Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

  “I would have you now attend to two matters,” said he. “The first is easily done. Take the vase to Mr. Marsden, and tell him to hold it as evidence. There is a chest he keeps for that purpose with lock and key. Tell him to treat it with care, for it is, as you described it, quite fragile, and is very likely the property of William Murray, our Lord Chief Justice.” He then paused, as if in some manner he had lost his line of thought. “Lord Murray or someone from his household will have the opportunity to identify the piece eventually. There is no need for that now.”

  “And the second matter?” I prompted.

  “What? Oh yes, the second matter. I should like you to bring the toolbox to Mr. Donnelly. He should be up and about now. He has no patients at his surgery, this being Sunday, so there should be time enough for him to handle the matter I spoke to him about.”

  “There are no instructions to him, then?” “No, we’ve discussed the matter. He knows what to do.” I rose to go, then held back, wondering if Sir John might satisfy my curiosity.

  Clearly, he noticed my hesitation: “What is it, Jeremy?” “Could you tell me, sir, if you had any results in your questioning of Mrs. Bradbury and Roundtree?”

  “What? Oh, no, I haven’t talked with either of them yet.”

  “You haven’t? But you seemed so eager to talk with them.”

  “That was when I assumed there would be three to interrogate and not two. You see, there is almost invariably a certain action which takes place when there are three malefactors to be questioned. Two of them will form an alliance against the third. Had all three been there in the cell, I daresay Mrs. Bradbury and that fellow Carver would have united against Roundtree. I should then have informed Roundtree what was said against him and perhaps gotten something approaching the truth from him. In Carver’s absence, however, the remaining two have had time to set their stories, and it may take some time to break them down. I intend to convict them on a lesser charge, that I may have that time I need to keep after them on the greater one.”

  This was then for me a bit too subtle, I fear. However, I thought his working principle—given three, two will make an alliance against the third—both interesting and sound. But alliances shift, and perhaps in Jackie Carver’s absence Mrs. Bradbury and Roundtree would then have made an alliance against him.

  With this and other considerations, I entertained myself on my short journey to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery and residence.

  The magistrate’s courtroom was crowded on that day, for word had gone out that Mrs. Bradbury was to be brought before Sir John. Few in that assemblage had not done business with her or her husband in that pawnshop, and far fewer (even the thieves among them) did not feel ill used or even cheated by them. The pawnbroker is no friend of the poor. He takes from them in their need, and in exchange offers a mere pittance. He acts as a parasite upon their poverty.

  Thus it was that when Mr. Marsden called Mrs. Bradbury to stand before the magistrate, a great hum of anticipation chorused through the crowd. Still, it was not loud enough to prompt him to call all to order, nor did it last long. Sir John Fielding began.

  “Please state your name,” said he.

  “Mary Brighton Bradbury.”

  “You are the true and lawful wife of George Bradbury? “

  “I am, sir. We was married a year and a half past at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden.”

  “Are you the same Mary Brighton who was convicted by me two years past of picking a gentleman’s pocket to the extent of four shillings and a linen handkerchief?”

  Unembarrassed, she admitted it readily: “I am, sir, and I must say you’ve a good memory for names. But I am a reformed woman now. That two months I spent in the Fleet taught me the error of my ways. Also, my marriage to my dear George altered my situation considerable.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sir John, “but it would seem that your marriage to Mr. Bradbury simply elevated you to a higher place in the chain of thievery, for the charge against you in this magistrate’s court is receiving stolen goods — that is, acting, so to speak, as a fence. How do you plead?”

  “I plead not guilty, sir,” said she confidently.

  “Well, then, Mr. Marsden, call the witness.”

  The court clerk then stood up, pulled himself erect, and called Jimmie Bunkins before Sir John. After the preliminary matters—giving his name and age, establishing himself as a ward of John Bilbo —Bunkins launched into a somewhat truncated version of his first visit to Mrs. Bradbury. What was left out was all that had led to it —our visit to St. Andrew’s Churchyard, and his tentative identification of the head at Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. (It was given thus upon the request of Sir John, as I later learned.) All the rest was given just as it had happened. He made it plain to her that the goods he would bring her would be property which he would steal from a certain house by means of burglary. Hearing that, she was in no wise discouraged from accepting the goods, and together they made plans on how the loot was to be delivered to the pawnshop — at night, at the back door.

  “Then yesterday,” said Bunkins, continuing his story, “I went back to her and told her that I would that night return with a wagon filled with what I burgled from this house —though no burglary did happen, for I had told all to Sir John. It was fixed up with him that I’d come back to the pawnshop at midnight with a wagon covered over, but beneath the cover, instead of the swag, was two constables to arrest any and all in sight.”

  At this, a murmur went up within the courtroom. Though set against Mrs. Bradbury, those in attendance liked not to hear such tales of initiative by the Bow Street Runners, for many of them did themselves engage in thievery from time to time; they seemed to believe such tactics of ambush unfair. Sir John beat with his gavel and brought them back to order.

  Bunkins then concluded: “And that was how it happened. After I made sure, for a third time, that she knew the contents of the wagon was stolen goods, and she made it clear she was happy to have them so, I threw back the cover on the wagon, and the constables jumped out and they arrested two — she was one of them —but one of them got away.”

  At that last phrase — “one of them got away” —a single cheer arose from the crowd. And hearing it, the courtroom erupted into laughter. Sir John did beat mightily with his gavel until he had hammered all back to order.

  “Mr. Marsden,” he cried aloud, “did you see who it was gave that cheer?”

  “No sir, I did not.”

  “Should he open his mouth again in such a manner, have Mr. Fuller seize him, and I shall give him thirty days for contempt of my court. And the rest of you out there, I shall have respectful silence from you, or I shall have the courtroom cleared.”

  Sir John then dismissed Bunkins with his thanks and returned his attention to Mrs. Bradbury.

  “Well, then, Mrs. Bradbury, you heard the testimony against you. What say you to it?”

  “I do not deny it,” said she. “But first off, I would say that I was trapped into it. I did not go out and drag this young fella off the street and say to him, Go out and rob some great house, then bring me back the proceeds of your crime and I’ll pay you well for the goods you bring me.’ No, I said no such thing, for he came to me and proposed that he would do the crime if I should accept the goods he stole. He tempted me, and I, in my weakness —my husband has been absent near a month, with no word from him for two weeks, and business has been bad —he tempted me, and I fell.”

  “Yet you had time to reconsider your decision,” said Sir John. “When he returned to you some time later, he repeated that the goods he planned to deliver to you would be stolen, then repeated it again when he delivered what you believed to be a wagonload of these goods; he told you they were stolen. You had ample opportunity to decline on both of these occasions.”

  “Business was no better,” said she firmly. “I felt I had no choice. But as to that charge you put against me, I deny it completely.”

  “Accepting stolen goods? You deny that, do you, after the testimony a
gainst you that we have just heard?”

  “Of course I do, for you must tell me, what goods was stolen? The wagon brought into our yard contained naught but two constables. What good in resale would they bring?”

  Again, the courtroom exploded into laughter. Sir John himself unwillingly joined in, so that he could hardly make good his threat to clear the courtroom. He simply waited until it had subsided and something like quiet had been restored.

  Only then did he speak: “Madam, were you a man and had not been caught in this illegal enterprise, I would advise you to read for the bar. You would make a fair barrister, for though you have brought disorder to my courtroom with your remark, you have made a good point. Indeed there were no stolen goods in the wagon. But if and when we open your shop to those who have been robbed in the past year, let us say, then I doubt not that they would discover many items in your store that had once been theirs.”

  “If they do, sir,” said she, “they will find pawn tickets attached. And how is the poor pawnbroker to know if goods brought into the shop truly belongs to him who brought them in, or has been stolen from another?”

  “That is an argument frequently made by those in your trade —and with some effect. So we shall put that aside, at least for the time being, and reconsider, rather, the charge that has been brought against you. I take it from what you yourself have admitted to so far, that while you reject the charge of receiving stolen goods, you would plead guilty to a charge of entering into a conspiracy to receive such goods.”

  “Well, I …” She hesitated, searching for a proper response.

  “Come, madam, you have said you fell to temptation. In fact, you fell thrice, for on two subsequent occasions when you had the opportunity to withdraw from the agreement you had made, you failed to do so. That agreement constituted a conspiracy to receive stolen goods. You must plead guilty.”

  She sighed a most profound sigh. “I suppose I must.”

  “Then I accept your guilty plea,” said Sir John, “and I sentence you to sixty days of incarceration, to be served both here in the strong room of the Bow Street Court and in the Fleet Prison, at my discretion.”

  There was a bit of whispering at that, for none present had ever heard him divide a sentence in such a way. I, however, understood completely what lay behind it.

  “Mr. Fuller, take the prisoner, and, Mr. Marsden, call the next before me.”

  “Thomas Roundtree,” cried the clerk.

  He came shuffling forward. Despondent and dejected he may have been, though not yet in despMr. There was yet a glint in his eye. He seemed to be a man who yet held out hope. Perhaps he had made an alliance with himself against the other two.

  “Thomas Roundtree, you are here as a fugitive from justice,” said Sir John. “You fled a guardian appointed by the court and remained as a fugitive for one day shy of two weeks. Is this not true?”

  “Yes sir, it is.” He spoke up strong and steady. No, he did not sound like a man who had given up hope.

  “And you were apprehended at Bradbury’s pawnshop by the constables who arrested Mrs. Bradbury. How came you to be there?”

  “Well, sir, Mrs. Bradbury had given me shelter, which was kind of her. She had a fear that with her husband gone she might be the victim of robbers. So she wanted a man about the house at night to guard against that. Then I took care of the shop when she would go out for a meal.”

  “Did you, on those occasions when you tended shop, claim to be George Bradbury?”

  He hesitated at that. The question had taken him off guard. “I might’ve,” said he. “I remembers one such time.”

  “Did Mrs. Bradbury know that you were a fugitive from the law?”

  “No, she didn’t, sir. I kept that from her.’

  “I see. I shall not ask her to confirm that, for I’m sure she would. When you were captured by the constables, Mr. Roundtree, another man was present who managed to escape. Who was that man?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir — an acquaintance of Mrs. Bradbury’s, I s’pose.”

  “Well, we shall have occasion to speak of this in the future, Mr. Roundtree, for your penalty for two weeks as a fugitive will be two months in gaol. If that seems severe to you, it should not —for a very handsome offer was made to you to encourage your surrender, and you chose to ignore it.”

  “I had responsibilities that prevented me, sir.”

  “Well and good. We shall have ample opportunity to discuss those responsibilities of yours, as well, for I stipulate that you, as well, will divide your sentence between the Bow Street strong room and the Fleet Prison, at my discretion.” He brought down his gavel, beating a single stroke upon the table. “Mr. Marsden, does that conclude our business for the day?”

  “It does, sir.”

  “Then my court is adjourned.”

  As he rose, so also did I and most of those about me. One question remained in my mind as I moved against the crowd toward the door through which Sir John had just passed. That question was this: Why had not Sir John presented the Chinese vase—presumably the property of the Lord Chief Justice —as evidence against either Mrs. Bradbury or Roundtree? Why he had not I could not rightly say, but I was sure that it was not simply an oversight.

  Exiting the courtroom through that door into what Sir John did call the “backstage” of his court, I saw Mr. Fuller herding his charges back into the strong room. He turned the key in the great lock and it snapped into place with a loud sound, something between a click and a clang. Roundtree caught sight of me through the bars and greeted me with a sober nod and nothing more.

  I made my way back to find Sir John and encountered him in conversation with Mr. Marsden. He broke off at my approach and greeted me by name upon my arrival.

  “Ah, Jeremy,” said he, “I hope you, too, have not come to tax me on the handling of that Bradbury woman. Mr. Marsden here has said that I gave her far too much rope.”

  “What I said, Sir John, was that giving her that much rope was an encouragement to every pickpocket and thief who comes before you to give you sauce.”

  “Well, perhaps,” said he. “What do you think, Jeremy?”

  “What do I think? Well, you were a bit more lenient with her than I would have expected.”

  “Should’ve given her three months stead of two,” put in Mr. Marsden.

  “If I cannot break her down in two months, then I cannot do it in three. She will have bested me. She has a clever mind, that woman. For that reason I mean to take a rest before seeing her. Jeremy, perhaps you could return in an hour or an hour and a half and wake me, if need be. I shall be in my chambers napping at my desk. Until then, Mr. Marsden, allow no one back there, will you?”

  “No one at all, Sir John.”

  He began to move off toward his sanctuary, then turned back and called me to him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Jeremy, it might be good to have a wash and change your clothes. They smell as though you’ve been sleeping in them.”

  Stung, embarrassed, I sought to defend myself: “I have been doing so, sir. I have had to ever since she occupied my room.”

  “I know, it could not have been easy for you, sleeping before the fire. But do freshen up, eh? Must think of others, mustn’t we?”

  Then did he turn and go, leaving me much abashed.

  Well, there was naught to do but attend to it immediately. I rushed upstairs and found the kitchen deserted and the fire dwindling. I heaped on coals, put on a log, and a great pot of water, as well. Where was Annie? There being no concert at the Crown and Anchor this Sunday, she was no doubt off to choir rehearsal —I seemed to recall that. As for Lady Fielding, having made her visit to church, she had probably gone off, as she did daily, to look in at the Magdalene Home. And what about Clarissa?

  I dashed up the stairs and found her reading in bed. She looked up, smiled, and returned to her reading — of Tom Jonej, as I noted. Grabbing my good coat and breeches from the hook where they hung, I started out the room.<
br />
  “A clean shirt, as well,” she called after me. “There’s one on the shelf.”

  “I know where they’re kept,” said I—yet there seemed no malice in her reminder.

  “You’ll look quite grand,” said she. “I’ve admired that bottle-green coat these past days. You should wear it more often.”

  “Weill-”

  “Oh, but I know! You’ve not worn it because I was here and you did not wish to disturb me.”

  “That’s partly true,” said I.

  But still she continued: “Jeremy Proctor, I’ve not thanked you properly for giving me the loan of your room. That was generous of you, more than generous—for Lady Fielding was quick to say that you volunteered it. I am grateful to all in this household —and to that handsome Mr. Donnelly, as well — but to you most especially for giving me, if only for a few days, what I have never before had: a room of my own.” Then an afterthought: “Oh, and for Tom Jonej, too, of course. And whatever betide, I would have you remember that.”

  All this was delivered in her grandest manner, which was very grand indeed. Lacking her taste for florid statement, I knew not quite what to say. I could but mumble a commonplace response. “You’re quite welcome, certainly.”

  “Remember that always,” said she, reaching out to take my hand.

  With my arms full of coat, breeches, and shirt, it was no easy matter to give it to her. But then did I remember something that ought be said.

  “Clarissa, I shall be taking a bath now. I should appreciate a bit of privacy.”

  “Oh, pooh!” said she, separating her hand from mine. “D’you think I would spy upon you? I’ve not the interest in naked lads that you seem to have in nekkid women!” Thus did her nature swiftly shift shape.

  “Until later then, Miss Pooh,” said I, turning my back on her and departing down the stairs.

  A bit farther on, as I soaped and splashed in the narrow confines of the tin tub, I thought upon that speech she had made me and wondered if she had not perchance adapted it from one of her romances. Then, thinking upon it further, something troubling came to me: her speech had the tone of a farewell, and that I thought a bit premature. Mr. Donnelly had not pronounced her well, nor would she likely leave us till a place had been found for her in service at one of the great houses in St. James Street or Bloomsbury Square, or, worse thought, till she was put upon a coach with a guardian and shipped off to Lichfield. Ah, no doubt she had simply been carried away by her own rhetoric. Such excesses were not infrequent with her.