“I shall seat you just left the door,” said he, “away from the rest. As soon as the musician is done, you may simply go up to Sir John and deliver your message. He sits, I believe, in the first row of chairs.”
Nodding my agreement, I thanked him and was led in through the double doors. He pointed out to me three empty chairs placed against the wall and gave me my choice of them. As I seated myself in the nearest of them, I glanced back at the butler and saw that he had taken a place beyond the door on the other side. There he stood—though not for long. I saw him waved over by none other than Lord Laningham himself. The lord—perhaps exercising the host’s prerogative — sat in a corner apart from his guests and a bit out of their sight. That struck me as a bit odd, though never having attended such an affair as this one, I had no particular reason to suppose it so. He gave to Mr. Poole an instruction of some sort and sent his servant out the double doors.
The music continued somewhat monotonously. It seemed to have had a soporific effect upon the dozen or so who were seated in the chairs directly before … what was it? The fortepiano? Yes, that was the name of the instrument; I recalled it from the invitation. A few young men in the second row of chairs seemed to be nodding, though Mr. Donnelly seemed quite alert. Of those in the first row, Thomas Trezavant, the coroner—whose abundant form quite overwhelmed his chair —rested his chin upon his chest, evidently deep in slumber; Sir John may have appeared to those who did not know him well to be dozing, yet I knew him well enough to recognize his attitude as one of cogitation; the women — Lady Fielding and the black-clad females of Lord Laningham s immediate family—were all of them admirably attentive.
I confess that the seemingly endless repetitions and minute variations of the music also began to have a dulling effect upon my own brain. No doubt I was tired from my great rush to arrive at this place. In fact, I myself had begun to nod, so that I missed the butler’s reentry into the room. Yet shaking myself to a wakeful state, I made a swift survey of the room and saw Mr. Poole bending to offer Lord Laningham a wine bottle and an empty glass upon a serving tray. So the lord had sent his butler off for a tipple —how ignoble of him! He would drink while his guests thirsted. Perhaps that was why he had chosen that secluded corner to listen to the concert. Yet he made no further effort to hide his purpose. He allowed the glass to be filled, then indicated by his sign that he wished the bottle to be left on a small table nearby. Immediately the butler had left him, he gulped down the contents of the glass and poured another — even shaking the bottle a bit as he did so. (To what purpose? I wondered.) I should not have thought him so keen for claret—yet of course I hardly knew the man. But then did I remember a detail told by the late Lady Laningham: that when the late Lord Laningham had called for the bottle of wine from his table, Arthur Paltrow had insisted on drinking from it before he would allow it to be taken away. Perhaps he who had hosted this dignified occasion was a secret sot, as much a slave to good claret as Roundtree was to common gin. I resolved to mention this to Sir John.
He drank as a sot would drink, gulping down the second glass as quickly as the first. But then, his greedy desire temporarily satisfied, he sat back as if he intended to relax—yet could not. Something in him denied him repose. Was it an immediate thirst for another glass of wine? Or had perhaps guilt possessed him that he had given in so completely to his need. In any case, though tense, he remained back in his chair and made no further move toward the wine bottle.
Had only I seen this? I looked at Mr. Poole. He was back at his post, erect, head turned neither to the right nor to the left, the serving tray now tucked under his arm. Apparently he had witnessed nothing. Not wishing to stare (I had attempted to see all I had seen by means of repeated glances), I willed my attention elsewhere, focusing for the first time really upon the musician who, after his fashion, entertained us. Mr. John Christian Bach was a short, thickset man who wore a wig, no doubt to cover a balding head and perhaps for warmth, as well. Though much of him was hidden behind the great large instrument that he played, I judged him to be thickset by the size and movement of his wide shoulders, and I knew him as short by the fact that his feet bare touched the pedals of the fortepiano. Mr. Bach must indeed have been famous, for even then I, who had no real knowledge of the London music world, had heard his name. (In fact, he was Music Master to the King, and his appearance that night must have cost Lord Laningham dear.) Nevertheless, I liked his music little —monotonous it seemed, with none of the joy of Handel.
Still, I listened closely, attempting to judge him fairly. And listening closely, I soon began again to nod.
Then, of a sudden, I was brought up sharp by a sound, a most remarkable sound, which issued from that corner of the room which the host had taken as his own. It was a long, sustained “Ohhh,” which was moaned out in the most frightening way that could be. I looked immediately to my right and saw that Lord Laningham was on his feet, swaying uncertainly. Others looked, too, turning in their chairs, mouths all agape. Mr. Poole hurried to his master. Yet too late he was, for just as he arrived, Lord Laningham collapsed upon the floor and began most hideously to vomit.
I rushed to him, as did the rest. It took but a moment for all to be crowding about him in much the same manner as the musicians and members of the chorus had pressed upon the dying man on the stage of the Crown and Anchor. And Lord Laningham —that is, Arthur Paltrow — did regurgitate the contents of his stomach just as violently as had his uncle before him. One paramount difference there was, however, between the two occasions, and that lay in the fact that through all this turmoil, indeed for many minutes after it had begun, Mr. John Christian Bach continued to play in the same manner as before; this lent a bizarre element to all that transpired—-the shouting of the men, the screaming of the women, and with it the repeated revolutions of the fortepiano.
Because I was perhaps a bit closer, or quicker on my feet, I reached the prone figure just after Mr. Poole. Seeing the vomit gush forth from his mouth and spread upon the carpet, I called out one bit of advice — “Turn him on his side that he may not drown!” — and saw it promptly followed by the butler. Then there was much more advice shouted.
“Give him room!”
“Give him air!”
“Call a doctor!”
But of course, a doctor was present. Mr. Donnelly was down on his knee beside the sick man, attempting to push back the rest of the people. Then did I hear my name called in a voice most familiar.
“Jeremy! Jeremy Proctor! Are you here? Did I hear your voice?”
It was Sir John. I glimpsed him on the periphery of the encroaching circle where he had been led by Lady Fielding. I fought my way out of the crush, and in a moment I was by his side.
“How long have you been here? Did you see what happened before his collapse?”
“I did, sir. I came because Roundtree —”
“No, listen,” he interrupted. “Lead me away from all this mad shouting, and tell me what you saw.”
And suppressing my desire to tell of my triumph as an interrogator, I did exactly as he had instructed me. Again, as I had done at the Crown and Anchor, I gave him all the events that I had witnessed — the call for the bottle of claret, the rapid guzzling of two full glasses, and, oh yes, the shaking of the bottle ere he poured the second glass. The last detail interested Sir John greatly.
“You say he shook the bottle? As if to mix its contents?”
“Well, yes, more or less, I suppose.”
“Then, Jeremy, I must have that bottle from which he drank.”
“But Mr. Donnelly said there is no proper test for …” Somehow I dared not say the word.
“Get it, lad, for I have a test of my own.”
Taking that as a direct order, I hastened back to those clustered round the fallen Lord Laningham and saw immediately that the bottle remained still on the small table, and remained also— mlrabile dictu!— upright; not a drop of its contents had spilled. I leaned over and grabbed it, and with it firmly in ha
nd I stepped back. And as I did, my eyes came in direct contact with those of Lady Laningham. She looked sharply at me, though her expression registered neither shock nor disapproval. Then she shifted her gaze to where it properly belonged: to her distressed husband. He was at that moment being raised by Mr. Poole and the largest of the young gentlemen, under the direction of Mr. Donnelly.
“Put him in his bed,” said the medico to them. “I shall fetch my bag and do all I can for him.”
Then did I return to Sir John and tell him that I had the bottle, and it was half full.
“Good. Now I believe I heard Mr. Donnelly say that he was going off to tend Lord Laningham. Has he left? Can you bring him to me?”
I could, and I did, detaining him at the door as he was about to make his exit. He came willingly enough, though he obviously felt his duty lay with him who was at that moment borne into the hallway.
“Yes, Sir John, what would you with me?”
“I’ll not detain you long,” said the magistrate in a voice low as a whisper. “What I have heard from Jeremy leads me to believe that Lord Laningham himself may have purposely brought on his condition.”
“Poisoned hinwelf? That seems a bit far-fetched, Sir John.”
“Perhaps, but could he not produce the same symptoms with a simple emetic? The vomiting, of course, is real enough, but could not the extreme condition be performed as a bit of theater?”
“Well, it is possible, I suppose. I’ll look for signs of it. Still, it does seem quite like a repetition of the same fatal disorder I saw in the late lord.”
“If he lives, I shall be suspicious,” said Sir John.
“If he lives,” said Mr. Donnelly, “you may attribute it to my powers as a physician.”
And then, ducking his head sharply in a hasty bow, he turned on his heel and left us. I fear he was somewhat miffed at Sir John.
“Now, Jeremy, you may tell me what you wished to regarding Roundtree.”
That I did very quickly, emphasizing that we had but to promise that we would keep Clarissa safe with us until Jackie Carver be caught, and Roundtree would tell all he had told me and more to Sir John.
“So that was why he held back from me so resolutely!” said the magistrate. “He feared for his daughter. I had not thought him an altogether bad sort. Sad, is it not, what poverty will force a man to do?”
“He awaits you, Sir John.”
“Ah, but I cannot go just yet. I must put questions to the butler — Poole, I believe, is the fellow’s name. I must find out from him if the bottle from which Lord Laningham drank was taken from the general supply, or if it had been laid aside specially for his master’s own consumption.”
“Would you like me to remain for that, sir?”
“No, I think it best that you go back to Bow Street. Lady Fielding can help me about this place. You, I think, should continue to talk to Roundtree — no need to question him further, simply keep his spirits up. Tell him I accept his condition and promise to keep his daughter safe. Tell him also that I shall be with him in less than an hour.”
“I will do so, Sir John.”
With that, I turned to go, but was detained by his hand upon my arm.
“But one thing more. Take that bottle of claret with you. Find a cork and stopper it. It might be safest to take a hackney for your return. I’ll not have you dropping it along the way. Have you enough for the fare?” I have, sir.
“Then on your way.”
I found Lady Fielding at the door, Mr. Trezavant beside her. Both were engaged in murmuring comforting words to Lady Laningham and their daughters, Charity and Felicity. I waited patiently by her side until the moment when her inspiration flagged and a pause came. I then touched her on the shoulder, and having her attention, pointed into the room at Sir John, who waited alone where I had left him. She nodded to me, excused herself, and went to him.
And I, reader, I went off in search of a cork.
Upon my return I went direct to Constable Baker and handed over to him the bottle of wine. He took it and held it up to the light.
“Half full, I see,” said he with a wink. “Good stuff, is it?”
“You might not think so if you’d seen what happened to him who drank from it.”
“Oh? What did happen, then?”
“Poisoned him.”
“Is he dead?”
“Not yet. But last I looked, he seemed on his way.”
“Ah, well, then no need to sample it. I’ll put it away under lock and key in Mr. Marsden’s evidence box.”
“You might label it poison, as well, lest Mr. Marsden be similarly tempted in the morning.”
“I might indeed, or leave him a note.”
“Any word from Mr. Cowley on our prisoner?” I asked.
“Not a word. No news is good news, I reckon. I did hear the chains rattling a bit some time ago. Most likely your prisoner’s asleep.”
“If not, I shall talk with him a bit more until Sir John arrives.”
“Do send Cowley back to me, would you?” said Mr. Baker. “Though it’s a bit early, I feel a great hunger coming upon me. I believe I’ll send him out for dinner.”
And so, with a wave, I left him. Having remarked upon his hunger, he had reminded me of my own. Far more than keep company further with Roundtree, I should have preferred to go upstairs to the meal that I was certain Annie had saved for me. Still, I saw the good sense of Sir John’s instruction. I had led Roundtree to the water of salvation. It would not do to allow him now to back away.
Upon reaching the door, which was but half open, I did hear heavy breathing— a light snore —that indicated he I had come to visit was indeed asleep. I hesitated a moment, considering whether it might not be better to allow him to sleep a bit longer that I might go up and eat my cold dinner; but indeed no, I had received my orders, and I would carry them out — even if it meant wasting an hour sitting by a sleeping prisoner. I pushed the door gently open so as not to waken him. What, then, did I find?
Not Roundtree, but Constable Cowley it was who slept —quite comfortably in a chair set in a far corner of the room.
The prisoner was nowhere to be seen.
I leapt to the place he had been — to the empty chair —and found chains and hand irons still attached to the link driven into the floor. Then, looking about, I saw the box of tools was also gone. Had I left it within his reach? No, I was certain I had not. Yet I examined the hand irons and the chain, and I was relieved to find no marks of a file upon them. What I did find, however, was bits of shaved skin and blood smeared over them, and I immediately understood that somehow he had made those long hands of his narrow enough so that he had managed to squeeze out of the irons. The gore and scrapings left on the manacles was the price he had paid for his freedom. It must indeed have been a painful escape. Yes, of course, I saw the open window, and the chair standing to it. He had gone out there, taking the toolbox with him—all that while Cowley slept. Well, he would sleep no longer.
I went to him and shook him roughly.
“Mr. Cowley,” said I, near shouting in his ear, “awake! You have let the prisoner escape.”
Even so, I had to shout his name a second time before his eyes came open.
“What …” said he, the thickness of sleep still upon him, ‘what did you say?”
I repeated the plain fact of the matter and pointed to the prisoner’s empty chair.
Then did his sleepy eyes widen. Then did he jump from his chair.
“Oh, God,” he wailed, “oh, dear God!”
At that moment came the sound of running footsteps, and Mr. Baker leaned through the door. “Did I hear it aright? The prisoner’s gone?”
This time I pointed to the open window.
“Oh, Cowley,” said the constable, with a shake of his head, “you’ve crapped it for certain this time. We’ve never before lost a prisoner out of Number Four Bow Street. Could you not stay awake for once?”
“What can I do? What shall we do?” he moaned.
I feared he might commence to weep.
“The first thing you can do,” said I, “is go out and search every part of the yard in back and make sure the prisoner is not hiding somewhere there. That’s where these windows lead.”
“I’ll do it!” he yelled —and ran from the room.
“And don’t forget to look in the privy!” Mr. Baker called after him.
But then we heard the door slam and could not be sure Mr. Cowley had heard or no.
“What can be done? ” I asked Mr. Baker, appealing to him as the wisest and most experienced of us three.
“Well, where would this fellow, this …”
“Roundtree.”
“Where would Roundtree go? Think on it.”
That I did, concentrating most hard upon the question. At last I said: “I can think of only two places.”
“Then go to them. Take Cowley with you. He’s armed, got a brace of good pistols by his side. You’ll need a constable with you to take your prisoner back again.”
No doubt he was right. “But what of his leg—the wound? Can he travel?”
“Bugger his leg and his bloody wound. If he don’t bring back the prisoner, he’ll have no job to return to. If he’d showed a bit of sense, he’d not have gotten that knife in his leg in the first place.”
I nodded my understanding, yet perhaps withheld my agreement. I was not at all sure Sir John would let him go over such an offense, for he had treated it lightly when Roundtree escaped from me. On the other hand, the fellow was then not known to be witness to murder. And as for the other, I knew not the exact circumstances of his wounding.
“And yet a thing more,” added Mr. Baker. “When you get out there with him, chasing your man, you take command. Tell Cowley what to do. That poor cod can follow orders right enough, but without someone to tell him, he’s plain lost. You hear me, Jeremy?”
Jack, Knave and Fool Page 32