Bunkins, smiling broadly at such praise, gave a heartfelt thank-you to the magistrate, adding, “It makes me happy to hear you say so, sir.”
“However,” said Sir John, taking up where he had left off, “they remain suspicions, no matter how logical, no matter how well investigated. You were correct in supposing I would have an interest in this, for while it is true that Mr. Saunders Welch had an interest in the identification of the head, we have a greater interest here at Bow Street because of the questions that you have raised regarding the whereabouts of George Bradbury. The problem for me now, and indeed it is my problem and no longer yours, is how best to proceed.”
“You could arrest ‘em, sir, the both of them, and make them sweat.”
“I could not, in all truth, do that, for there is not yet sufficient evidence against either of them — certainly not against Carver — to charge them with murder. I could detain them for questioning, however, and I may do that. But if I am to proceed as logically as you have, young sir, then the next step would be to write to the local magistrate and ask for confirmation of her account of her husband’s absence. She said Mr. Bradbury was in Warwick?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, that I fear will mean a bit of waiting. Nevertheless, in the interest of proper procedure, that is what must be done.”
“May I make a suggestion, Sir John?”
It was Mr. Burnham who had spoken up. He had listened intently throughout the dialogue between his pupil and the magistrate, occasionally nodding, chuckling to himself once or twice when appropriate. In no wise had he attempted to draw attention from Bunkins to himself. He had been the very soul of tact.
“Mr. Burnham, is it? Why,” said Sir John, “of course you may. You had been so quiet I had near forgot you were here with us.”
“I came,” said the tutor, “out of pride in my pupil and his activities in your behalf. I wished to be certain that he would tell the story to you in the same detail I had heard it from him.”
“May I interrupt?” Sir John inclined his head in Bunkins’s direction. “Are we four the only ones who know all that you have told me?”
“Just us four,” said Bunkins, “but like I said, the surgeon knew I had a good idea who belonged to that head he had in his cupboard.”
“I’m content with that,” said Sir John, “but let us keep it so—just us four.” Then: “By all means, go on, Mr. Burnham, and pardon my intrusion.”
“Certainly, sir. As I said, I wished him to tell the story in all its detail —and as I recall from its earlier telling, he did that. Only one thing I recall, and that was speculation on his part. He mentioned to me in passing that if George Bradbury were dead —that is, murdered —then his murderers would seek to sell his shop, for they could not forever maintain that he had gone home to comfort his dying father. That made remarkable good sense to me, sir, for it struck me that murderers are not the sort to be content very long as shopkeepers—certainly not the pair he has described.”
“I grant all that,” said the magistrate.
“Hence, my suggestion. What would you say if I were to go direct to the shop and inquire of Mrs. Bradbury if the shop is for sale?”
“In just such a way? If they had not put it about, then they would be suspicious.”
“I would wager they have put it about. I would say to them I heard it mentioned at Mr. Bilbo’s gaming establishment. Such things are discussed there. And if they become suspicious, what of it? It would merely, as Mr. Bunkins puts it, ‘make them sweat.’”
“But come now, Mr. Burnham,” objected Sir John, “would they believe — forgive me for saying so —but would they believe that a black man would have the wherewithal to purchase a pawnshop?”
“Sir,” said he, “I doubt not that I do have sufficient funds to buy such a dingy little place, complete with its store of castoffs. When I claimed my freedom, my father settled upon me a considerable sum of money. Not, however, that I would ever truly consider investing it in such a disrespectable business. No, my thought was this: I shall let them know that I know of their trade in stolen goods, and give them the impression that I am eager to continue it. In this way, my color should help convince them that I am earnest in the matter, for it has been my observation, sir, that Londoners are ever ready to believe that a black man has evil intentions.”
Though said with a smile, Mr. Burnham s last remark was meant in all seriousness and evoked no laughter among us. Bunkins and I exchanged uneasy glances. Sir John coughed, cleared his throat, and gave permission to the tutor to pursue his plan. With that, Mr. Burnham stood and took his leave, promising to return as soon as he was able.
The three of us did take a moment to listen to his footsteps as he made his way down the hall toward the door to Bow Street. Sir John then roused himself from his brief torpor and bade me go to Mr. Marsden and draw Irom his list the name of the magistrate who served the town of Warwick. That I did without delay. I returned to find Bunkins spinning the tale of Mr. Burnham s emancipation. Knowing that it would take a bit of telling, I resumed my seat in the chair beside Bunkins. Sir John gave him his complete attention till it was done, only nodding from time to time to indicate his continued interest and comprehension.
Only then did he venture a comment. “A remarkable story,” said he. “It bespeaks a great yearning for freedom on the part of the son and great generosity on the part of the father. The two must have had a very strong sense of family between them.”
“And still do,” said Bunkins, “for they write letters, one after the other. Mr. Burnham’s great regret is that his mother can’t write him. He misses her, he says, and hopes she knows it.”
“Remarkable,” said Sir John, “though certainly not unique, considering the institution from which Mr. Burnham has emerged. There may be a number of such stories from Jamaica and the North American colonies. I doubt not that we shall all come to regret that slavery was permitted.” Then did he turn to me: “But Jeremy, you’re back, are you?”
“I am,” said I, “with the name of the Warwick magistrate. I would remind you, however, that I have here in my pocket the letter from the Lichfield magistrate. Would you want that read to you?”
“No, one thing at a time, and this matter of George Bradbury must take precedence at the moment. Here is the inkwell and the pen.” He opened the drawer, felt about in it, and brought out a sheaf of clean sheets for writing. “Why do you not bring your chair round to your usual place and we shall indite a letter together to Warwick.”
“Together, sir?” He had never sought my help before in composing such letters.
“I fear I am sometimes a bit too blunt to my fellow magistrates. I shall depend on you in this instance to prevent me from causing undue alarm to the recipient. I recall that once some years ago I put a simple inquiry out as to the whereabouts of a fellow, and the magistrate, misinterpreting the urgency of the situation, immediately put the poor fellow under arrest. If George Bradbury lives, I do not wish to have him locked up.”
And so we began the task. As I suspected, Sir John needed no help from me in putting together this letter or any other. Yet after each paragraph he questioned me as to the appropriateness of its wording, and once did defer to me on the construction of a sentence. As I look back upon this, reader, it seems to me that his intention in this exercise was to elevate me in the eyes of my friend. Bunkins, for his part, looked on and listened in great fascination.
As completed, there was little to be read into this communication. It was a simple request for information on George Bradbury. Had he lately returned to Warwick to attend his ailing father? Was he still there? If not, when did he leave? And so on. There was naught to cause so much as a raised eyebrow. The letter was read back to him and approved. With my help, he affixed his signature. His seal was applied, and Bunkins offered to post it on his return to St. James Street. There was then little to be done but await Mr. Burnham’s return — and that was but minutes away.
We heard his hurry
ing footsteps —all but running he was —ere he presented himself at the open door to Sir John’s chambers. Bunkins and I were there to greet him, yet he burst past us, beckoning us to follow, and made straight for Sir John.
“A most astonishing development,” he announced loudly. “I was greeted at the shop on Bedford Street by one who claimed to be George Bradbury!”
Naturally, because of all he had heard, Mr. Burnham was dubious. He had entered with his story prepared, expecting to be greeted by Mrs. Bradbury, but through the curtain came a man who he knew, from Bunkins s description, could not be my old adversary, Jackie Carver. “He was a tall, thin man,” said the tutor, “of about thirty years, nothing at all remarkable about him, except that he wore beneath his coat a waistcoat of a plaid of the kind one sees on Scotsmen —quite colorful—yet he was no Scotsman. In most respects he seemed to talk as any Londoner of the working class.”
“That weren’t George Bradbury!” crowed Bunkins. “He’s an old fella, twice that age. He may be thin but he ain’t tall, no bigger than me. He — ” And then did he fall silent of a sudden, as if a thought had just occurred to him.
“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Burnham, “that is how he identified himself to me. I said to him, ‘I should like to talk to the owner of this shop.’ He responded: ‘You can talk to me.’ ‘Are you George Bradbury?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I am,’ said he.
“Now, doubtful though I may have been,” continued Mr. Burnham, “I decided to proceed with my plan and informed him that I had heard that his shop was up for sale. ‘It might be,’ said he, ‘but that would depend upon the offer.’ I then told him that the offer would depend upon how much queer trade was done out the back door and how many such suppliers he had. He took this in, considered it a moment, and said, ‘I must talk about it to Mrs. Bradbury.’ Note he did not say ‘to my wife,’ as one might commonly say. In any case, he asked that I come by next day in the morning. I bade him good day and opened the door to go, then did he call after me, asking where it was that I had heard the shop was up for sale. I had my answer ready, of course, and told him I had heard the matter discussed at Mr. Bilbo’s gaming establishment. ‘Do you frequent such places?’ he asked, all surprised. ‘I do when it pleases me,’ said I, and with that I left him.”
“Very intriguing,” said Sir John. “He did actually say that he was George Bradbury?”
“He confirmed it plain as you just spoke the name. ‘Yes, I am,’ said he.”
“Have we any idea just who this impostor might be?” asked Sir John.
At that I looked at Bunkins, for I then remembered well that he had mentioned just such a tall man to me and realized for the first time that he had been dropped from his report to Sir John. (I also reflected uneasily that I might know the man quite well myself.) Jimmie Bunkins blushed in embarrassment. If I remembered the tall man, then so did he. I saw him struggle valiantly with himself until at last the better Bunkins triumphed. He admitted his omission.
“Sir,” said he, “I think I may know the cod —or at least I spied him a few times before, while watchin’ the shop. He seemed to come by certain times so Mrs. Bradbury could go out doin’ her daily buyin’ and such. He’d watch the store for her. I should’ve said something about him. I guess I just forgot —or maybe didn’t think him important enough to mention.”
“Well,” said Sir John, “now you have mentioned him. And now we know there may be three conspirators involved. It is all the more important to get that letter off to Warwick. But Mr. Burnham?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I think it best that you do not accept the invitation extended you to return tomorrow. We have planted our seed. Let us stand back awhile and see if it grows.”
After the two had left for the great house in St. James Street, Sir John returned to confer with Mr. Marsden; it was the report to the Lord Chief Justice which occupied them and would continue to do so until the month’s end. I might have held him and would have done had I been more certain in my own mind just what course I ought to take.
In truth, I was all in turmoil. Unlike Bunkins, who had merely to admit an error of neglect, I had to wrestle with myself over another’s guilt — or probable guilt — or perhaps only possible guilt. Was it up to me to weigh this? Most likely it was not. The sensible thing would be to go to Sir John with my suspicions. Let him give what importance he would to it—then the matter would be out of my hands for good.
My problem had been caused by Mr. Burnham. His description of the man who had falsely presented himself as George Bradbury included a detail of dress which had sounded in my mind as a resonant, echoing chord of music. He had mentioned that the fellow wore a plaid waistcoat in the Scottish style. While there were many tall, thin men round and about Covent Garden, there was but one I knew of who wore such a waistcoat, and that one was Thomas Roundtree.
Why not tell Sir John this? It was not so much because of any affection I had for Roundtree personally; though it was true he was likable enough, he had deceived and embarrassed me, and I held that against him. No, I hesitated because of his daughter, Clarissa, whom I liked and pitied. Her faith in her foolish father, while misplaced and naive, was in itself admirable. If I were to suggest to the magistrate that Roundtree was the third of conspirators, as they had been dubbed, it would only cause her further pain and grief. And it might indeed have the direst of consequences for him. Perhaps his involvement was quite innocent. Perhaps he merely tended shop for Mrs. Bradbury.
What was I to do? Procrastination seemed the safest, if not the wisest, course. I would do nothing for the present and await a time when the information was most pertinent, even essential, before voicing my suspicions. Perhaps the letter from the Lichfield magistrate would force my hand. It was there in my coat pocket still. That I had it seemed to have slipped Sir John’s mind for the present. It would have to be read to him, of course, but perhaps I might pick the right moment.
That moment came at the dinner table. Annie had once again presented us with a meal which, in any other household, would have seemed altogether exceptional. Yet we, spoiled by our cook, took it as the usual and our due. What she called stew was distinguished from what was customarily called by that name by virtue of its flavor —or flavors, really, for with onions, garlic, her favorite paprika, and one could only guess what other rare spices from her cabinet, there was no telling what combination of tastes might come. In short, we had all eaten well. And in that period of happy relaxation during which we sat at table, belching our satisfaction, Lady Fielding happened to mention that with the new year had come the burden of writing a great many begging letters to the great and the rich that the Magdalene Home might continue its operation for another twelvemonth.
“I was wondering, Jack,” said she, “if you might loan me Jeremy’s services as a letter writer.”
“Oh, well, I-”
Yet she plunged on: “I thought I might draw up a list of recipients and an exemplar that he might duplicate. That would leave me free to tend to day-today matters at the Home, which are quite enough to fill my day, please believe me.
“Oh, I believe you, Kate. It is only that Mr. Marsden’s time has been fully taken with this damned report to the Lord Chief Justice as scribe and reader.” He hesitated. “Uh, how many letters of the sort do you wish written?”
“About fifty, perhaps more. He would write them, and I would sign.”
“That is a great number, certainly. Well, by all means draw up your list and draft your exemplar. Jeremy will get to them when and as he can. Right, lad?”
“Right, sir. But Sir John?” said I, drawing the Lichfield letter from my pocket; this seemed an opportune occasion. “I am reminded of the letter which arrived today from Lichfield. I have it here.”
“Ah, of course,” said he. “With this Bradbury matter, it had quite got past me. If you have it, then read it, by all means. There can be naught in it to offend feminine ears.”
Annie made a face at that. I broke the seal, opened the lette
r, and began to read aloud. “Dear Honored Colleague,” it began, then went quickly to the matter.
” ‘Having only returned from Yorkshire in attendance of a suit dealing with family property there, I came late to your letter inquiring into the present whereabouts and past of one Thomas Roundtree. In my capacity as Magistrate of the Town of Lichfield, I had come to know the fellow well. He was frequently brought before me for drunkenness and the disturbing of the peace. Also charges of petty thievery were brought against him on a few occasions, though none were proven. He was a fair carpenter, and in homes in which he worked, items of value sometimes went missing. Mr. Roundtree left Lichfield something over a year ago, some said to London, and I was glad to be rid of him.
” ‘The circumstances of his departure were as follows: Mr. Roundtree had him a wife, a woman of good family named Sarah Gladden. He had seduced her and put her with child. Considering her condition, the family allowed the two to be married, though they were in no wise keen to welcome him as a son-in-law. The child was born, a daughter, Clarissa, and the little family had a difficult time of it, what with Roundtree’s drinking and general inability to earn sufficient. Yet also, sadly, did the fortunes of the Gladdens decline. Mr. Gladden died five or six years after his daughter’s unfortunate marriage, leaving his wife and an unmarried daughter, Esther, the sister of Sarah, only the bookshop from which he had managed to draw a living for the three of them and make occasional gifts of money to Sarah when the rent had to be paid. The two women attempted to run the shop themselves. Neither had a head for business, and it was only a few years before the shop was lost to creditors. At about the same time, Miss Esther Gladden fell ill with consumption and died swiftly; the mother was taken in by her people in Cambridgeshire. This left Sarah Roundtree altogether dependent upon Thomas Roundtree —and he proved undependable as earlier. She, too, fell ill with consumption, which she may have contracted while nursing her sister; it took a year or two, but she did also die, leaving her daughter, Clarissa, then ten years old, in the sole care of her husband. He kept the child a few months until reports of her neglect brought a visit from the vicar. From the condition of their rooms and the poor health of the girl, Mr. Roundtree was judged to be an unfit parent. Clarissa Roundtree was taken from him and put in the parish poorhouse. It was then that her father left Lichfield, declaring that he would make his fortune, prove himself fit, and return to buy her out of the poorhouse.
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