Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01]

by Alexander, Bruce

  But Sir John had not yet finished with him. “Now,” said he, “we come to the matter of the vanished footman. When did he disappear?”

  “Ten days past—or eleven now, I suppose.”

  “Which is it, man,” said Sir John harshly, “ten or eleven?”

  Shaken somewhat. Potter spoke quickly, his words came all in a rush: “A bit difficult to say, sir. The man vanished overnight with his clothes and possessions. He had wages coming, too!”

  “You count this as passing strange?”

  “Oh, I do, sir, yes! Yes, I do!”

  “And what was his name? What was his appearance? How long had he been in employ?”

  Now was Potter truly rattled. He looked right and left, as if he were seeking the answers elsewhere. Not finding them, he faced up to Sir John at last: “He had been on the house staff about a year, no more. He was a large man, strongly built, whose strength made him useful moving heavy loads about the house.”

  “Good, good. And his name?”

  “Richard, sir, same as the master’s.”

  “Is that how he was called about the house?”

  “Uh, no, sir. That might have caused some confusion. About the house he was called Dick.”

  “I take it, ” said Sir John, “that he had a family name. Even the least of us is granted one.”

  “I’m sure he had one, sir, but it slips my mind at the moment.”

  Then, to my surprise, Sir John, who had been most severe in his tone up to that point, chose to soften it. Yet in his words there was lodged a dark threat.

  “Well, think upon it,” said he to Potter. “It must surely be hsted in the household records for the past year. Search it out as you continue to hunt for the house plan I directed you to bring me. But think upon that footman’s family name, and whilst you do, think also upon that charge of impeding a criminal investigation with which I threatened you. It was not an idle threat, nor is it a charge to be taken lightly. Conviction could lead to months, even years in prison, depending upon the circumstances. But though serious, it is not half so grave as complicity in a capital crime. That, as you may know, is punishable by hanging. Now with all this in mind, would you like to make one last effort at recollection?”

  Sweat stood forth on Potter’s face. The proposition put to him by Sir John could not have inspired the fear there, were he as innocently ignorant as he pretended to be. Perhaps he feared his interrogator less than some other not then present.

  He struggled apoplectically to speak, and finally, after taking a deep breath, managed to form the words he sought.

  “It has just come to me, sir—I mean, the footman’s surname. It was … Dillon.”

  “His name then is Dick Dillon?”

  Quite deflated, he managed a nod, then added quietly, “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, perhaps I have good news for you then. Potter. You have exhibited signs of mortal dread that, if I may say so, even a blind man could read. If Dick Dillon has frighted you so, and he is doubtless to be feared, then you may rest easy. He is now in custody at Newgate, awaiting trial on a capital crime.”

  Far from resting easy. Potter then exhibited the greatest confusion. Yet he managed to present this to Sir John: “I am relieved somewhat. He left a note, threatening any who sought to follow.”

  “Ah, you neglected to mention that.”

  “So I did.”

  “Do you have the note here in the house?”

  “No, sir. I showed it to the master, and he destroyed it.”

  “A pity. Now, if you will be so good, please send word to the kitchen that I wish to speak to the cook’s helpers, Annie and Meg, in the library. And do look into notifying Mr. Charles Clairmont of my demand to see him at five in Bow Street.”

  Sir John nodded pleasandy then, and added, “Thank you, Potter. That will be all.”

  Thus came we finally to the library where the carpenters whistled and joked and sometimes did a bit of work; and where I interrogated the interrogator on his knowledge of his subject.

  “Sir John,” said 1, “his fear was written on his face. How came you to know that? He spoke well enough.”

  “My boy, fear has a smell. You may not credit it, but it is true. It was very rank upon our man Potter during those last few minutes.”

  “Was it you he feared? The law?”

  “I should like to think so,” said he, “but probably only partly. He seemed to be caught betwixt and between. There is something, or more exactly someone, he also fears. And it is not Dick Dillon.”

  “I felt that, too,” said I, agreeing eagerly.

  “Did you? Truly? Good lad.” He proceeded through the room with his stick and found the desk, and then the chair where the dead man had sat. There he took his place, and having mused a moment, he added: “Perhaps I should have turned the screws on him a bit tighter. The man obviously has more to tell us. But it should be interesting to see which way he runs now that he has had a scare put in him. We may learn more that way.”

  It was at that moment that Annie-of-the-kitchen appeared, causing comment and stir immediately among the carpenters. She was indeed a buxom lass, the kind to whom men make remarks on the street: or did in those times. Remarks were made to her at the door by the youngest of the carpenters, probably an apprentice, down on his knees before the door. She giggled and slapped him playfully on the shoulder as she pranced past him and made her way into the library. As she passed me close by, she reached out and pinched my arm in a way I found quite painful. And she whispered a sharp accusation: ”TattlerT Then, quite ladylike, she settled into the chair opposite Sir John and smoothed her apron.

  “At your service, m’lord,” said she to him.

  Yet he spoke not to her but to me: “Jeremy, I wonder if you might remove yourself a bit from us? Perhaps to that far corner of the room? I remember you taking a particular interest in books. Why not pick among them a bit there? We must do all we can to make Mistress Annie comfortable talking here, don’t you think?”

  “As you say, Sir John.”

  And so, disappointed, I left, looking back just in time to see Annie sticking out her tongue at me quite impudently. The carpenters laughed at that, and I slunk into my corner. All I lacked, it seemed to me, was a dunce cap and a stool. I pulled down a book almost at random and began riffling the pages, as I strained my ears to hear what passed between the two seated at the desk.

  Alas, without much success, I fear. Their conversation passed between them in low tones, and at the distance to which I had been exiled, not quite distinct. From time to time, a word, a phrase, or more likely a name would emerge. There seemed to be, at one point, a good many names passed from Annie to Sir John. He would, of course, be interested in those who were present at Lord Goodhope’s “impromptus.” Were these the names she gave him? I do recall Lucy Kilbourne’s and Black Jack Bilbo’s were bandied between them.

  What struck me as most odd then, though less so now, was the frivolous fashion in which the two conversed. Though they continued to speak throughout in hushed tones, not to say whispers, their talk was frequently punctuated by laughter: deep rumbles on the part of Sir John and giggles from Annie. It was as if the two were old chums gossiping together. Such a contrast was it with the severe, even threatening manner which he showed, only a few minutes before, to the butler! Could Annie’s winning way have caused him to soften? Or was it perhaps some stratagem, by me then misunderstood? The latter, surely, for I never knew him to question two witnesses in exactly the same manner.

  Unendurably long as the time seemed to me there in my corner, Annie’s interrogation, if such it could be called, lasted no more than a quarter of an hour, and quite probably less. When it was finished, he rose, dipping his head to her most politely, and gave her his thanks. She, in turn, curtsied to him prettily and said goodbye.

  As we passed, I making my way to Sir John and she heading for the door, she gave me a saucy wink of her eye and said, “He ain’t half bad, is he now?”

  “O
h, Annie, my dear!” called Sir John, thus detaining her on the spot.

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Would you be so good as to send in Mistress Meg?”

  “I will, m’lord,” said she, “though you’ll not get much out of her.”

  “Well, we must try,” said he. “We must try.”

  “He’ll see,” whispered Annie to me. And squeezing my hand, she said: “I forgive you for tattling.”

  Then she left in a great, flouncing rush, and I saw no more of her.

  I went to Sir John, who had remained standing at the desk. “A lively child,” said he to me of Annie, “though I fear for her future. Perhaps I can find a place for her on some other household staff. Otherwise, I warrant that she is for the streets.”

  Not quite grasping the import of this, I said: “As you say, sir.”

  “But Jeremy, listen. I intend to vacate this room to talk to the other young maid. I should like you to remain and begin a serious search for the hidden exit from this room. I’m sure one exists, house plan or no. You indicated that your inspection from the outside led you to question the design and construction of the chimney. I urge you then to give special attention to the fireplace. It is here behind the desk, is it not? Look for protrusions to push, knobs to pull, anything that might set to motion a machine of weights and pulleys to move a section of the wall. That is how—”

  At that Sir John turned from me and toward the door. There stood Meg, appearing even more fearful than when last I had seen her. Her eyes were wide. Her hands fluttered over her apron. The carpenters regarded her wdth indifference.

  “Is it she?” asked Sir John of me.

  “Yes,” said I, “it is Meg.”

  She came forward in a most uncertain manner.

  A transformation came then over Sir John. Of a sudden, he became physically inept and clumsy. He bumped into the corner of the desk, which he had danced around earlier, and cried out mournfully: “Oh, damn!”

  I reached to help him, and he growled at me in a whisper: “Away, Jeremy. Leave me be.”

  And then he advanced with halting steps into the middle of the room, swinging his stick before him with his right hand as with his left he made palsied circles in the air. I had never seen him in this state. He seemed older, weaker, much less able. I followed him quite uncertain.

  “Mistress Meg, is that you? Are you there?”

  “She nods. Sir John,” said I.

  “Thank you, Jeremy,” said he in a voice most pitiable. Then to her: “I wonder, my girl, would you show a poor blind man out into the garden and sit with him there for a while? Jeremy tells me that the flowers there have begun to bloom and are quite beautiful. If I cannot see them, I should like to smell them. Will you take me there?’”

  Without a word, of course, though less fearful than moments before, Meg stepped forward with an air of solicitude and took Sir John by the arm.

  “Oh, thank you,” said he, “you are most kind. And, Jeremy? Carry on.”

  And together the two left the library. The carpenters paid them not the slightest heed.

  Thus left alone, I went to the fireplace and surveyed my task. It was large, as corresponded to the size of the room, about three feet across. The mantelpiece and side masonry were of solid, dark stone, well blackened from long use. It had been fixed for the burning of coal, whereas the fireplace in the hall had not; the latter had no doubt been kept for show, a country touch in a city house. Though I’m sure no cooking was done, a swinging crane, sufficient to suspend a teapot, hung to one side.

  In every particular, it seemed most solid. The rear wall was bricked and sturdy. The fire surround was unusually imposing. I stood there and heaved a sigh, wondering where I ought best to start.

  Truth to tell, it mattered not. I busied myself for better than a quarter of an hour tugging and pushing. I swung the teapot crane this way and that, even tried hoisting it up and pushing it down. Separately, I tried each of the iron bars of the hob gate, twisting them, pulling them, pounding them. Trying the bricks along the back wall and the side, I managed only to blacken my hands. It was all, in fine, to no avail.

  I stood up, stepped well back from the fireplace, and having reached the limit of my patience, gave it a fierce look. Could I have supposed I might frighten it into submission? “Damn!” said I aloud in callow mimicry of Sir John.

  Then, in my perplexity, I began to pace. I was attempting to picture the chimney as I had seen it from the garden. What were those details that had stirred my interest? It was the wide, sloping shape of it, was it not?

  Perhaps better to remember, I went to the window that overlooked the garden at the rear of the house. My attention was immediately taken by the pair who occupied the stone bench just off the garden path. Sir John sat, his head bowed in silent concentration.

  He was listening! For Meg, who sat just next to him, her face full exposed to my view with a most earnest look, was speaking into his ear.

  For a moment, I stared in amaze. Then I shrank back from the window for fear I might be seen by her. So completely was I taken up with the problem of the fireplace that I had given no thought to them in the garden. Had I done so, I should have been curious that Sir John had spent so long with one so mute as Meg. How he had induced her to speak I could only ponder. What she told him I could only guess.

  Unaccountably, this vexed me. Not only had I failed to discover the secret of the fireplace, I had also been forbidden the details divulged first by Annie and now by Meg. It is possible, reader, that it was lustful curiosity thwarted that sent me into a sulk, for I had had time to wonder at those things hinted at so broadly the previous evening by Annie. However that may be, I was vexed and wished to show it. I marched across the room and demanded a hammer from the carpenters. Thev regarded me with surprise. The younger of the two seemed about to deny me, when the master made a shrug, reached into his box, and handed one over. At least I had the grace to thank him.

  Thus armed, I returned to the fireplace and began tapping with the hammer against the back wall and the sides. I must have hoped to touch some hollow place where before my hands had met only solid brick. But hearing no answer to my tap, I tapped even harder, until Sir John came and saved me from doing damage to the bricks.

  “What are you up to, Jeremy?” said he quite loud behind me.

  So taken was I with the task that I had not noted his entrance. In a start, I let the hammer fall from my hand as I jumped to my feet and faced him.“Tapping,” I blurted. “I’ve been searching a hollow behind the bricks.”

  “Tapping, is it? Nay, Master Jeremy, banging is what it was— banging in a most loud and unseemly fashion! Leave off this minute. We cannot further disturb this house.”

  Quite humiliated by his displeasure, I could only mutter, “Yes, Sir John,” as I bent to retrieve the hammer.

  “Come along now.”

  And I trotted to keep up as he led the way from the room. He paused only a brief moment at the door to test the open space with his stick, which gave me a chance to return the hammer to its owner. Then back up the hall we went again. Sir John seemed driven by some urgency which I did not understand. But then, having reached the door to the street, he stopped, turned to his right, and took a few steps forward. He reached out with his stick.

  “Is this the door to her sitting room?” he asked. He had it exact.

  “It is, yes sir.”

  With his stick, he made three light touches on the door. “Now those,” he said to me, “are taps. Do you detect the difference?”

  Before I could answer, the door swung open, and Lady Good-hope stood, curious at the interruption. I noticed that from her closed fist dangled a few beads and a crucifix. “Come in, Sir John,” said she. Though she regarded me skeptically, I followed behind him.

  He stood in the middle of the small room and delivered his message with dispatch: “M’lady,” said he, “I must be to my court session. I ask your permission, however, to allow my young companion to remain. There
is more looking to be done in the library.”

  “Has he not seen it all three times over?”

  “The fourth may prove the charm.”

  “Oh, as you will then.”

  “Just one more thing,” said Sir John. “Have you a likeness of Lord Goodhope about?”

  “A very good likeness,” said she. “This portrait was painted but a year ago.” She gestured to the picture hanging over the fireplace. It was just barely possible to discern in the shape and general outline of the handsome face in the portrait that blackened and bloodied visage I had studied with Mr. Bailey but two nights before. “Do you think there is something accusing in the eyes?” continued Lady Goodhope. “Somehow they persuade me to feel guilty. Why I have no—Ah, but of course you can’t see what I mean. Your affliction.”

  “Indeed,” he said, “my affliction. Take a good look at it, Jeremy.”

  “One thing I must insist on,” said she. “If that boy remains, he must take himself down to the kitchen for a good washing. His hands and face are filthy. I’ll not have him besmirching the silks and linens about this house. He makes me uneasy merely standing in this room.”

  “Oh? Is this true, Jeremy?”

  I looked at my hands. They were soot covered from the bricks. In the course of my exertions I had wiped perspiraton from my face and no doubt smeared it, as well.

  “It would seem so, Sir John. The fireplace …”

  “Ah yes, of course. Well, I assure you, Lady Goodhope, that he will remedy that directly. You needn’t see us out the room. Let’s be off, Jeremy.”

  He found the door without difficulty and in the hall instructed me to close it. “Mind you besmirch nothing, lad,” he whispered. “Besmirching is a powerful sin. You have only to consult Mrs. Gredge on that.”

  We were met at the door by the footman—Henry, not Ebenezer. He presented Sir John with his tricorn and opened the door to the street.

  “You can find your way back to Bow Street?” Sir John inquired of me.

  I assured him I knew the way.

  “If you become disorientated, you have but to inquire. All know the Bow Street Court. But by no means stay to nightfall.”