that so far none has admitted he was the one delivered the bottle to Lord Laningham. There is, however, yet another candidate for suspicion. Can you name the person?”
He had taken me by surprise. In truth I had given little consideration to the matter. I had had no reason to think beyond what had come out in his conversation with Lady Laningham. Why should I have? I became a bit flustered and could only stutter out my reply: “Why no, Sir John, I … I … I could not say.”
“Simply consider,” said he, “who would have the greater opportunity for poisoning the bottle — if indeed there were poison in it. Why, that would be Lady Laningham herself. She had access to the cellar, might even have chosen the bottles for the occasion. I, of course, refrained from mentioning this to her, for I wished to gain from her permission for an autopsy. The fact that it was never given, by the bye, counts against her.”
“But do you truly hold her suspect? What would be her motive for such an act?”
“Oh, perhaps she had a lover.”
“She is over threescore years.”
“Such prodigies of passion are known even among those of greater years. He was a tiresome old fool, or so I hear — perhaps she simply wished to be rid of him. But to address your first question, do I truly hold her suspect? The answer is no.”
“No?”
“No, she seemed to behave as one might when the possibility of poison is suggested. We must keep firmly in mind that it is merely a possibility that has been discussed. As for her silent no which was given our request for an autopsy, I daresay that had to do with matters of propriety, respect for the dead, et cetera, rather than any fear of discovery. I do not hold her suspect. I hold none suspect until poison be proven.”
“You’ve given me much to think about, sir,” said I.
“You must always think, Jeremy. Always consider all the possibilities.” He sighed. “Well, in any case, we shall have the opportunity to see them all again tomorrow evening.”
“We shall? I … hadn’t known.”
“Yes, Arthur Paltrow has insisted that the concert be given with the same program at the Crown and Anchor as a memorial to his uncle. No doubt he will have a speech to make. I doubt we shall see him drop dead in the course of it, however.”
“Perhaps the missing server will come forward and identify himself.”
“Perhaps,” said Sir John. “We shall see.”
Saturday was the day of the choir rehearsal which Annie had so dreaded. She dreaded it no longer, for she had been drilled in her part — music and text — by Mr. Burnham. It was late afternoon but growing dark when she left Lady Fielding in the kitchen with instructions on when the roast of mutton ought be taken from the oven. There was naught to fear, for Annie had prepared dinner but for the full roasting.
Because it was still light when she departed, it was judged safe for her to find her way to the Crown and Anchor alone. Yet I had been put on notice that in two hours’ time I was to follow her and conduct her back through the darkened streets. I passed the time reading, and at the appointed hour set out for the tavern to bring her along. I did note that when I passed through the kitchen the roast smelled right savory and ready to eat, but that Lady Fielding was nowhere to be seen.
I waited at the Crown and Anchor with a small crowd of other men and boys who had been sent, as I was, to see the ladies home. And waited indeed still longer than I had expected, for there were continuous stops, starts, and repetitions as the choirmaster drilled them all in every part over and over again. In truth I could not distinguish Annie’s voice from the rest of her sister sopranos, yet they did all sound good to me; the choirmaster, however, seemed to be satisfied with nothing less than perfection. As it was, he kept them all near an hour beyond what was expected.
Annie and I were resigned to cold mutton as we marched back to Bow Street. That seemed to bother her not in the least, however, for she hummed and sang her favorite parts of the Ode as we went and was in a most happy mood.
“Did we not sound glorious, Jeremy?” she burst forth at one point. (It seemed to me that even her diction had improved.)
“Indeed so many voices together do make a powerful sound.”
“And I sang well,” said she, “well as any. Did you notice the choirmaster spoke to me as I come down off the stage?”
“What was it he said?” For I had noticed and I was curious.
“He praised me for my preparation, said he wished all had worked as hard. It’s Mr. Burnham did all that for me—just a couple of hours every day is all it took. Ain’t he a good teacher? I mean, un’t he?”
She got from me the hearty agreement that she expected and that he most certainly deserved. Yet she paid it little mind as she rushed on.
“And do you know, Jeremy, he has promised to attend the concert tomorrow evening, that he might hear the results of his labors with me. He must sit at our table, of cour
se!”
I agreed that he must, but thought as I did so that the matter of his complexion might indeed cause the rest there some surprise. But again I reasoned with myself that it should not.
The roast was near an hour overdone, yet not quite ruined, for the fire I’d built and fed had burned to embers by the time Lady Fielding had returned, fearing the worst and full of apologies. She had been called out of a sudden to the Magdalene Home by an emergency: a new girl at the Home had got into a fracas, drawn a razor which she had concealed upon entering, and slashed two of the other girls before she was overcome by the rest. The news had so upset Lady Fielding that she flew out of Number 4 Bow Street without thinking to pull the mutton from the stove, or even inform me that she was leaving.
Sir John was most understanding, but suggested that it might be proper to send a constable to the Home to bring the girl in. “She should be charged with assault, Kate,” said he.
“Too late, Jack,” said she. “We have already expelled her from the premises—without her razor, of course.”
“And the two girls she cut?”
“Taken care of nicely by Mr. Donnelly.”
This conversation, which took place at the dinner table, was interrupted by Annie’s serving of the roast. She had done all that could be done with it, cutting away the charred parts, serving it forth sliced and chunked with a bit of brown sauce. Though it quite fell off the bone, there was flavor left in it, and it had the smell of a good roast still.
“Why, this is not bad, not bad at all,” said Sir John as he tasted it. “I confess that mutton is a meat I never much liked unless it be cooked clear through —overcooked, some might say. Let us all be glad the meal was saved and pray for the welfare of that girl sent out into the cold.”
“Jack, do you think … ?”
“You did what you had to do, Kate.”
There was a commotion at the door when Mr. Burnham sought entry to the ballroom of the Crown and Anchor. I had half expected something of the sort, and so had seated myself at our table in such a way as to have the entrance within view. When first I spied him I was up from my chair, hurrying over to conduct him to our party. By the time I reach him he was engaged in a wrangle with the ticket taker, one that might have quickly grown to something nastier, for Mr. Burnham was a man who knew his rights.
“You have my ticket, sir,” said he, as I arrived. “It is not counterfeit. It was bought and paid for, at a pretty price I might add, and now I demand entry.”
“Well, if you’d just wait till I — “
“Am I unsuitably dressed?” Aside from an earl or a duke, there was probably no better-dressed man in the room.
“No, no, it ain’t that, but if you’d just wait for the innkeeper to come. Maybe he’d—”
I tugged at the fellow’s sleeve, and with all the authority I could muster I sought to intimidate him.
“See here,” said I, “what is the difficulty?”
He took in my erect bearing, my steady gaze, and my grand bottle-green coat and was about to answer me quite respectfully, when Mr. Burnham let forth a mighty bellow.
“Or is it my color?”
I waved a plea of silence to him and addressed the ticket taker once again: “I am here,” said I, “to conduct this gentleman to the table of Sir John Fielding, where he is expected. This I propose to do. You may summon the innkeeper, if that is your wish. When he arrives, you may direct him to our table. Now-, if you will, Mr. Burnham, come right this way, sir.”
Reluctantly, the ticket taker stepped aside, and Mr. Burnham passed him without so much as a sidelong glance. Those at tables nearest the door had heard most of what had been said; all had certainly heard that final, exasperated shout of his. Now had they the opportunity to gape at him whose presence had occasioned the disturbance, and gape they did. As I led the way, I read amusement in some faces, disapproval in others. There seemed to be none who would simply look and casually turn away.
I felt a strong hand upon my shoulder and half turned as I progressed to find Mr. Burnham smiling broadly in approval.
“Well done, young Mr. Proctor,” said he. “Though I do never accept an affront, I am always pleased to find an ally. And you were, I thought, most impressive.”
I grinned my thanks and beckoned him onward. We reached the table where Sir John presided. All turned to us, save the president, who had not yet noted our arrival; nevertheless, it was his attention I called for, and to him I introduced Mr. Burnham first. I took him round the table, presenting him, one by one, to those who sat at it. Lady Fielding’s eyes near popped from her head when first she saw him, but she gained control of herself and murmured that Annie had told us much about him. To Messrs. Donnelly, Goldsmith, and Humber I introduced him —not one flinched at grasping his hand —and lastly at Annie I waved, saying that of course he knew her well. And of course he did.
Sir John brought Mr. Burnham back to him and urged him to take the place next him at his right. I found a seat beside Annie across the table from them, and we listened happily as the two began a proper conversation, something regarding Annie and her progress. But after a bit of talk, Sir John broke off the discussion and rubbed his chin in thought for a moment.
“May I ask you, sir,” said he, “where are you from?” The table fell silent.
“Where would you take me to be from?” countered Mr. Burnham.
“Well, sir, because of my blindness, I draw additionally upon what my other four senses provide. My sense of hearing gives me much. I know many men by the sound of their voices, and those whom I do not know, I can nearly always place as to origin by their mode of speech. Yours, I would say, eludes me somewhat. There seems to be something of the Welsh manner in it. Am I correct in that?”
“My father hailed from Shropshire nigh on to the Welsh border.”
“Perhaps that accounts for it then. Did he speak Welsh? Do you?”
“He knew a few words, but I none at all.”
“You were not born, then, in that locality?”
“No sir, I was not.”
“Then you have me, I fear. Where were you born? Where did you grow to manhood?”
“In Jamaica, sir, across the sea. And I fear that the advantage I hold over you here is quite unfair. If you had your sight, you would know me in an instant for what I am —half English and half African, a mulatto, as they say.”
“Why, then I compliment you, sir, for your diction could not be improved. And I compliment you, as well, for having taught me something.”
“And what is that, Sir John?”
“You have taught me a new manner of English speech. There is a lilt to it, something musical, an up-and-down quality in the Welsh manner—yet different.”
“In truth,” said Mr. Burnham, “I have done what I can to speak more in the London style. I should be happy to lose my island accent.”
“Do not, sir,” Sir John charged him. “It is pleasant to hear and a great relief from the usual jawing I hear about me.”
Though said gruffly, it was meant friendly, as Mr. Burnham instantly perceived, and he burst out laughing. Sir John joined him in chorus, grasping his arm in friendship. The two were laughing still when the servers descended upon us, slamming down our dinner plates on the table. All about us came the same bang-bang-bang, the clatter of knives and forks, and the roar of conversation dulled to a hum as the hundreds in the room settled down to the serious matter of beef, pudding, and dripping. We at our table broke off into our separate conversations. Annie, beside me, nibbled at her food, then pushed it aside in my direction, declaring it was mine for the eating. She complained to Mr. Donnelly, on her other side, that she felt ill. “Perfectly normal,” he assured her. “You are suffering a sort of fright I myself have seen in my Navy service. Sailors can eat little before a great battle.” Yet she seemed to take little encouragement from such talk. She left us early, leaving to go backstage with the chorus. All wished her well, Mr. Burnham most heartily of us all.
It seem
ed no time before we had supped and drunk our fill, and the same servers were back to collect the plates they had hurriedly put before us. The musicians began to assemble upon the stage. It was then that I was surprised by a summons from Sir John. I was up and off to his side in less than a moment.
“Jeremy,” said he to me, “I should like you to convey me across the room to the Laningham table before the program begins. I must pay my respects to Lady Laningham, and I wish to meet the heir.”
And so it was done, though no easy matter with servers milling about in the narrow spaces between the tables. Nevertheless, with Sir John clasping tight to my shoulder with one hand, we two made it without collision as I chanted, “Make way, make way please for Sir John Fielding.”
Thus we arrived. I placed him before Lady Laningham; all done up in black she was, though in a different dress and looking ever so modish. Perhaps, I thought, she truly had found someone to offer her physical consolation. Yet she met Sir John quite soberly, and in response to his observation that Lord Laningham’s funeral had taken place —“a grand ceremony, as I have heard” —she muttered something about “a missed opportunity.” Then she added quite distinctly: “I wish now that I had acceded to your request.”
“There is now no likely possibility—” he began.
Yet before he could finish, she bent to him and whispered in his ear. She seemed most passionately angry.
So fascinated was I by this, so intent was I in getting some hint of what was said, that I at first failed to notice the gentleman who had risen from the far side of her table and come round with the clear intention of making Sir John’s acquaintance. He stood behind Lady Laningham awaiting his chance; then, when she had done, he rushed forward to introduce himself.
“You, I believe, are Sir John Fielding, are you not?”
Lady Laningham turned, scowling, to the intruder, who was not in truth a terribly impressive figure; of less than average height he was, all flushed and eager in his manner.
For his part, Sir John recoiled slightly at the suddenness of the approach. He withheld his hand.
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