Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

“You may, of course. I take it, from the sound of your voice, that you are Lord Laningham.”

  “I am indeed. Forgive me for not announcing myself. I quite forgot your affliction.”

  “I often do myself. Why not in the room in back which serves as my chambers?” said Sir John to him —and then to me: “Jeremy, come along, will you? I would have you search out the records on the Goodhope affMr. You recall it, I’m sure.”

  This was a very pointed instruction to me to accompany them that I might study Lord Laningham s reactions during whatever conversation they might have between them. The mention of the Goodhope affair lent a certain spice to the invitation. Whatever his petitioner had in mind, Sir John clearly meant to use the occasion for purposes of interrogation.

  “Just follow me, then, Lord Laningham. I know the way quite well. Within these four walls I get along as one with two good eyes.”

  So saying, he led the way confidently and without mishap. I trailed along behind both. Not a word passed between them until they —and I—were settled within the room in the rear to which he had referred. I had a moment to study Lord Laningham, and I noticed a peculiar darkness about his eyes. Had they been so when I saw him first at the Crown and Anchor? I had not noticed then.

  As I pulled down a box of records at random and began shuffling through them, Sir John leaned forward across his desk, saying nothing, as he might if staring long and hard at another through the black silk band which covered his blind eyes; he had said to me more than once that silence was often a potent weapon in such situations as this. He upon whom Sir John had fixed his attention shifted uneasily in his chair, and after a long, uncomfortable moment, spoke up at last.

  “Perhaps,” said he, “this is not the best moment to talk.”

  “On the contrary,” said Sir John, “it is as good as any other and better than most. In about half an hour’s time I must sit at my court. I trust what you have to say will not take so long.”

  “Oh, no, not nearly so long.”

  Sir John simply waited.

  “I was shot at,” began Lord Laningham.

  Again, response was slow in coming. Then, finally: “Describe the occasion.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. I was sitting in my study at my desk yesterevening, putting my papers in order. The room is at the front oi the house, just to the left as you come in the door. It was quite late, past midnight, and the servants had all retired for the night. Probably unwisely, I had left open the curtains and, with candles on the desk to light my work, I must have been quite visible from the street. Quite without warning — I heard no one about —a shot broke through the glass, passed but a foot away from where I sat, and buried itself in the wall.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “Why, I threw myself down to the floor behind the desk, lest another shot follow the first.”

  “Did one?”

  “No. A moment afterward I heard someone scurrying away outside, and I thought it safe to crawl on the floor to a place where I might pull the curtains closed without being seen. The curtains are of thick stuff, and once closed, they made me quite invisible to the street outside. I thought it then safe for me to rise, and so I went out into the hall, where I gave out a ‘Halloo,’ hoping that the shot had roused one of the servants; yet I neither saw nor heard any about. And so I unlocked the door to the street and peered outside. I saw no one. Slowly then, and very watchfully, I ventured forth as far as the walkway. At the high end of the square I saw nothing, no one. Yet at the near end, I perceived a figure — not clearly, for there was a mist about — hurrying off toward Pall Mall. It was too far to give him chase, and of course I could not be absolutely certain that he was the one who shot through the window at me, and so I had no choice but to return to the house.”

  (It should be said, reader, that as I listened to his tale, it seemed to me that it was told altogether too smoothly. He told it not so much as a man who had had a frightening experience as one who had written it down and memorized it. There were even accompanying gestures: he cupped a hand to his mouth for his “Halloo”; he mimed his exit from the house, holding two pistols, a determined look upon his face. That I thought quite queer. The gestures were lost on Sir John, and he could not have meant them for me, for he gave me not a glance as I continued shuffling papers.)

  “And then what?” asked Sir John, rather severely.

  “Why … why … I don’t know,” said he. “Let me think.” Must he now truly consult his memory, or had he been suddenly forced to improvise?

  “Did any of the servant staff present themselves upon your return?”

  “What? No, no.” He hesitated. “Well, as I recall, I returned to my study, drank two brandies, and went at last to my bed. I was, well, as you may imagine, quite … quite disturbed by what had happened.”

  “Of course.” Only then did the magistrate alter his reserved, rather cold manner. As if to signal the change, he leaned back in his chair and rested his chin upon his palm in a rather casual manner. “Tell me, Lord Laningham, have you any idea who may have perpetrated this attack, and for what reason?”

  “In a way I have, yes,” said he, suddenly fluent once again. “When the late Lord Laningham welcomed me to London, he sat me down in that very same study and talked to me as his heir. He seemed to sense that he had not long to live, though not even he could have known that his death would be so near, so ghastly, and so tragically public.”

  Before he could continue, Sir John held up his hand to halt him. “If I may interrupt,” said he, “when did this conversation take place?”

  “When first we came to London.”

  “And when was that?”

  “About — oh, when was it? I think, yes, about six months ago — no, not so long. At the end of August it was.”

  “Very well, continue please.”

  “Let me see, where was I?”

  ”’… so near, so ghastly, and so tragically public,’” said Sir John, prompting him as one might a player in rehearsal.

  “Ah yes. He was very generous to me at this meeting. In fact, he advanced me a sum of cash and presented me with a letter of recommendation to his bank. Then did he tell me that while I might look forward to bearing the Laningham title, with it came a burden of danger. He explained that earlier in the year he had received an unsigned letter, detailing wrongs that had been done the correspondent’s family by the Laninghams over a period of two generations—lands seized, a business ruined, all of that. The letter concluded with a most appalling threat of revenge. The unknown correspondent swore that in repayment for these wrongs, he would eradicate the entire Laningham line. Well, the late lord knew nothing of these purported wrongs. He’d heard nothing of them from his father and had too high an opinion of him to believe there was substance to them. And so he refused to take them or the threat of revenge at all seriously. He destroyed the letter and said nothing of it to anyone.

  “All this took place on the family’s estate near Laningham in the summer or perhaps late spring. It was there he had received the letter. One day, however, he was out riding alone in the fields along the woods when a shot rang forth from some distance away. The ball passed close and bedded in a tree nearby, so that it set the horse to rearing and jumping about. It had come from a musket, yet he knew not whence. Being unarmed and not wishing to give him who had shot the time to reload, he turned back and rode home fast as he could. He never again rode out alone or unarmed. He then received another letter, which congratulated him on his good fortune in escaping the bullet which was meant for him, yet renewing the threat in a most explicit manner: ‘I shall follow you wherever you go,’ said the correspondent.”

  “And this letter, too, was destroyed?” Sir John interjected.

  “Why, yes, my uncle said that he had no wish to frighten Lady Laningham.”

  “Perhaps he should have frightened her, since the fellow seems to have taken his revenge upon her, as well.”

  “You believe then that she was murder
ed? Poisoned?”

  “With all my heart,” said Sir John, with just the hint of a smile.

  “Well, then,” said the other, “you must also believe that my uncle was the victim of this anonymous letter writer.”

  “It would stand to reason, would it not?”

  “Yes, of course—the similarity in the manner in which they died and all — of course it would. Yet I drank from the very bottle of wine from which he last drank. It was from his private stock and tasted no different from the others which we had drunk that night.”

  “That has been told me. No different, you say?”

  “No,” said Laningham with great certainty. “Could it perhaps have been that the food he ate that night was poisoned?”

  “All things are possible.”

  “This is most—well, of course it is —it’s most distressing.”

  “Yes, it should be, for it certainly means that you, too, are in danger. The shot through your window confirms that. Whenever you appear in the streets, you must fear the assassin’s bullet. Each meal you eat will be suspect. You, perhaps your whole family, may fall victim to this revenger’s design.”

  “What can I do?” he wailed.

  “First of all, you must have a bodyguard of some sort. Many of our public men have such, ex-soldiers who are skilled with weapons to accompany them as they go out amongst the many. At the very least you should arm one of your servants, a footman perhaps, and have him trained for it. Let him go out and investigate should another shot be fired at night. As for an attempt upon your life by poisoning, well, a food taster perhaps, though that may be going a bit too far. I have talked with your cook. She seems altogether quite reliable, and I’ve no doubt she’s been with the late lord and lady for many years. Inquire of the butler which of the servants has been on the staff for less than a year — and which of those traveled with the family to Laningham last spring when the first letter was received and the first attack made.”

  “Why, I shall hire a whole new staff,” declared Lord Laningham.

  “That might be unwise,” said Sir John. “You have no way of knowing just who this secret plotter might be. You might unwittingly hire him.”

  “You’re right, of course!”

  “And do what you can to discover his identity. Do what your uncle failed to do. Examine the Laningham records. Perhaps some perceived injustice was indeed done in the past to some local family Look for the recurrence of a name. Why should you suffer for the sins of a grandfather or a great-grandfather, eh?”

  “Quite right, but … but all such documents are kept at the family estate.”

  “Then do so at your first trip there.” Sir John paused long enough to give a great wise nod. “There, my lord, I have given you some practical steps to take in order to ensure your safety and that of your family. Take them, and you will feel much better, believe me. But now, if you will forgive me, I must prepare for my court session.”

  With that, Sir John rose to his feet, and Lord Laningham followed, though somewhat reluctantly —or so it seemed to me.

  “I have but one further question for you,” said the magistrate.

  “Oh? And, uh, yes, well, what is that?”

  “Why did you come to London?”

  The simple and direct nature of the inquiry took the poor fellow completely off guard. After no end of hemming and hawing, he at last got it across that he had come at his uncle’s invitation.

  “Yet to bring your entire family for such a long stay. What was your purpose in that?”

  “My daughters,” said Lord Laningham, rather cryptically.

  “I do not understand.”

  “They are both too young to be presented in society. Felicity is but fourteen and Charity a year younger. Yet Pamela and I thought that they were of an age to be acquainted with … with the great world, as it were. They grew up rather simple country girls, I fear. We took them a number of times to Vauxhall Gardens before it closed for the season, and went often to the theater. We wanted them to see how proper ladies behave. Pamela has begun drilling them on matters of manners and courtesy.”

  “All of this in anticipation of the title you have now inherited?”

  “Uh, well, yes … yes indeed. It was as my uncle would have it. And …”

  “And what?”

  “We want the best for our daughters.”

  “All parents do. But now, thank you, Lord Laningham, for reporting this dreadful attack. I shall have Mr. Bailey send one of our men round St. James Square after midnight for the foreseeable future. Beyond that, there is little I can do, except add to the advice I have already given that it would be wise to keep the curtains drawn after dark.”

  “I had already thought of that. Yes, of course, that would be wise. But here, do accept this.”

  Lord Laningham drew from his pocket something in the form of a letter. He placed it in Sir John’s hand.

  “What have you given me?” Sir John asked it somewhat suspiciously.

  “An invitation to a simple occasion at our residence. It will, or course, take place after my aunt’s funeral, and in respect to it I have asked that the music be properly funereal.”

  “Music? I do not understand.”

  “You will. All is there in the invitation. I chose to deliver it myself that I might urge you to attend —and Lady Fielding, too, of course.”

  “Well, I…”

  “Just send a note of acceptance. And now, Sir John, with my thanks, I bid you good day.”

  He turned and marched out the door, closing it tight behind him.

  “Jeremy, come here and read to me this … this invitation.”

  I was already at his side. I took it from him and broke the seal. Opening it, I found the text so rich with flourishes and looping curves that it seemed at first quite illegible. Yet gradually it made itself plain to me.

  “It’s most artistically writ,” said I, quite dubious.

  “Well, do your best.”

  ” ‘To Sir John and Lady Fielding: Your attendance is humbly requested at the residence of Lord and Lady Laningham for dinner at eight and a musical entertainment to follow by Mr. John Christian Bach upon the fortepiano on Sunday evening next.’”

  Sir John listened attentively, a smile growing wider upon his face. When I had done, he burst forth with a great bellow of laughter.

  “Well, the fellow has nerve,” said he. “I give him that. Quite an audacious move.”

  “What do you make of him, sir?”

  “Oh, a great many things. I perceive, for one, a man so unsure of himself in ordinary discourse that he must write out the essentials of what he wishes to say and commit them to memory.”

  “Would you not say,” I put it to him, “that this makes suspect what he has reported?”

  “Not necessarily. He does certainly bumble about quite often when speaking impromptu, answering questions, and so on. He may have wished to organize well what he had to say— also to add a few decorous passages. As for the tale he told, such plots of revenge are possible and have been known, particularly in rural parts of the realm such as theirs. I’m sure there is a hole in the window of his study, yet I confess I would be more accepting of his information if he had been able to present those threatening letters his uncle had received. Let us say that I neither accept nor totally reject what he has told us.”

  “He even acted it out with gestures as he told his story,” said I.

  “Did he?” Sir John chuckled at that. “But tell me, Jeremy, was there anything more? Something I may have missed?”

  “No … yet, perhaps one thing. I noticed a peculiar darkness about his eyes that I had not seen when I met him earlier.”

  “Hmmm. What could have caused that? I wonder. Worry? Loss of sleep? Guilt? I shall give that some thought. Now, however, I must be off for my time on the bench.”

  It was not until I had left him with Mr. Marsden that I realized I had said nothing to Sir John of the guest who had been installed in my bed. Then did I reflect
that it might be just as well so. It had been Lady Fielding’s decision to bring Clarissa in —though if consulted I would have agreed in it — and so it should probably be she who informed him of the girl’s presence. Well enough, then.

  The charcoal brazier stood by the door to Bow Street. It was there the Runners warmed their hands when they came in at night. That was when it would be missed, so it would be better taken in the daytime. It was naught but a large, round, and heavy iron pan —not flat, of course, but higher by a few inches at the circumference than at the center. It was then empty of coals, live or dead —Mr. Fuller must have taken care of that —and so was ready to be taken up the steps, carried by the handles that were attached on either side. It all could have been accomplished so easily but for the fact that just as I was making for the stairway, Mr. Fuller stepped out from his space, leading three prisoners to the courtroom, only one of whom was in hand irons. He looked at me curiously, and then a great frown knitted his features, making ugly a face that was none too handsome.

  “Here, you, Jeremy, where you goin’ with that?”

  “Up to the sick girl. Mr. Donnelly said she was to be kept warm, and there’s no fireplace in that room.”

  “Well, I s’pose it’s all right if the doctor said so. You should ask, though.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Fuller. I’m sorry.”

  Then up to the kitchen, where I shoveled some hot coals out of the fireplace and into the brazier and replaced them with fresh. I banked the fire so that it should burn well the rest of the day and provide hot coals at night when they would be needed. Then I struggled up the stairs with the brazier, now heavier than before.

  Annie was there, sitting by the bed where the patient lay asleep. She put a finger to her lips to quiet me, but it was no easy matter being quiet with such a load. On a stool near the window I placed the brazier as noiselessly as possible. Still, there was a dull clang. No matter. Clarissa slept on. Then I opened the window just a bit. Of a sudden, Annie was beside me.

  “Why do you open the window?” she scolded in a whisper. “She’ll have a draft. Twill make her worse.”