Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

  ” ‘He did return two months past, though with no fortune in evidence. He told them at the parish office he wished only to visit his daughter. In fact, there were two visits, and on the second of them, he did spirit her away dressed in the clothes of a boy. It was my assumption that he took her away to London. Lacking the resources to have them followed, I could only hope that some hint of their location might come, as it has now come from you. Find Thomas Roundtree, and you will find Clarissa.

  “‘This brings me to an urgent request which I would put to you. Just as Thomas Roundtree has made himself a fugitive, so has Clarissa Roundtree made herself a fugitive from the parish poorhouse. She should be returned to us for her own welfare. If she remains in London, as I believe that is where she is now, she will soon fall into degradation and crime, as you must certainly know. It is my hope that when you find her, for I am sure you shall, you will notify me. When I hear from you that she is in your care, I shall have someone sent from the parish office to bring her back. Thomas Roundtree is no doubt guilty of abduction, as well, but him I shall leave to you.

  ‘“Hoping that this does not put upon you too great a burden, I remain your humble and obedient servant, William Bladgett, Esquire, Magistrate of Lichfield.”’

  When I had finished the reading of the letter, I looked up for the first time and saw that both Annie and Lady Fielding had been moved to tears. Annie’s eyes glistened; Lady Fielding wiped at the tears on her cheeks. Sir John’s head was bowed.

  “Ah,” said he, “what a lot of human misery is there in the pages of that let-ter.

  In truth, reader, my own eyes were damp, and on more than one occasion I had had to clear my throat to continue reading.

  Lady Fielding produced a handkerchief and blew her nose, then passed it to Annie. Then said she, with great feeling, “What are we to do, Jack?”

  “Why, we must do as he requests. He is entirely correct. If that girl stays in London, she will only come to harm.”

  “But to return her to the parish poorhouse! Do you know what those places are?”

  He sighed a great sigh. “I have heard, of course I have. Yet what other course have we to offer?”

  “Why, I would gladly make a place for her in the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes. She’s such a bright girl. She could learn a trade there.”

  “But Kate,” said Sir John, “she is neither penitent —for she is by your own report willful and must certainly have collaborated in her escape from the poorhouse —nor is she yet, thank God, a prostitute, though some as young as she do follow that dismal calling.”

  “I know, but would it not be good to rescue her before she is forced out onto the streets?”

  “You take too much upon yourself. You cannot hope to save every child in London who needs saving. There must be hundreds, perhaps thousands.”

  “Oh, that’s true, but …”

  “Perhaps you could find some place for her in service,” offered Annie. “She’s a bit young, but I was not much older when I began.”

  Then followed a discussion of Clarissa’s age. Was she only eleven? Perhaps twelve? If the latter, she might indeed be offered in service. Lady Fielding gave it as her opinion that the girl would pass for thirteen or fourteen, for she was tall and spoke well.

  “But you reckon without her wishes,” said I to them. “She seems determined to stay with her father. How do we know that if you found a place for her in one of the houses in St. James Street or Bloomsbury Square, she would be any more likely to stay than she was in the parish poorhouse? She might simply run away again.”

  “Jeremy is right,” sighed Lady Fielding. “She does truly love that foolish, reprobate father of hers.”

  Now, I realized, was when I might —and probably should —tell Sir John of my suspicions regarding Roundtree. Yet I did not. Instead, I said something that surprised even me.

  “I think they plan to emigrate to the North American colonies. Why not simply let them go?”

  “What makes you think that?” asked Sir John.

  “Something that was said —or rather, not said —by her the last time I talked with her.”

  “How would he raise the passage?”

  “I know not,” said I. Then, improvising: “Perhaps he has indentured himself. Perhaps he has indentured them both.”

  “It’s possible. There are always ways of getting there. And those who wish to run away always run west, it seems.”

  At that, discussion seemed to subside. There “was a period of silence there at the table. At last it was broken by Lady Fielding, who looked sharply at me.

  “When did you last see her, Jeremy?” she asked.

  “That was when I delivered the cape you found for her — a few days ago it was.

  “Yes, and I resolved then to keep a close watch upon her. But the day-today intervened. Things keep getting in the way of our best intentions. Let me go tomorrow and visit her again. I know not what, if anything, we shall say of all this, but let us at least talk with her again.” She reached over and touched her husband’s arm. “That will do, will it, Jack?”

  “Don’t frighten her away. That is all I ask. I feel bound somewhat by that man Bladgett’s request.”

  “We’ll be careful what we say, I promise.”

  That is how it was left. The evening took its course. Lady Fielding retired to their bedroom with the declared intention of beginning work on the list of prospective donors to the Magdalene Home. Sir John followed to sit, as he so often did, in the dark little room beside theirs which he called his study; he would be giving serious consideration to one thing or another —perhaps to that which we had so earnestly discussed, perhaps to the Laningham puzzle, or perhaps again on what were to me the more mundane matters of the administration of his office.

  As was my usual, I did the washing up after dinner, while Annie pored over her books by candlelight. She droned quietly through her primer with little difficulty — already she had read it a tew times under Mr. Burnhams guidance —and then took up one from our lot or Shakespeare plays which she had been earning about with her, Hamlet, I believe it was. This she read louder, spelling out words to me that I might pronounce them and as often as not explain their meaning. I was past minding such interruptions; they lightened the work of scrubbing and scouring. When I had done, I joined her at the table.

  Then, catching us by surprise, came the sound of footsteps upon the staircase. They mounted in a steady, plodding rhythm; there was no urgency to be heard in them. .Annie and I looked at each other and shrugged. She rose from her chair at the table and was there for the anticipated knock. When it came, she threw open the door, revealing Mr. Donnelly, who looked slightly disheveled and certainly tired.

  He greeted us both, smiled wanly, and asked if he might speak with Sir John. “The autopsy is done,” said he, “and the body is on its way back to the great house in St. James Square. I have a brief report to present to Sir John.

  “I am here,” came that deep voice from behind us. Sir John descended the stairs and, in his manner, took charge. “Do you wish to do this in private?”

  “Not necessary, sir. What I have to say can be put briefly —and I must be back to my surgery- so that I may write it out.

  “Then let us hear what you have to saw

  “Absent any certain test for arsenic, which is the poison I suspect —

  “You do suspect poison, then?”

  “I do now, for there were lesions and ulcers all through her digestive tract. To put it more descriptively, her esophagus and stomach lining had been burned raw, and there was much damage to her kidneys, as well.”

  “That, I take it, would be consistent with a death by poisoning?”

  “Completely consistent.”

  “And you suspect arsenic was used?

  “I do, yes.”

  “And why that, in particular?”

  “Because it is readily available, and because now that I have had a chance to do a bit of studying, I find that its
effect is completely consistent with the violent symptoms displayed by Lord and Lady Laningham — heavy vomiting, the vomiting or blood, and diarrhea with blood in the case or Lady Laningham. It may have been so with Lord Laningham as well. I had no opportunity to examine him at the time of his death.”

  “And you intend to put all this in your repo

  “Yes, and in my testimony, as well—as you shall hear. Mr. Trezavant has scheduled a coroner’s inquest into the death of Lady Laningham tomorrow at ten. He has asked, since you evidently offered to acquaint him with the procedures, that you be by his side to instruct him. And to facilitate that, he would like to hold the inquest in your courtroom. Unless he hears from you to the contrary, he will, he told me, be here promptly at ten.”

  Sir John remained silent for a moment. “Well,” said he, “it is true that in some foolish fit of generosity I offered to help him through his first formal inquests. That, I suppose, is the price that I must pay for him calling an inquest at all. I shall do my duty, seeing that he does his.”

  “I shall see you at ten tomorrow then, Sir John.”

  “Ten it is. Is there anything that you have not said that you wish to add?”

  Thinking on that but a moment, Mr. Donnelly said: “Only this: Whatever misgivings I may have had about the shortcomings of the medical knowledge of Dr. Isaac Diller, who with me performed the autopsy, were insufficient ten times over. The fellow knows nothing of the inner workings of the human body. I do not believe he had ever until now seen inside one.”

  “And will Dr. Diller be present to give evidence tomorrow?”

  “Why, of course, Sir John. Need you ask?”

  EIGHT

  In Which We Receive

  a Guest and an

  Inquest Is Held

  Because Lady Fielding saw the need to complete not only the list of prospective donors but also the model letter from which I was to write to each, we were somewhat late in setting off on our return visit to Half-Moon Passage. In truth, I felt somewhat ambivalent about making the trip with her. I realized, of course, that she could not comfortably make the trip alone, and I certainly saw the need for communication of some sort with the girl; nevertheless, I should have liked to have the opportunity to witness Mr. Trezavant’s inquest into the death of Lady Laningham; almost, I admit, would I have preferred it.

  At last she did sweep into the room, dressed for the day, the completed list and exemplar in hand. She dropped the sheaf of papers down upon the kitchen table and blurted the briefest of instructions: “Write the letters complete but for my signature.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  “Now, Jeremy, let us be off to that den of iniquity.”

  I trailed in her wake. Once under way at such urgent moments as this one, she seemed to cut through space like some proud, swift ship through water. There was no stopping her; only a fool would try.

  And thus did she fly down the stairs at a perilous speed and sail down the long hall to the door, and out onto Bow Street.

  “Jeremy,” she cried, as I caught up with her, “you must find us a hackney, for after I have made my visit to this girl, Clarissa, I will be off to the Magdalene. Make it clear to the driver that he must wait for me.”

  What might have been an impossible task an hour or two earlier proved no trouble at all now that the morning was somewhat advanced. Standing idle the coach was, and the driver beside it. When I put to him Lady bidding’s requirements, he made clear his own.

  “I charges extra for waiting,” said he.

  “Fair enough,” said I, “but how much?”

  “A penny for a short time and tuppence for a long one.”

  “And who’s to judge whether it be short or long?”

  “Why, I am, of course.”

  There was no arguing that, and after all, the fellow wad available, so I beckoned him forward to where Lady Fielding waited at Number 4, while I ran on ahead to her.

  The streets surrounding Covent Garden were so crowded and narrow that our trip to Half-Moon Passage in the hackney could then likely have been made much faster afoot. Nevertheless, it was another chill morning, and we rode warmer than we could have walked. Expecting further instructions from her regarding the task she had put me to, I was surprised to receive none. Insofar as I remember, Lady Fielding said nothing the entire length of our journey. I supposed that she was thinking ahead to what might and might not be said to Clarissa Roundtree. I had wondered about that myself.

  Half-Moon Passage was at its far end — near to the Strand — little more than a walkway. Since he could not drive us through and turning round was near impossible, the driver halted at Bedford Street, banged on the roof of the coach, and shouted down to us that he would wait here and we must go the rest of the way on foot. That we did, though Lady Fielding was set grumbling that we had no assurance the hackney would be there when we returned. I calmed her as best I could, pointing out that the driver had not yet been paid and would likely wait till afternoon, if need be, to get his money. Thus we came to the ramshackle lodging house, now quite familiar to me, went through its littered and foul-smelling courtyard, up its rickety stairs, and down its shadowy hall, then finally to the door of the Roundtree room.

  “Give it a good stout knock, Jeremy,” said she.

  I tried, but with the first blow delivered by my doubled fist the door flew open. Lady Fielding looked at me curiously, a question in her eyes. I thought perhaps Clarissa was out on some errand. Nevertheless, I was sufficiently wary that I preceded Lady Fielding through the door, stepping just inside the room to survey it. What I saw quite shocked me.

  Off to the left, on which side stood the bed, Clarissa Roundtree lay on her long, low trundle bed before the fireplace, wherein a bright fire blazed. A woman tending her had turned at our intrusion and wore upon her face a look of consternation and alarm.

  Lady Fielding pushed past me and went swiftly to them. I followed, quite bewildered at this sudden turn. We looked down upon Clarissa. Her face was sickly pale and her eyes were closed; she shivered beneath a blanket and the cape, which had been thrown over her. I could not tell if she was conscious.

  “How long has she been so?” asked Lady Fielding.

  “It come on her gradual two days past,” said the woman who knelt beside the girl. “She got worse, coughin’ and the like, yesterday. Only today has she been so bad. She shivers and then she sweats. She’s terrible sick.” “Oh, I can see that. What has she? Has a doctor seen her?” “No, mum, we ain’t got a doctor here, but it seem like some sort of ague to me.”

  The woman looked familiar to me —in her twenties, blunt and square in her frock, with something of the farm girl about her. Could she have been the “nekkid woman” I glimpsed who had propelled the whoremonger out into the hall? She looked strong enough and capable of it.

  “Well, my girl,” said Lady Fielding, as she took charge of matters, “I believe we must take Clarissa with us if she’s to get well.”

  It seemed to me that she spoke no more than the plain truth. The girl on the pallet bed looked nearer to death than to life.

  “I don’t know as I can let you do that, mum,” said the woman, courteous even in her obstinacy.

  Lady Fielding knelt beside her, yet gave her attention to Clarissa. She placed her palm to the girl’s forehead.

  “Good God,” said she, “the child is burning with fever!”

  “I know,” wailed her putative nurse. “There ain’t nothin’ I can do to bring it down!”

  “Bless you, you’ve tried, haven’t you? But don’t you see? She must see a doctor, and we have for her the best doctor in London.”

  “Truly so? But where‘11 you be takin’ her to?”

  “To Bow Street.”

  “To the court? She ain’t done nothin’.”

  “No, no, no, not to the court —up above it, where we live.”

  “Ah, you’re the lady come visited her, gave her the cape and all.”

  “Yes, I am. I should have introduced m
yself. I am Lady Katherine Fielding. My husband is Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

  “The Blind Beak?”

  “So they call him.”

  “Well …” The woman hesitated in an anguish of indecision. “She spoke well of you, and she is terrible sick, so I … I … suppose you takin’ her out of here is for the best. But what‘11 I tell her pa?”

  “Tell him we took her to save her life. If he loves her as much as she loves him, then he will understand.” She waited an instant —only long enough to get an assenting nod —then said, “Let us bundle her up. We have a hackney, but she must be kept warm on the journey. Jeremy? We shall need your help.”

  I gave a good deal of it. Once the two women had wrapped Clarissa’s nearly lifeless form in the blanket and cape that covered her, I knelt down and lifted her bodily from her narrow bed. Once on my feet, I hefted her weight and judged her to be not all that much heavier than a good-sized sack of potatoes, something less than a hundredweight, I should have supposed. As I made my way to the open door, Lady Fielding remained behind a moment. “You’re a good sort, I can tell,” said she in a low voice. “If you ever decide to reform your life and learn a respectable trade, you have only to see me at the Magdalene Home. We’ll find room for you.”

  What the woman responded I know not, for I was through the door by the time her answer came and down the hall a bit when Lady Fielding emerged and hurried after me. As I hit the chill of the outside air and started down the steps, Clarissa roused slightly from her stuporous state. Her eyelids fluttered, yet she shivered more violently and breathed with exertion, wheezing as some old man might as she inhaled. Her lips moved. She sought to speak. I inclined my ear to her that I might hear her better. “Where … we going?”