“What say I to that? I says, can you put it in writing?”
“There is no need. My word is my bond,” said Sir John. “But something I must add to what I have already said, and it is this: Your information, whatever it may be, must be directly forthcoming, for the inquiry continues apace and may soon be concluded. I expect it to be. Should what you have to give come late, say, at the time of your trial before the King’s Bench, then there will be no need for it, and no need for me to make any recommendation whatsoever. Is this clear to you?”
Dillon glowered at Sir John. “Clear,” said he. “Yes, it’s clear.”
“I have but one question for you before we go further. Does this information you have to give directly involve you in the matter of murder? For if so, I must say in all fairness, I cannot help you. So you see? I plav right with you. I lay before you the limits of my power. Now how say you?”
“I was not involved in no murder. I never committed no murder.”
“I accept that,” said Sir John. “You may then proceed.”
An interminably long moment followed, in which Dillon fought with himself and who knew what adversary. Again, in his face the conflict was clear. But there was what I had not read before, something of fear: strange to see in a man so large and powerful. At the last moment he seemed about to vield, but at last he shook his head.
He then spoke: “Sir John, at this moment my wits is fogged with drink. Your offer is a fair one, I vow, but I must have time to think on it sober. Will you give me that?”
“What works on you so?” asked Sir John. “What have you to fear?”
Dillon looked about him, as though pondering the possibilities. “Dick Dillon fears naught,” said he, his voice dropped to a whisper. “He only needs time to consider.”
Sir John sighed abruptly. “I will give you time,” said he, making no attempt to hide his annoyance, “but only the rest of this day and tonight. In the morning I shall send two constables to bring you to the Bow Street Court. We shall talk in my chambers. You had best come prepared to speak to the matter at hand. When you have given your testimony, whatever it may be, you will be transferred to the Fleet Prison.”
Having thus had his say, he bellowed out loudly, “Warder! We are ready to return.”
Dillon watched us go, saying nothing more, his eyes near as heavy-lidded as one asleep, yet watchful withal. Though he had pleaded drunkenness, he now seemed sober.
The warder who had brought us hence now led us back, pausing at the stairs to relight his candle. Descending, I took the position behind him and felt Sir John’s strong hand on my shoulder. We two said nothing between us, but the warder was as talkative as ever.
“He’s a hard case that’n. What’s his name?” He paused a moment, but when no response was forthcoming, he continued. “Ah yes, Dillon, so it is, Dick Dillon. I remember it from the list whence you sought him out. He bullies the others inside something terrible, he does. He takes coin from the men and uses the women most shameful. It’s his size allows him to do it. They’re all against him inside.”
At that point, I reflected that Dillon seemed to be drinking in a reasonably convivial manner with that group of men above. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was just as the warder said.
“I don’t suppose you got much out of that’n. Thinks he’ll beat the hangman, he does. Just watch your step now, Sir John. We’re coming to the end of the stairs.”
Then, having reached the level floor, the warder stepped back and blew out the candle.
The clamor raised by the common felons was not near what it had been earlier. In any case, having been once afrighted by them, I was better prepared and kept a steady pace to the exit. But the smell was as bad as before. My attempts to breathe shallow benefited me not at all. It was not until we found ourselves in the open air of the courtyard that I was able to fill my lungs without befouling them.
The warder walked with us to the gate, making no further effort to engage us in conversation. “I’ll just leave you here. Sir John. The gatekeeper approaches, and I see a hackney parked beyond,” said he then.
“May I inquire as to your name?” asked Sir John.
“My name? Why …” He was somewhat flustered by the question. For a moment he seemed almost to have forgotten the answer. “Why … indeed, my name is Jack Wilson, and it was my pleasure to serve you, Sir John.”
“I thank you for your trouble, Mr. Wilson, and goodbye to you.” Waiting until Wilson had departed some distance away. Sir John whispered to me, “I do not like that fellow.”
His dislike was given reason by the gatekeeper.
Grimy and unkempt though he may have been, the gatekeeper was an obliging individual, and he greeted us most warmly, inquiring if our visit had been worthwhile.
“More or less,” said Sir John, “more or less.”
“Well, I hopes it comes right for you,” said he, as he pushed that biggest key on his ring into the gate lock.
As he swung open the gate and we made to depart, Sir John stopped and turned in his direction as if having had a sudden thought.
“It occurs to me,” said Sir John, “that I might inquire after the warder who served as our guide. He was most helpful. What was his name? I should like to commend him to the Keeper of Newgate.”
“Him what showed you about? That was John Larkin was who it was.”
“Thank you, gatekeeper. Don’t mention it to him, though. It may be some time before I get to the matter. And your name?”
“Josiah Blackwood, at your service!”
“Thank you, and good day!”
With that, sniffing out the smell of the horse, Sir John led the way to the hackney and the beginning of a long trip back to Bow Street. It passed, for the most part, in silence. Sir John, as was often his way, withdrew into himself. And though I had many questions regarding Newgate and the conduct of Dick Dillon, I withheld them, thinking it best to allow him time to ponder. One, however, burned within me, and as we drew near our destination and the end of my time alone with him, I fairly burst to ask it. Finally, with Covent Garden in sight, it came forth.
“Sir John,” said I, of a sudden, “why did he give a false name?”
He, roused from deep thought, came almost reluctantly back to me. “What’s that, boy? What is it you ask?”
“The warder,” said I, “he gave his name as Wilson. The gatekeeper said his name was Larkin. The warder lied. Why did he do that?”
“Ah, yes, that,” said he with a sigh. “Well, it cannot have been done with any good purpose in mind. That’s sure certain. Our man Dillon seems to place great store by his strength. Pray God it suffices.”
Though I was confused by his response, I questioned no further. Had he wanted to tell me more, said I to myself, he would have done so.
We alighted at Number 4 Bow Street and proceeded forthwith to Sir John’s chambers, though I was barred admittance at the door. “Go find Mr. Marsden, if you will,” said he, “and bring him to me. Then wait about, for I shall have a message for you to deliver.”
Doing as he had directed, I found the court clerk sipping a dish of tea with Mr. Thomas Baker, the constable who had taken Mr. Bailey’s place as acting captain of the Bow Street Runners. They were quite jolly together, no doubt laughing at some sally made by Mr. Marsden, who was quite a witty man. Neither, however, took it ill when I interrupted their merriment and passed on the message from Sir John.
“Do you know what the matter may be?” asked Mr. Marsden, as we proceeded to the magistrate’s chambers.
“No sir,” said I, “except that he asked me to stand by to deliver a message.”
“Ah,” said he, “then once again I play scribe to Solomon.”
I, having then little or no knowledge of the Bible, missed his reference completely. Nevertheless, I can assure the reader that though some irony may have been intended with the remark, no sense of disrespect attached to it.
I waited outside the closed door for no long space of time until Mr
. Marsden, having completed his job of work, emerged and bade me enter. Then he himself was called back by Sir John. Pausing by the open door to wait, I heard the ensuing conversation between them:
“Mr. Marsden,” said Sir John, “do you recall that fellow Sayer who gave false witness against young Jeremy Proctor a few days past?”
“I do indeed, sir,” said Mr. Marsden.
“As I recall, the court plundered his purse to bring the debt of that Caulfield woman to rights.”
“That’s as I recall it, too.”
Sir John dug into his voluminous coat pocket and pulled out some coins. Selecting them carefully by touch, he separated a few from the rest and handed them to the clerk.
“That was inconsiderate. I wish you to return these three shillings to his purse and hold it for the morrow. I shall then be sending two constables to transport a prisoner from Newgate. Have them return the purse and money to Sayer. Mind, it is to go into his hands and not to be trusted to a warder. Having just returned from that place of horrors, I was reminded once again how desperately those inside need all resources they can assemble.” .
“It’ll be done. Sir John.”
“Good. Now send Jeremy to me.”
Thus, with Mr. Marsden gone, I entered and found Sir John standing behind his desk. He offered me an envelope closed with his seal.
“Jeremy,” said he, “I wish you to deliver this note to Mary Dee-mey at her shop in Chandos Street. There is sufficient space at the bottom of it for her to pen her answer. She is to do that. You are to wait for it and return it to me direct. Is this understood?”
“Very well,” said I.
“If need be, you must impress upon her the seriousness of the inquiry. Tell her that this is a court matter and that neither prevarication nor delay will be tolerated. Quote me on that.”
I agreed to do so, and he then gave me explicit directions to Chandos Street, but said that once upon it I would have to find the dressmaker’s shop by my own devices. “Look sharp, and you may see the shop sign,” said he. “Ask if you must.”
As it happened, I had no need to ask anyone of anything, neither for amplification of Sir John’s directions, nor for the exact location of Mary Deemey’s place of business. Once I had entered the street, I saw a hanging sign close by with the Deemey name, and below it, an attempt at French: “Modes Elegantes.” I crossed the street to it, dodging a wagon team and leaping the usual pile of horse dung. (In those days our London streets were not kept near as clean as they are today.) I made to knock on the door, then thinking better of it, marched boldly inside.
I was met there by a Frenchwoman, or at least one who spoke French to me. “Bonjour,jeune homme/’ said she, moving from behind the counter. ” ‘Ow may I serve you?”
I thought her English much subordinate to her native tongue. And so, continuing bold, I loosed upon her a veritable flood of French—first, a most polite greeting learned from my father, then an inquiry into her health, as I was told by him the French prefer before beginning matters of business. I waited for her reply.
Yet all I got from her was a puzzled look and at last: “Comment? En anglais, s’il vous plait.”
At that I was much chagrined, thinking my accent so bad as to be incomprehensible. I had been given reason to suspect my father’s was imperfect. On the evening we were visited by the gentleman from France, with whom my father had been in correspondence, their conversation had begun in French, but following similarly puzzled looks from our visitor, had continued the rest of the night in English.
And so, thus humbled, I sought to retrieve my pride through the official nature of my errand. I declared in a loud voice, waving the document in question, that I had in my hand an official communication from Sir John Fielding of the Bow Street Court for Mrs. Mary Deemey.
“Let me ‘ave eet,” said the woman. “Ah will see she gets eet.”
I withheld the letter. “No,” said I. “It is to be put in her hands direct, and I am to wait for a reply.”
The woman looked at me somewhat perplexed, then said she in plain English: “Hand it over then, for Mary Deemey is my name.”
“But, but,” said I, all a-stutter, “but you were French just a moment ago.”
“That’s for those who give me custom, which you have proved you are not one. So let’s have the letter, my lad.”
Still I held it back. “How do I know you are who you say?”
“Because I declare it.”
“Let someone identify you, for you’ve deceived me once already.”
In answer, she sighed a great sigh and called out loudly: “Katy! Margaret! Beth!”
From behind a curtain at the rear of the shop came a ragged reply from all three: “Yes, missus?”
“One of you come out here.”
After a moment’s delay, the head of a girl of sixteen or seventeen thrust through the curtain. She looked at me curiously and then at the woman who had summoned her. “Yes, ma’am?” said she.
“Who am I?”
“Who are you?” echoed the girl. “Uh … Madame Claudette?”
“No, you stupid girl, who am I in truth? You must identify me for this presumptuous boy.”
The girl looked at me again. She seemed not so much stupid as nearsighted and exhausted. She addressed me direct: “That is Mrs. Mary Deemey.” Then to her employer: “Will that be all, ma’am?”
“Quite. Back to work, Beth.”
The head disappeared as I handed the letter to Mrs. Deemey with a bit of a flourish. She, taking it, showed no special awe for its seal, but ripped it open and began hurriedly to read its contents.
Just then, as my sight flowed over the etchings of fashionable female dress mounted about the place and took in the two gowns hung on headless models at either side of the counter, the curtains recently pierced by the seamstress were suddenly thrown asunder, and there stood Mistress Lucy Kilbourne, once again wearing no more than her shift. As near as I could tell, it was her favorite mode of dress.
“Ah,” said she, “if it ain’t my young gallant from the night before! We were not properly introduced by your master, though you proved most helpful to me. What is your name, young sir?”
I hesitated to tell her. Having once been seduced, I knew her power. Yet she seemed to know it, too, for she gave me a slow, languid smile which quite melted my resistance.
“Jeremy,” said I. “Jeremy Proctor, ma’am.”
“A pretty name, and politely presented, too.”
She took a step toward me, extending her hand, as if to shake mine, or to lend hers for kissing: I had no notion of the proprieties. But then, giving me to think that she had for the first time noticed her state of undress, she withdrew her hand, stepped back, and demurely crossed her arms over her shoulders.
“You must forgive me,” said she. “1 had not minded my nakedness. Please do not think that this is my habit.” Then she turned to the proprietress of the shop and said sweetly, “Mary, I wonder could you come and mark the fit of my new gown?”
Mrs. Deemey held up the letter from Sir John. “But I must—”
”Now, Mary.”
With a sigh and a worried look at me, Mrs. Deemey nodded her assent. She hurried after Mistress Kilbourne, through the curtains, and into the back of the shop. I noted that she had carried with her Sir John’s letter.
So there was I, left alone with only two well-clothed, headless models to keep me company. The pictures about the place had little to hold my interest, and so, without quite intending to do so, I found myself edging toward the curtain which Mrs. Deemey had shut upon her departure. The closer I drew, the more I heard of whispering. The words were not distinct, except perhaps for a few. I did hear clearly the urgent voice of Lucy Kilbourne demanding to know, “Who’s payin’ you, Mary?” which was answered by a muttered grumble from Mrs. Deemey. There was much more insistent whispering and hissing on the part of Mistress Kilbourne, and at last—silence.
With that I retired to my former position
and feigned interest in the fashion plates posted about the room. I had not long to wait, for Mrs. Deemey soon appeared, waving the letter at me. I could see that a few lines in reply had been appended at the bottom. She made swift to hand it over to me.
“You have what you came for,” said she. “Now you may go.”
Yet I held on. “I was asked by Sir John Fielding to say that this is a court matter and that no prevarication would be tolerated,” said I.
She gave me a sharp look. “Do you seek to fright me, young man?”
“No, I merely quote Sir John. In truth, he said, ‘No prevarication or delay would be tolerated.’ But you have penned your reply so promptly…”
Her face was set. She nodded toward the door. “Be gone,” said she.
And so I left the shop of Mary Deemey, glad to be gone and out of harm’s way. I went at a run back to Number 4 Bow Street. But I found, upon my arrival, that the magistrate’s court was in session. What to do with myself? I had no wish to return to the living quarters above, which were so heavy with Lady Fielding’s silence and the sighs of Mrs. Gredge. And so I let myself in the side door, went past the strong room where two Runners sat with an equal number of prisoners in chains, and on to the bench outside Sir John’s chambers.
There I determined to sit until the magistrate appeared, no matter how long the wait. I wished that I had by me one of that store of books from my attic room, of which I had read but two. But lacking that, I fell to considering the matter at hand; and that, of course, was the inquiry into the death of Lord Goodhope.
I made reference earlier to certain childish notes I had kept on the affair. Indeed I had kept a kind of diary, solely concerned with the progress of the inquiry. I have no trouble reading it today, for even at the age of thirteen I wrote a good, legible hand. Yet, for the most part, it testifies less to the progress of the inquiry than to my bewilderment at it. I had noted in it Mr. Bailey’s precise description of the wound to Lord Goodhope’s head. But below it, I find only this notation: “Clean hands!” Modesty must have overcome me, for it could well be argued that my ignorant observation of the condition of the nobleman’s hands was my only contribution to the entire matter.
Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01] Page 20