Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01]

by Alexander, Bruce

  I felt quite superfluous to the situation. Unable to sit reading in the face of such distress, I stood and hovered unhappily as Mrs. Gredge beat the poppy seeds down to a fine pulp. As she added the boiling water from the kettle. Sir John appeared, making his way down the stairs.

  “Mrs. Gredge,” said he, “give me the preparation, and I shall carry it to her.”

  She seemed to look a bit doubtful, but, giving the soporific potion a final stir, she brought it to him and put it firmly in his hands. Holding it carefully, he turned and started his ascent of the stairs. Yet at some point low on the flight, his foot stumbled, or perhaps slipped, and down he clattered full across the upper stairs. The teacup left his hands and shattered, and of course its contents were lost.

  (Could it have been the same spot which caused Mr. Bailey to tumble not much more than an hour before? Perhaps there was a warped step, or a projecting nail. Yet Sir John took all the blame upon himself.)

  I rushed to his side to assist him to his feet. But he shook away from me and pushed himself upright.

  “Oh, damn” said he. “Damn my blindness, and damn my conceit that I may move about as other men do.”

  I stood, with Mrs. Gredge close by, wishing I could say something to comfort him, yet there was nothing that would not have seemed presumptuous or patronizing.

  He paused, breathing deeply for a moment, then, regaining himself, turned toward us and said, “Mrs. Gredge, I take it that the dose was spilled?”

  “Yes, Sir John, all of it.”

  “Then please prepare another and bring it up. I shall be with my wife.”

  And saying that, he departed us.

  She bustled off to do as he had directed, while I fetched a rag to wipe up the spill, then gathered up the broken fragments of the cup. When I came to her again, she was near done with the job of it, yet she sobbed quietly, and tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks.

  “Oh, Jeremy,” said she, “I must ask you to convey this cup to the bedroom, for I cannot stop my weeping, and I fear it would have a bad effect on Lady Fielding if she saw me so.”

  “I shall do it, certainly.”

  Mrs. Gredge left a teaspoon in the cup and instructed me to give the potion a final stir before I passed it on. With that I took it all carefully within my two hands and moved carefully toward the stairs and even more carefully up them.

  The door to the bedroom stood open. I stopped at it and looked inside. The scene was illuminated dimly by but a single candle, which stood on a bedside table. Sir John sat in a chair beside his wife, her hand in his own. She lay quite listless on the bed, near a corpus already, but he bent toward her murmuring quietly in her ear. I could not hear what he said to her, nor under the circumstances would it have been proper for me to have done so.

  Moving into the room, again with the utmost care, I went to Sir John with the cup and felt Lady Fielding’s dull gaze fall upon me.

  “Is that vou, Jeremv?” said he.

  “It is. Mrs. Gredge asked me to bring this to vou.”

  “Your young hands are steadiest. I’m afraid that mine now shake so that I would spill the cup once again.”

  “And I,” came the whisper from the bed. “am too weak to hold it.”

  “You must administer the potion.”

  I did not welcome the occasion, vet I met it fairly. Sir John and I exchanged places, and I. remembering to stir the cup, lifted Lady Fielding carefully and brought it to her lips.

  “Slowlv,” said she, “erv slowh.”

  And thus she took it in the tiniest sips, so slowly that she, asking to rest, gave me the opportunitv to stir the cup once again.

  But at last it was done. She had taken it all. I moved from her bedside, and Sir John reached out awkwardly and grasped my arm in silent thanks. I turned and left the room.

  He remained above with her for near an hour, long past the time, Lm sure, when she had dropped into deep, unconscious slumber. Mrs. Gredge and I heard him leave the room quietly. then proceed into his studv. Immediately he had entered it. he began pacing fitfully. in no particular pattern. It was not a large room. Three long steps would have traversed it in one direction and three in another. He took them so. then made two and three, two and two, with a halt between, then back to three and three.

  Mrs. Gredge had turned pious with death so near in the house. She sat with me at the table, holding before her, upside down. The Book of Cojmnon Prayer. Yet her eves straved upward as the pacing continued. When thev met mine she shook her head and returned purposefully to her putative reading.

  It continued thus for manv minutes. At last the steps ceased— or was it only a temporary halt, a little longer than the rest? I had become near exhausted bv the mood of the house and quite readv to go to bed mvself. And so I was surprised when Sir John descended the stairs, dressed in his coat, wearing his tricorn. and carrving his stick.

  “I shall be going out. Mrs. Gredge.”

  “So late, sirr But as you sav. of course.”

  “My wife should sleep till morning, should she not?”

  “Till morning, yes sir. If she should wake, I’ll be close by.”

  “Have no fear, I’ll not be gone so long,” said he. Then: “Jeremy?”

  I jumped to my feet, near tipping my chair.

  “Yes, Sir John?”

  “I wish you to accompany me.”

  With that, all thoughts of sleep vanished. I ran as swiftly and silently as I could to my attic room and fetched my hat and coat. I was back in a trice, dressed for the street, ready for whatever adventure the night could provide.

  We set off together in a hackney. I had not been out so late before on the streets of London, and I was surprised to see certain parts as crowded as if it be day. Men—and women, too, in near equal number—made congregation upon the street corners, roistering uncommonly loud for such an hour. Had these people no need for sleep? Did they not labor, as most do, in the daytime?

  As I sat, staring out the window of the hackney, I was drawn away from these speculations by Sir John, who, deep in thought, began thumping on the floor of the compartment with his stick in a gesture I had come to recognize as a sign of perturbation.

  “Ah, Jeremy,” said he at last, “this matter of dying weighs powerfully upon me. If I may ask, boy, at what age was your father when he met his death at the hands of that shameful mob of hypocrites?”

  “Just past forty, I believe. He made little of such anniversaries, so I am not certain.”

  “Forgive me for bringing up what must be painful to remember. My Kitty has not yet reached even that age. You may not count it so, but rude as was his death, it was nevertheless swift, and that in its own way may have been a blessing.”

  Remembering the occasion, my father’s lifeless body laid out beneath the stocks, I saw little benefit to his death. Yet against that awful picture I placed another: that of Lady Fielding’s drawn and wasted face—all eyes, it seemed, yet eyes that had lost their life’s luster. She had been in such a state for weeks, according to Mrs. Gredge; my mother’s death, though of natural cause, took but a few days. And so, I reflected, though I would not grant Sir John’s claim outright, I had to allow the sense of it. But surely death, in all its manifestations, was odious and unfair to all involved.

  I held my peace, and after a moment Sir John spoke up again.

  “I fear,” said he, “she is being made to suffer in my behalf.”

  To that I objected immediately: ‘Wo, sir! How could that be?”

  “As a magistrate, I have upheld the letter of the law and bound many men over for trial, and a few women. Who knows how many innocents I helped on the way to the gallows?”

  “But you condemned none. You sentenced no one. The trial is given before the High Court judge. That’s as you told me. Is that not so?”

  “Yes,” said he, “and thank God for it, but I assisted. I did my part. Indeed, I did my part.”

  And then silence for a long stretch, until he spoke up again.

 
“Jeremy, you must promise me one thing.”

  “I will. Sir John, what is it?”

  “That you will never attend a hanging day at Tyburn Hill.”

  Though I knew little of such and had got that only by reading, I swore as he asked.

  “They make a show of it for the amusement of the mob,” said he. “A man’s death is between him and God and not a performance to be viewed by others. I think we should have more respect for death. That has been brought home to me in the past weeks. A man’s death is a solemn thing, whatever the circumstances.” And then, after a moment, he added, “And a woman’s, as well.”

  I can tell you now, though I could not have then, that we came to a halt at a location in Mayfair that was not far from Tyburn Hill and was indeed on the way to it. Though I kept my promise to him, in later times I viewed the gallows oft on days when it was not in use.

  As Sir John paid the driver, I descended from the hackney and gave my attention to the house before which we had stopped. It was very much like Lord Goodhope’s residence, which was also not far from it, though not so grand, nor of such handsome appearance.

  Making ready to enter, he pulled me back and bent a bit so that his face was close to mine.

  “Jeremy,” said he to me in a loud whisper, “though I have just now voiced scruples and regrets, that does not mean that I mean to shirk my duty. And that pertains in particular to this matter of Lord Goodhope. It is an ugly thing. It is murder. This place I have brought you to tonight is one to which I would ordinarily forbid you to go. In spite of how it may appear to your young eyes, no good is done in it. But we must find a man inside and talk to him.

  I wished you to be present so as to study his reactions as I question him. I can hear much in a voice, yet some signs elude me. Be watchful for them.”

  “Yes, Sir John.”

  “Well then,” said he, “let’s be in.”

  He led the way up three steps, tapping each with his stick, then used it to rap sharply on the door. Even before it opened I could hear sounds of raucous commotion beyond: high laugher and a sharp, excited chorus of exclamation. What place was this?

  The door opened, and the space it revealed was filled completely by the imposing figure of a man in butler’s livery. His purpose, it seemed, was to block our way.

  “What’s your wish?” said he, rudely. “This is a private club.”

  “That’s as may be, but you must admit us, for I am the magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

  “Then as you say, I suppose I must.” Reluctantly, the man stepped back, pulling the door wide before us.

  We stepped inside, and I viewed the interior. A carpet dyed red led from the door down a hall which ended in a grand staircase, which was also red-carpeted, and curved to a level above which I could neither see nor imagine. The walls visible to me were painted a yellow that glowed nearly as bright as the red on the floor, even in candlelight. There were open entrances, each across the hall, to what must have been very large rooms, for the clamor I had heard through the door now issued from them much magnified now that the barrier was removed. This side of each door was a sofa on which women sat—oh, ladies surely, dressed most finely, yet alone and waiting in an attentive attitude of service. They had turned and now stared in curiosity at Sir John and myself.

  The butler, or doorman, or whatever his position, advanced us down the hall and gestured broadly as he spoke, as if by rote: “Games of hazard is to be found in either room. Your even-odd tables is on the left and the chemin de fer, as well as other games of cards, is played in the room on the right. Ladies is available to show you about—” He looked at me skeptically. “Will you be requirin’ one or two?”

  “None,” said Sir John. “We are here on an official inquiry. I wish to speak at some length with your employer, Mr. Bilbo. If you will get him, I will be obliged.”

  “1 cannot leave my post,” said he who had met us at the door.

  “So I shall put you in the hands of one of our ladies.” Then, surveying the selection, he chose one and called out: “Nancy!”

  She was up on her feet and over to us in the very fraction of a moment, addressing Sir John boldly and quite ignoring me: “A right good evening to you, m’lord. What is your pleasure tonight? Though I daresay the even-odd wheel would suit you best, would it not? And you brought your young helper to place your wagers and pull in your winnings, while I’ll just accompany you and stand close by for good luck, like. Ain’t that as you’d have it, m’lord?”

  Sir John said nothing, but he had removed his tricorn as we entered (as had I), and I could see his forehead wrinkle in concentration.

  “Nancy, girl,” said the doorman, “just take him to Black Jack. That’s all as he requires.” So saying, he turned and walked back to the door.

  “Plummer,” said Sir John. “Nancy Plummer.”

  She, who beneath her paint and rouge appeared to be no more than five years my senior, pulled back quite stunned. There was a great and enthusiastic roar from one of the rooms behind her. At last it died.

  “You remember?” said she meekly.

  “Ah yes, you appeared before me regarding a matter of a stolen timepiece.”

  “But that was more than two years past, and I’m speakin’ ever so much more proper these days.”

  “Yes, and no doubt you look quite the lady, too. Does she, Jeremy?”

  “Oh, yes sir,” said I, “she does.”

  She blessed me with a quick smile.

  “But no matter how well you speak, you speak in the same voice, my girl.”

  “Well, I count that a wonder,” said she, “remembering me from such a time past by my voice alone.” And then she added, “You was quite fair to me.”

  “There were, as I recall, no witnesses, nor was the article found in your possession—simply the suspicions of the victim. The usual. But enough of that, Nancy. Take us to Mr. Bilbo, if you would.”

  “Now, where would he be?” said she, casting glances right and left. “I do believe he was in the even-odd room the last I saw of him. Let me look.”

  “We’ll follow you,” said Sir John firmly.

  And though she looked dubious, she set off in advance of us, offering Sir John the opportunity to whisper to me: “In this instance, I do give you permission to take my elbow. Guide me well. Let me bump into no one.”

  So we set off together: I steering and he responding quite deftly. Bringing him about to the left, we entered the room where she had ducked in, and for a moment I lost her there, such a number of people there was and such a hubbub they made. All were, to my undiscriminating eyes, dressed as lords and ladies. And while indeed there may have been some lords present, they had surely left their rightful ladies at home. Most had gathered around the table at the far end of the room; the one nearer to us was hardly attended. Nancy, our guide, I spied at last mixing in with the larger group. Another roar went up from them, and a whinny of female laughter, near demented in nature, that rose above it and lingered after.

  I moved Sir John toward the crowd. A few glanced our way, but paid us no mind as we circled about its edge. Far more interested were they in the play at the wheel, which even then spun again and came to rest.

  Another roar; another whinny.

  By this time, Nancy had separated from the midst of those bunched nearest the table a man of quite singular appearance. He was large: tall enough, but so thick in the chest, long in the arms, and short in the legs that there seemed something ape-like in his appearance. Adding to this impression was the beard he wore, black and thick, at a time when facial hair was as rarely seen as it is today. To see one of such animal nature dressed as fashionably as he most certainly was that evening seemed somehow ludicrous. Yet one did not laugh at Black Jack Bilbo.

  He and Sir John greeted each other almost as old friends might.

  “It’s the beak,” cackled Bilbo. “The Blind Beak’s come to call!”

  A few turned and showed brief interest as Bilbo grabbed Sir John�
�s hand and pumped it strongly. But then the even-odd wheel began turning again and all eyes but ours went to it.

  “John Bilbo, we must talk,” said Sir John, with not much of the severity those words might suggest. There was, in any case, a smile upon his face, the sort of smile of forbearance that one might bestow upon a mischievous child.

  As the crowd cried out again. Bilbo threw an irritated look at the table and moved us away.

  “Aye,” said he, “but not here, eh? We’ll go above, if it’s all the same to you. Nancy, back to your place, girl.”

  With that, he shepherded Sir John and me out of the room, farther down the hall, and up the stairs, while all the while he talked most winningly. First he asked my name, and when Sir John gave it to him, he shook my hand cordially and declared himself delighted to make my acquaintance. And when, after inquiring, he found the doorman had admitted us somewhat grudgingly, he begged Sir John’s pardon quite humbly and said the fellow was new in his position and not a Londoner but a seaman from the American colonies; he would set him right on such matters in the future.

  At this point. Sir John interjected a question about the din in the e-o room: “Was that usual?” he asked. “On my previous visits here, I’ve never known such a powerful noise from your patrons, and all of it from one table. Why such a to-do?”

  By this time Mr. Bilbo had seen us to the upper floor. He took a moment to fetch out a set of keys and open a door to what proved to be a small bureau. Inside, a single candle burned. He lit a taper from it and set aglow an entire four-stick candelabrum on one side of his desk. The whole room came forth in light, revealing an oaken desk, behind which he sat down, and chairs for Sir John and myself, where we took our places. On the wall were several pictures of nautical and sporting nature.