Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

  “And now,” dictated Sir John to me, his amanuensis, “we come to the matter of Clarissa Roundtree. As chance would have it, she was at the time of her father’s escape in our household recovering from a fit of pneumonia. In spite of her condition, she aided those who went out to search for him. It was her intention to persuade him to surrender. When she arrived in the room they shared, which was where he was first sought, she found her father dying, only a minute or two earlier struck down by him who had done the murder of George Bradbury. Her scream at this shocking sight brought the constable and another who had aided in the search. The constable shot the murderer dead.

  “Because of Clarissa Roundtree s aid in this matter, and because Lady Fielding has taken an interest in the girl, I have decided on her behalf to decline your kind offer to welcome her back to the Lichfield poorhouse. Though she is young, she is exceptionally bright, and may even at her present age of twelve be put out for service on the staff of one of the great houses hereabouts. My wife and I have access to a few of them and should be able to find a place suitable for her. Thus it should not be necessary for the Parish of Lichfield to bear the cost of her upbringing. That, I am sure, is a resolution that should satisfy you and the parish board. In my firm certainty of this, I remain, Yr. humble and obedient servant, John Fielding, Magistrate, City of London and City of Westminster.”

  I had just written so far and was blowing upon the paper to dry the last lines, when a great commotion was heard in the hallway outside —a familiar voice shouting loud, “Where is he, damn it?” followed by thunderous footsteps. Then did William Murray, the Lord Chief Justice, come bustling into the room. His entrances seemed ever to be made in this fashion.

  “Ah, there you are!” said he, as if he had discovered Sir John in hiding.

  “Indeed, here I am, and ready to discuss with you the matter of the letter I wrote you yesterday. That, I assume, is why you have come.”

  “That and another matter, as well.”

  “Very kind of you to come to me, my lord. I should have gladly made the trip to Bloomsbury Square.”

  I stood awkwardly to one side, the unsigned letter in my hand. Sir John did not invite me to leave. The Lord Chief Justice paid me no mind. And so I slipped off to one corner to listen and heard all.

  Lord Murray threw off his greatcoat, tossed it aside, and dropped into the chair I had lately vacated. He leaned forward so pugnaciously that he seemed near ready to engage in fisticuffs with his blind opponent.

  “Let us put all such pleasant preliminaries aside and get down to it, shall we?” said he. “Now, as you well know, when one in the Army or the Navy is wounded past service, he is paid a lump sum and put out on his own.”

  “Put out indeed with a bowl to beg, my lord. It is a national disgrace.”

  “Be that as it may, the precedent has been set. What makes you think that your constables deserve better?”

  “I have reasons, right enough, and they are two. First of all, they are constables, whose work it is to keep peace in the Cities of Westminster and London. They are not many, but they do a good work of it. Could any gainsay that? I believe not. Just think of the criminal disorder in the streets before my brother, God bless his memory, put together this force —robberies in broad daylight, shootings, knifings. Why, one had to go about with sword and pistol to protect what was in his purse. The only force against the lawless was the independent thief-takers who were themselves criminals. The community knows this, and they are grateful to the Runners. Why was I knighted but for their work? The community makes the distinction between my Bow Street Runners and soldiers and sailors even if you do not. They hold them in higher esteem because they protect them directly. The poor wretches who take the King’s shilling or are pressed into service, the public regards as mere cannon fodder sent off to fight in foreign wars whose outcome affects them only indirectly—if at all.”

  To give him credit, the Lord Chief Justice listened attentively through all this. He even nodded once or twice, whether in agreement or to signal his understanding, I know not. Yet when Sir John had concluded, he gave but a cold response.

  “You said that you have a second reason.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “I await it.”

  “It is this: Mr. Cowley should be given a pension as an example to all the other constables. If he is not given one, if he does, as limbless soldiers and sailors do, appear as a beggar on a street corner—then think of the effect this would have upon my Beak Runners. They would look at him and say to themselves, ‘There is my future.’ They constitute a small force, my lord, yet they quell riots, they hold mobs at bay, they pursue murderers into dark corners. Would they do this so willingly, so fearlessly, if they knew that a serious wound, the loss of a limb, would put them on a street corner opposite Mr. Cowley, begging, hoping to collect enough each day that they might survive the next? No, my lord, I think not. Would you? /would not. If, on the other hand, they hear that Mr. Cowley has been granted a pension —if they meet him on the street and hear from him that he is learning a trade and will soon be able to support himself and his young wife with it—then they will know that whatever happens, they will be provided for. And they will pursue their duties as boldly as ever.”

  “From what you say,” said the other, “I suppose that should a married constable be killed in the line of duty, you would argue that his wife should receive a pension.”

  “Though I had not considered it,” said Sir John, “I think that an excellent suggestion, for all the reasons I have just given, and I thank you for it.”

  The Lord Chief Justice, having tasted Sir John’s tart irony, offered him a rather sour look. “I believe that some years ago one of your constables lost an arm. What became of him?”

  “That would be Mr. Perkins, an altogether exceptional man. You’re right, my lord, he did lose his arm just about at the elbow in that notorious melee in the bookshop. Yet he trained that remaining arm of his so that it had the strength of two in it —perhaps three. He proved to me that a one-armed constable can be as aggressive, as capable as any with two. But really, there is no comparison between a man with one arm and one with one leg. You must see that.”

  “Couldn’t you find work for this fellow Cowley here at the court? Something to justify paying him something?”

  “I could try. I will try. But a man with one leg cannot handle prisoners, and Mr. Cowley has not education enough to be of much help to my clerk — though perhaps that might be possible. We shall see. Let me say that Mr. Cowley was exceptional among the Runners only in that he was the youngest of them, and that he had no military experience. He performed bravely when called upon, as he did on his last night of duty, but he lacked initiative. He made errors. I shall even reveal what might turn you against him somewhat. The amputation of his leg was necessitated because he did not care for his wound, as any man with military experience would have done. I shall not take another onto my force of men who has not previously soldiered. But I argue for Mr. Cowley’s pension not because he is the most deserving, but rather for the respect the Runners are due and the need to maintain their moral integrity and high standard of performance.”

  At last the Lord Chief Justice leaned back in his chair, still frowning, yet now in deep consideration.

  “You know, sir, you should have been a barrister,” said he.

  At that Sir John laughed most heartily. “Forgive me, Lord Murray, but I recently said the same thing to a quick-witted woman who has quite confounded me. And I fear that neither I then, nor you now, meant it as flattery.”

  “No indeed, sir, I meant it as plain fact. You plead your case most persuasively—and all on principle. I tremble to think what this may cost us, but I am inclined to yield to your arguments. But good God, three-quarters of his established wage! That is simply too much. Why not half?”

  “Why not? Because Mr. Cowley, being the youngest and least experienced constable on the force, received the lowest wage. He married recently,
however— not so much impetuously as it was out of moral obligation. His wife, as I have heard it bruited about among the constables, was with child at the time of their wedding. The two of them —nay, three — simply could not survive if he were put on half-pay. He would soon be forced to go begging to make up for what he lost.”

  Silence, scowling silence from the Lord Chief Justice. Until at last: “What would you say to two-thirds?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Sir John elevated his chin in an attitude of concentration. One would think that the magistrate was doing sums in his head. “Well … yes,” said he. “I believe that they can make do on that.”

  “Two-thirds it is, then. But let it be understood that you will make some effort to find work for him at your court, or get him with someone who will teach him a trade. In other words, sir, it should be understood that I do not see this as a pension tor the term of his natural life.”

  “Understood and agreed.” Had Sir John had his gavel at hand, I believe he would have pounded the table with it; in lieu of that, he gave it a resounding slap with the palm of his hand. “Now, what more have we to discuss? You said, as I recall, my lord, that you brought two matters with you.”

  “Indeed. Word has reached me that you are holding back from me a murderess, Sir John. Do you do this out of some special consideration for the weaker sex? For if she be truly a murderess, then she is strong enough to hang for it.”

  “No, I hold her back so as to save us both from embarrassment. I simply do not believe that there is evidence enough against her to convict her.”

  “Do you believe her guilty?”

  “I do, yes. Though she likely did not plunge the dagger, I believe she conspired in her husband’s death.”

  The Lord Chief Justice gave an indifferent shrug. “The same thing,” said he.

  “Perhaps, but the two witnesses who could make her party to the crime are both dead. We have no body, only an uncertain identification of the victim’s head. We cannot even prove on direct testimony that murder was committed, though we have it on hearsay from one of the dead witnesses that murder was done.”

  “This is all rather confusing. I tell you, what I should like is a memorandum from you laying out the crime and whatever evidence, uncertain or hearsay, that you may have against her. I’ll look it over, and if I feel there is a fair chance to convict, I’ll ask for an indictment and put her on trial. I’ll try the case myself. I like a good murder.”

  “I have her incarcerated in the Fleet Prison on a lesser charge. Would it not be better to wait a bit? I might be able to break her story with repeated interrogations.”

  “You seem somewhat doubtful.”

  “Well, I have talked twice to her, and she has not altered her account, not one jot or tittle. Twice is not many, and she might tire and weaken sometime in the future, though she shows no sign of it now. She is wily, clever, and stubborn. She is, in fact, the one whom I told that she should have been a barris-ter.

  “Then on that alone I should consider her worthy for trial. Please do as I suggest and prepare the memorandum, Sir John. I think matters such as this are best handled when they are hot.”

  “My lord, your wish is my command, your whim my desire.”

  Then did the Lord Chief Justice let out a great chortle as he rose from his chair. “Ha!” saiid he. “Would that it were so. I seem to lose as many to you as I win. This time again I believe I’ve made even with you.”

  Then, with no more goodbye than an indifferent wave, he turned and left for the coach-and-four that awaited him in Bow Street —swiftly as he had come.

  Sir John listened to the departing footsteps, then turned in my direction, knowing exactly in which corner of the room I had taken shelter.

  “There is a lesson for you, Jeremy,” said he. “In negotiating, you must always ask for more than you expect to get. I did not suppose for a moment that Lord Murray would agree to three-quarters pay. Mr. Cowley can scrape by on two-thirds, even with a child. I’ll tell him so myself. And if he cannot, I’ll raise my fines a bit. We’ll not let him down.”

  “And the other matter, sir?”

  “There I believe the chief judge is making an error of judgment.” And to that he would add no more.

  Upon my return from posting the letter to Lichfield, I hied upstairs to the kitchen in search of Clarissa. She had languished somewhat since her ordeal. Her recovery from her pneumonia was complete, said Mr. Donnelly, yet still she wore a bandage about her neck to protect that prick beneath her ear given her by Jackie Carver. That, too, mended well under our care. Yet her mental state seemed low: she was unnaturally silent, especially at meals, which she now took with us; only with Annie, with whom she now slept, did she enjoy any degree of companionship. They had told one another their life stories, and Annie’s was every bit as sad as hers; thus they had become sisters in tragedy. To me she had had bare ten words to say since that terrible night. That troubled me.

  I found her in the kitchen next the fireplace, book in hand; she had progressed to the sixth and last volume of Tom Jonu (her reading, at least, had continued apace). At my entrance, she looked up and mumbled my Christian name in greeting, and then returned to her book.

  “I have good news for you, Miss Pooh,” said I, with a teasing smile. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “I’m sure I must, since you seem determined to tell it.”

  Undeterred by her waspish reply, I gave forth: “Only this moment I’ve returned from the letter office, where I posted a letter from Sir John to the Magistrate of Lichfield.”

  She sighed a deep sigh. “Then is my fate sealed.”

  “Not so,” I protested. “Did I not say that I brought good news? Since I myself took the letter in dictation from Sir John, I know its contents. In it, he said that because of the help you volunteered in returning your lather to custody—”

  “Which we both know to be a pack of lies,” she interrupted.

  “—and because Lady Fielding had taken an interest in you,” said I, pressing on, “he had decided not to return you to Lichfield, but rather to find a place for you on the household staff of one of the great houses of London. There! Now what do you think of that? “

  Quite expecting her to jump from her chair in joy at my news, I was more than a little disappointed at her listless reply: “Well, I suppose that is better than returning to the poorhouse. But then, anything would be.”

  “Surely you cannot mean that,” said I. “Why, there are hundreds of girls in London — thousands—who would be eager for such a chance as you are offered now.”

  “Then they are wrong,” said she, “for they know not what awaits them — as kitchen slaveys, scrubbing away at pots and pans, or perhaps as maids of all work to be chased by the master or the butler until they yield, then leave in disgrace with their apron high.”

  “You’re quoting from the romances now,” said I, though I knew there was some truth in what she said.

  “Annie’s experience was not so much different, and in some ways worse.”

  “Her master did monstrous deeds, and he was punished for them.”

  “Those were not the deeds for which he was punished.”

  She was difficult in argument, no doubt of that. Yet I persisted: “There are many houses with decent masters —and reasonable butlers, though as a class of men I do not think highly of them myself. I’m sure Sir John and Lady Fielding would install you in a good situation — perhaps … oh, perhaps in the staff of the Lord Chief Justice in Bloomsbury Square. Now there is a man who would tolerate no untoward behavior among any in his employ. Oh, and there are others —many others, I’m sure.”

  She said nothing, simply looked up at me quite dubiously.

  “And as for Annie,” I added rather irrelevantly, “things turned out well for her, did they not? She is happy, is she not?”

  “So would I be— here”

  Ah, so that was it. Once in our little domestic circle, she had no wish to leave it. Well, I could n
ot blame her for that. I remembered my own feelings when I, not much older than Clarissa was at that moment, looked forward to an apprenticeship in the printing trade (one that I knew well, for my father was a printer). Though I had come to London hoping for just such an appointment, once I had moved into Sir John’s orbit I felt a gravitational pull as with some great heavenly body, a pull which I -was loath to break. I, too, wanted to stay at Bow Street —and I was quite overjoyed when it was permitted me. Was it so with her? Or did she but fear the unknown?

  I did at last manage a response, albeit one that avoided altogether the issue raised by her: “Well, I brought you the news of the letter because it concerned you and because I thought you would be eager to know it.”

  “And I thank you for that,” said she with a curt nod, which I took to be one of dismissal.

  That annoyed me so that I spoke to her rather harshly. “What right have you to treat me so rudely?” I demanded, “sending me on my way like some servant. Why, were it not for me and the lie I told, you would be on your way to Lichfield in the company of a constable or a beadle, or whatever. Yet ever since your return from that terrible night, you have been quiet. I can understand that, considering what you witnessed and how you were threatened. But you have been rudely quiet to me. Miss Pooh, you have snubbed me, and I wish to know why.”

  Then did she rise from her chair and meet me face-to-face. “Why? I will tell you why. You knew that my father was captive down on the floor below us that entire day, and yet you did not so much as whisper it to me. I hold that against you, and I always shall.”

  “If I had told you, what then? What would you have done?”

  “Why, I should have gone to see him. I could at least have comforted him, told him I was safe and well now, and that I would wait for him until he’d served his sentence.”