Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01]

by Alexander, Bruce

  The visitor presented himself as Charles Clairmont to Sir John. He was thanked for his prompt attendance and invited to take a chair.

  “Pay no mind to the boy,” said Sir John. “This place needs a good sweeping.”

  “He is industrious,” observed Mr. Clairmont.

  “He had best be,” said Sir John. “Caught for petty theft, he was. We’ve given him the chance to pay his debt with work about the court.”

  That stung a bit, for therein lay a kernel of truth. I looked hard at Sir John and saw a smile of mischief on his face.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Clairmont, “forced labor. We make good use of it whence I come.”

  “And where might that be, sir?”

  “From the Caribbean colonies. My place of business and plantation are on the island of Jamaica, though I have interests in those of the Antilles not closed to us by the Spanish.”

  “Well, then, I see you are a man of parts.”

  “Of enterprise, rather. All that I have, I have achieved by my own person.”

  There was something about Mr. Clairmont’s voice that grated upon the ears. It was nasal in tone and tenor in range. Yet there was something more: a disagreeable sharpness to it, a mode of barking out his replies.

  “Enterprise, is it?” echoed Sir John. “Well, admirable, indeed admirable. But tell me, Mr. Clairmont, when did you arrive in London?”

  “Last evening,” said he, “on the tide.”

  “By ship?”

  “Of course,” he snapped, “on the Island Princess. It would be a wet trip by coach.”

  “Pray, be not so tetchy, Mr. Clairmont. Until this morning, I knew not of your existence. I am merely trying to establish certain facts about you and your presence in this city.”

  “Forgive me,” said he, “I am still upset by the news of Lord Goodhope’s death. But yes, we arrived at approximately seven, or half past, thereabouts. I disembarked quite soon thereafter. You may confirm this with the master of the vessel, Captain Cawdor.”

  “I shall,” said Sir John firmly. “Could you give me some notion of the purpose of your visit here?”

  “A matter of business.”

  “Details, sir. Could you be more specific?”

  “I should prefer not to be. But this much I will sav: I have received an attractive offer for some of my holdings; received it. that is, bv ship’s mail. Such matters must absolutely be handled tete-a-tete, you understand. There would be contractual matters to be negotiated. I must also ensure that the offer is authentic; that the prospective buyer truly has the funds available to make the purchase. Such matters I prefer not to leave in the hands of agents or solicitors.”

  “And the name of the prospective buyer?”

  “That I must withhold. After the purchase has been consummated, or the offer left to lie, I should be happv to report it. At this point, however, matters are far too delicate. You understand. I’m sure.”

  “Agreed,” said Sir John, after a moment’s hesitation. “Vou mentioned the news of Lord Goodhope’s death. How did you receive it?”

  “From a friend.”

  “Would that friend have been Potter. Lord Goodhope’s butler?”

  “Hal” He barked at that, most derisive. “I have no friends of the servant class. Sir John.”

  “Who then?”

  “From Mr. John Bilbo. Through much of the vovage. mal de mer had confined me to my cabin. It is an unpleasantness that prevents me from returning verv often. Feeling solid land beneath me restored me so that I felt able for a night on the town. After establishing mvself at my lodgings. I supped and found my wav to Bilbo’s gaming house. I must have arrived well after ten o’clock, near eleven, or perhaps even after that—I’d had a bit to drink bv then, you see. I’d been at the table a good half hour and was winning—a proper run of luck it was. Then Mr. Bilbo came bv and whispered his condolences in my ear. With that, my luck changed most immediate. I took my winnings, what was left of them, and then departed from the table. I sought out Mr. Bilbo, and he told me all that he knew of the matter.”

  “And what was that?”

  “In sum. that Richard was a suicide. That shocked me. of course, for he seemed to have everything a man might need or want. I said as much to Mr. Bilbo.”

  “And what said he to you?”

  ‘He owned that he, too, was shocked, though not completely surprised. He mentioned financial difficulties, a considerable gaming debt to himself, and rumors he had heard of difficulties at court, though he was not precise about any of this. He promised to tell me when he learned more. He said he would ask about.”

  “And you returned there this morning?”

  “I did, yes, hoping to learn more, but also to puzzle with him over the advert of Lord Goodhope’s death that appeared today in the newspaper. Death by ‘misadventure’ seemed singularly vague.”

  “That,” said Sir John, “1 will grant you.” Through all this the magistrate had sat erect, giving full attention to his visitor. Yet at this point he turned suddenly toward me. “Boy,” said he, “I wish to hear that broom scraping the floor. Why has it grown so silent from your corner?”

  Immediately, I became busy again. In truth, I had left off sweeping, so interested was I in the character of Mr. Clairmont and the tale he told. “Sorry, m’lord,” said I to him. “I’ll get it cleaner than it’s ever been in here. You’ll see, m’lord.”

  “See that you do,” said Sir John in his most severe manner.

  “Perhaps a bit of birch on his arse?” suggested Mr. Clairmont.

  “I do not hold with whipping or flogging of those so young.”

  “It gets results.”

  “No doubt, though not always the ones intended. But now, sir, do tell me, what was your relation to Lord Goodhope?”

  “Why, we were brothers, after a fashion.”

  “Half-brothers?”

  “Just so. My mother was my father’s whore.”

  Mr. Clairmont said it thus, almost casually. Though Sir John seemed to flinch at that expression of his visitor’s bastard birth, he said nothing; he simply sat, hands together now on his desk, and waited for a continuation.

  Which came as follows: “In point of fact we are quite near the same age. He was my senior by but a few weeks. There is, of course, no question of my claim to the title, nor any part of the fortune, no matter how diminished. His son, William, will inherit both upon his majority. Let him, say I, for I have need of neither. I am king in my part of the world.”

  Through all this I had done as Sir John bade me and kept my broom moving. Indeed the floor was dirty. I had put together three piles of dust, dirt, and crumbs, but had strayed so far from the two at the desk that a question was asked which I missed. The answer, however, delivered in Mr. Clairmont’s loud nasal, came through to me most clear.

  “Oh,” said he, “there are a few others around London, no doubt. My father was quite prolific. One, I know, has gone to the Carolina colonies—not transported but an emigrant. I was the only one who had contact with Richard, however. It pleased my father to put us together as playmates whenever Richard was with him in London. I often got my brother in trouble, though he never minded much. He had no difficulty finding trouble on his own.”

  “You were boys together then?”

  “Off and on,” said he, “but only in London.”

  “You knew the house well?”

  “I suppose I did at one time.”

  “Were you aware of the tunnel? The passage into the library?”

  I looked up from my sweeping, yet kept the broom in motion. For my own reasons, of course, I was much interested in how Mr. Clairmont would answer. The response on his face surprised me: he smiled. And Mr. Clairmont was quite an unsmiling man.

  “Ah yes,” said he, as if recalling golden days of yore, “the tunnel. Once we had found it, which wasn’t so difficult, Richard and I played there often. We got one of the servant girls down there once. God, didn’t we make her scream! She was quite at our mercy.
” Something like a laugh escaped him then.

  “Did you, as an adult, remain in touch with him?” asked Sir John.

  “Oh yes, for a time we were fairly close. We had the same bad habits, you see. But then I left for Jamaica over ten years ago. We exchanged letters for a while, but not often. We were, quite literally, in two different worlds.” He paused, a kind of hesitation, then went on: “Then there was one rather unfortunate incident, for which I must claim the fault. He wrote me that with great trepidation he was to be wedded to a convent girl. I took that for an invitation to the ceremonies and I thought he would need support for such an ordeal, so I, in spite of great difficulty, left on short notice to be there. I remember that one as a particularly nasty voyage, September storms and all that. In any case, I arrived in Liverpool, made it to the place in Lancashire where the family had its holdings, and let him know I was there for the wedding. By that time, our father had passed on, to hell no doubt, and Richard was now Lord Goodhope. He came to me at my inn the day before the wedding and made it plain that I was not invited. He explained to me that the bride and her family made a great show of piety of the Papist sort and that it would be very difficult to explain my presence to them. I asked why he need be worried about that, and he made it quite plain that he needed their money. I, having made the voyage, was greatly annoyed and fell to drinking. Drunk, I determined to attend the wedding, whether invited or not. Somehow, I got past the gate in my hired coach, and once past the gate, I got through the door. Reeling about was I, finally having drunk even more than my own generous limit. In my search for an appropriate place to vomit, I chose the bride’s gown. And that, I’m afraid, strained relations between Richard and me for quite some time.”

  “But it did not end them?”

  “Oh, no. He got their money, or a good bit of it. That and an heir were his only reasons for marrying. Of course, I did not come often to London, but when I did we would meet, as long as Lady Goodhope was not about. The last time I was here he had me to one of his impromptu evenings. Most amusing.”

  “When was that last time?”

  “Oh, about a year ago, I should say.” He paused and sighed. “But you wish me to be more exact, I suppose, so eleven months ago it was—the end of April and the beginning of May.”

  “In spite of your past difficulties with Lady Goodhope,” said Sir John, “you wished to call upon her, when you heard of her husband’s death?”

  “Ah, that, yes, the opportunity to send word presented itself— in the person of that butler. What was his name?”

  “Potter.”

  “Indeed, Potter. He arrived just at the time Jack Bilbo and I were trying to figure the sense of that damnable word, ‘misadventure.’ I thought if I presented myself to her, all spit and polish, and managed the visit without vomiting upon her, I might learn just what she meant by that. I assumed she was the author of the advert. But it was not to be. I received a very harsh rejection from her. Old enmities die hard. To be just, I suppose I can’t blame her.”

  There was silence between them for a long moment. I chose that as my opportunity to grab up the feather duster and attack the shelf of a few books and many papers behind Sir John. It was indeed dusty, and I made the dust fly all about. Mr. Clairmont took to coughing and cursing. Sir John flailed the air with his hands.

  “What are you up to now, boy?” he demanded.

  “Dusting,” said I.

  “Well, leave off it till we finish.”

  I retired to one side, waited, and watched.

  “You have been most forthcoming, Mr. Clairmont,” said Sir John, “and for that I am grateful to you. I have but one more question for you, and it is this: Did Lord Goodhope have enemies? People who might truly wish to see him dead?”

  “Indeed, he certainly had enemies—enemies of every sort. None, I think, would have gone so far. Yet what you ask me suggests you think murder a possibility. Surely you can’t suspect that!”

  “Like you, Mr. Clairmont, I am simply trying to define that word ‘misadventure.’ “

  Sir John rose, extended his hand, found Charles Clairmont’s, and shook it in gentlemanly fashion. And with a curt “Good day,” Mr. Clairmont left him then, making from the room more quickly than he had entered it. In spite of his odd, sidling, thrusting walk, he was quite light on his feet.

  Until he heard the sound of the door shut, Sir John remained standing. He waited a moment longer, then sank down in his chair. “Come, sit down, Jeremy,” said he, “and let us discuss this fellow.”

  “Are you sure. Sir John?” I asked, all innocent. “Will this count against my sentence?”

  “Such impudence!” said he, laughing. “Do forgive me for presenting you so. And do sit down.”

  I did, of course, as he bade me, taking the place Mr. Clairmont had left.

  He removed his periwig, as he seemed to do at every opportunity, and leaned forward in a posture of eagerness. “Now,” said he, “what did you make of him, in general, as if met on the street?”

  “In general? WHl, he was an ugly man, with such a stoop I thought him at first humpbacked. And he has also a rather strange walk. He seems to scuttle, a bit like a crab.”

  “Yes, and he has an ugly way of speech, has he not? How would you describe it?”

  “He speaks sharp. Even when he talks soft, he seems to be talking loud.”

  “Exactly. He is a man used to giving orders—and having them obeyed. What was it he said? ‘I am king in my part of the world.’ He no doubt believes that. Pride goeth before a fall.”

  “What of the substance of his answers?” I asked.

  “All quite reasonable,” said he. “Even his reservation regarding the name of the prospective purchaser of his property was the sort that any man engaged in commerce would make. All that he said must be confirmed, of course. We now must certainly visit Black Jack Bilbo, an entertaining blackguard, if nothing more. And of course I shall send one of the constables to talk to Captain Cawdor of the Island Princess. Our Mr. Clairmont has evidently proved himself an alibi at the time of Lord Goodhope’s death, but we shall see about that.”

  He pondered for a moment, his lips closed in a tight purse. Then he asked: “What was his reaction when I brought up the fact of the tunnel and the passage into the library? He hesitated at that point. Did he seem surprised we knew of it?”

  “No,” said I, “he smiled, like to himself, as though with a sudden fit of remembering.”

  “That indeed would tally with what he responded. He seemed to take pleasure in recalling the screams of that servant girl. A nasty sort of man is Charles Clairmont; but then, so also was Lord Good-hope, it would seem. Now, one last point, Jeremy. You have given me a general assessment of his appearance. I would like you to give me something in more detail now: his face, his hands, his mode of dress, all of that which occurs to you.”

  “I must take a moment to think,” said I, and take a moment I did. I pictured him to myself and then began to sketch him out to Sir John, making for him as accurate a picture as I was able. I mentioned Mr. Clairmont’s large, bent nose and his most usually downturned mouth. “It gives him an attitude of displeasure,” said I in sum. His complexion I described as neither dark nor fair but somewhat darkened by the sun, though his hair was dark, but about the same color as the man in the portrait; he wore no wig. His height was hard to fix because of his stoop, though I judged it to be only two or three inches above my own, perhaps five and a half feet, no more. He was dressed in black, except for a white, lace-front shirt and white hose.

  Sir John listened to all this, neither interrupting nor commenting. Then, when I was done, he asked: “Nothing more then? That’s as you remember him?” I thought further. “Perhaps one more thing: Mr. Clairmont’s face seemed to glisten somewhat.”

  “Glisten?”

  “Yes, well, glow or glisten. It caught the light.”

  “Perspiration, perhaps,” mused Sir John. “It is a bit close in here. Or it could be a touch of fever: some
thing from that warmer clime. Though now that I think upon it, his hands were quite dry. That impressed me. I thought him either a truthful man or a well-practiced liar.”

  And then he asked a question I thought passing strange: “They are half-brothers, Jeremy, or so it has been given to us. You saw the portrait hung in Lady Goodhope’s sitting room. What would you say as to the resemblance, one to the other?”

  “Lord Goodhope and Mr. Clairmont? Why, there may be a brotherly resemblance,” said I, “though it is dim to the view. The picture was said to be a good likeness. If so, Lord Goodhope was a handsome man, while Mr. Clairmont is indeed not. They are of about the same natural complexion, though Clairmont may now be a bit darker and has a great beak of a nose. I would not, ordinarily, have taken them to be related.”

  “Ah well,” said he, “it is often so with half-brothers. I little resembled mine, though my memory of his face grows dim.”

  He stood, signaling the end to this episode. As I, too, rose, he smiled slyly and said: “Jeremy, do finish with this room, will you? The shelves must be terribly dusty. Do what you can, and I’ll consider your debt to the court discharged.”

  I was quite overcome by all I saw about me. Never but in my fantasy had I seen such a place, and the reality quite beggared my fantasy. I had been to theatricals in Lichfield with my mother: My father thought them trifling and would not attend. As a boy, I had been taken by those simple productions, most especially by the show of A Midsummer Night’s Dream given by a troupe of traveling players from London. Even my father came along to it, for it was Shakespeare, and he had the autodidact’s respect for genius. For months afterward I pranced about as Puck and played the rude mechanicals with my younger brother. And then he and my mother died.

  And now here was I in the very Temple of Shakespeare, the Drury Lane Theatre, wherein I was about to witness the show of Macbeth, with no less than David Garrick himself in the primary role. It was all, so to speak, in the line of duty. Sir John, having ascertained his wife’s soporific condition from Mrs. Gredge, had declared that a visit to the theatre was in order. Little as I wished to discourage him from such an expedition, I was curious as to the reason (for Sir John always had his reasons). He explained that the evening’s performance o{ Macbeth had been billed as the farewell of Miss Lucy Kilbourne, who would appear as Lady Macbeth. She was taking an early and unexpected retirement from the stage, and that had put a number of questions in his mind.