Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01]

by Alexander, Bruce

  “Ah yes, well, all that noise,” said Mr. Bilbo, leaning elbows on the desk and thrusting his great dark head toward us. “You got it right, Sir John, it ain’t the usual, but it’s one of them sometimes happening sort of things that pains me greatly to hear—and even greater to see. A fellow was having a great run of luck at the second table. Now, in the regular course of business I take in far more from the fellows what come here. I know that, and they know that. It’s the mathematics of the place, so to speak. But I also know that if the tables be run fair—and mine are, sir, you have my word on that!—from time to time the luck must turn against my establishment in favor of the player. That’s also in the mathematics of it, and I accept it. Yet when it happens, those who would play then become spectators—and that drives me quite daft! They come over from the other table to watch. Those at his table decline to play against him as his run continues. Some of the less sporting may bet with him, riding double on his horse, so to speak. But most simply stand back and take it in, like some grand bit of theatre. That way, y’see, my establishment loses double. It loses to the lucky man, and it loses the business of those who would otherwise be playing, as they by rights should be. This fellow has even pulled them in from the card room, which I do not like to see at all.”

  Sir John nodded, having taken all this in, and at last said: “This is all most interesting. Not being a gambler by nature and never having considered such matters from your side, I confess I had always thought of Black Jack Bilbo’s simply as a place where men went to be quit of their money in pleasant surroundings.”

  At that Mr. Bilbo laughed a great guffaw. He was about to respond when from below came another chorus, this one not a roar but distinctly a groan; the whinny did not whinny. His face was for a brief moment quite expressionless as his sharp ears caught this, and then it relaxed into a smile. And from him came a quiet but prolonged sigh of pleasure.

  “Well,” said Sir John with a smile of his own, “perhaps the mathematics, as you put it, have caught up with your lucky man. Who is he, by the by?”

  “Ah, it’s that man Clairmont from the colonies.”

  “Charles Clairmont? Goodhope’s half-brother?”

  “So he claims, and I’ve no reason to doubt him. The two were in here together about a year ago, and perhaps once before—together. And that butler they sent over from the house a day past indeed knew him.”

  “Would you say the two looked much alike?” asked Sir John.

  “Not so as you might notice, yet a bit—/i<2//-brother, after all. Clairmont was a bit shorter.”

  “We’re getting a bit ahead of where I wished to begin in this matter,” said Sir John. “Mr. Clairmont was one of the matters I intended to discuss with you, however. Let us do it in an orderly fashion.”

  “Any way you want, Sir John.”

  “Well and good. Now, John Bilbo, tell me, this visit made here a year ago by Mr. Clairmont with his half-brother—that was not his first to your establishment?”

  “Oh no. We carried him on the books as a member, even though he only came here when he was in London every year or so—or p’rhaps a bit longer than that between visits from—where was it?— Jamaica.”

  “Yes, Jamaica. And you say he may have been here one time previous in the company of his half-brother?”

  For the first time since they had begun this interview, Mr. Bilbo showed slight signs of exasperation: “Yes, and it may have been more—two, three, four, choose your number. Though I’m in the gaming rooms every night—indeed, I doss down the hall on this floor—1 go from table to table, talk to the fellows, play the host, some I sees and some I don’t. And mind, I spend a bit of time up here in this little hidey-hole every night, as well. So what I’m saying to you, Sir John, is that they may have been in together at least one time previous—I think they were, but that was some time back— seven, eight years ago, when I first opened this little house of chance. There may have been other times than one after, for as I say I cannot be sure certain.”

  At about that time another groan issued from below. And again Mr. Bilbo’s great bearded face relaxed into a smile.

  “Do pardon me for goin’ on so,” he said. “I just wanted you to understand that I can’t be as exact as you might want me to be.”

  “I do understand, and I accept what you say, John Bilbo. But let us talk of this man Clairmont, specifically. Do you know him well?”

  “No, as I say, he came in here infrequent, just in those periods he was in the city from—Jamaica, was it?”

  “Jamaica. Not nearly as well as you knew, say. Lord Goodhope?”

  “Oh, sure not. Lord Dickie was very frequent, he was. Much to his undoing toward the end.”

  “Could you tell me something about the first recent appearance of Mr. Clairmont?”

  “You mean two nights past when he just arrived?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Well, he must have come in before the twelve o’clock hour, though not much before. Anyways, that’s when I gave him proper notice. I spied him at the roulette table, the first table that night, and I called him over from the game—I don’t like to do that, but it seemed the occasion warranted it—and I told him that I had heard that his brother was dead; that was what I said, though half-brother would have been more right, would it not? His natural first question was how did he die. And I told him suicide, for that was how it had been talked about on the street, at that time. Now, I understand, there’s talk of murder. Is that so, Sir John?”

  “Let me ask the questions.”

  “Aye, that I will.”

  “And how did he take the news you gave him?”

  “Oh, very well, I thought. He retired and took a pair of brandies.

  I took the first with him, and we drank Lord Dickie’s memory— and then Mr. Clairmont went back to the gaming table.”

  “He did, did he?” said Sir John.

  “Aye,” said Mr. Bilbo, “and he came around the very next morning, when I was bare awake, whilst I was drinking my morning tea, and him demanding to talk about that item in the Public Advertiser. He wanted to know why the cause of death was listed as … how was it?”

  “Misadventure.”

  “That was it— ‘misadventure,’ which usually means by accident, or so I’m informed. He sat there where you’re sitting, Sir John, and he wants to know which is correct—suicide or misadventure? As if I had purposely told him wrong. Well, I pointed out to him that death by suicide ain’t the sort of thing you put in the paper for all to read, which I think should be plain to anyone. He sits there, thinking this over, and up the stairs comes this butler from the Goodhope house asking to look at the late lord’s notes and a certain document in question. Well, half-brother or no, I was not going into such matters in front of Mr. Clairmont, and so I asked him very politely to leave. And just as politely he did, but not before he’d asked the butler to offer his condolences to Lady Goodhope and ask if he might call.”

  “The butler knew him, you said.”

  “Oh, indeed. He greeted Clairmont by name. There was something strange about Clairmont that morning, though.”

  “And what was that, Mr. Bilbo?”

  “He was wearing paint, like a woman.”

  “Truly?” Sir John considered that for a moment. “Well,” said he then, “they say it is the mode in Paris for men, as well as women. Perhaps he is bringing the mode to London.”

  I had concentrated upon Mr. Bilbo throughout his recital as Sir John had bade me do. And while he was a most fluent and convincing talker, I did notice a certain alteration in his manner when he began to talk directly of Mr. Clairmont, say, from the time he told of informing the half-brother of Lord Goodhope’s death. With that, he began throwing glances in my direction, whereas before he had talked to Sir John and only to him. I could note no other change, certainly not the usual signs of unease, such as the commencement of perspiration: Mr. Bilbo had been perspiring profusely from the moment he joined us below. I took it to be his nature
. “This appearance by the butler, Potter,” said Sir John, “it came in response to a letter you wrote her. When did you do that?”

  “Early that morning before bed,” said Mr. Bilbo. “I left it with my man to be delivered.”

  “And so it was. Lady Good hope read its contents to me shortly after receiving it.”

  With that, Mr. Bilbo leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest: the gesture of a man determined to stand his ground. “Now, look ye. Sir John, if you have come here to argue against Lord Goodhope’s debt to me, then I must turn a deaf ear to you, for I have his notes, and I have the document on the house on St. James. I satisfied the butler on the matter of his signature. I’ll show them all to you—or to the boy here—or in any court of law, and they will be judged genuine, for genuine is what they are. Truth to tell, I’ve settled for much less than half his actual debt to me, which was near fifty thousand pounds.”

  “So much? Truly?”

  Mr. Bilbo bobbed his great, dark head emphatically. “Truly,” said he.

  “But you are willing to settle for the house alone?”

  “I like the house.”

  “You must indeed. You’ve been inside?”

  “Many times—or it might be proper to say a number of times, a good deal more often than once, anyways.”

  “As a guest?”

  “By God, sir, of course as a guest. I ain’t no burglar!”

  “Then you were on good terms with Lord Goodhope.”

  There was a long moment’s hesitation before the answer came; and when it came, it came slowly, each word chosen carefully, it seemed: “I was on good terms with him, yes, for quite some time, though lately not so much.”

  “What came between you?”

  “What came between us? Why, his debt, of course. I am a patient man, but there comes a time when patience wears thin. When he won at my tables, he would happily take his winnings home. When he lost, he would just as happily sign another note. It began to work upon me right sore.”

  “You would have been well within your rights to forbid him entry here until he had made right his debt to you.”

  “That I threatened to do, finally, and to advertise his debt so that he would not be welcome at other establishments like this one. And thus I got him to sign the document in question. He was willing to settle on the terms I offered.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Not long before his death, then.”

  “Not long, no. Put it about ten days, give or take. The document in question has a date upon it. I could haul it out, if you like.”

  “No need. But let us suppose, without saying yea or nay to the proposition, that your first information was correct—that Lord Goodhope was a suicide. Did he seem to you when he, in effect, signed over his London house to you, as if he was one who might indeed commit suicide? Was he despairing? Despondent?”

  “Well, he wasn’t happy.”

  “I shouldn’t think so. But did it ever occur to you, Mr. Bilbo, that pressing him as you did may have put him in a state of desperation that led him to destroy himself?—That is, supposing he did, in fact, do so.”

  Mr. Bilbo withheld his answer for a moment, casting his eyes about, first at me, then at the candle flames, then back to Sir John.

  “That has occurred to me, yes,” said he. “And supposing what you now ask me to suppose, I would naturally be distressed. It in fact happened just as you described it with another gentleman who was considerably in my debt, though not so deep as Lord Goodhope. He hung himself, he did. And there could be no doubt that my earnest attempts at collection drove him to it, for he left a letter to that effect. That was near seven years ago.”

  “I recall the matter,” said Sir John.

  “Lve no doubt you do. Truth to tell, it was bad for custom. The gentlemen stayed away. You might say out of respect for the deceased. Or you might say because they was scared off—seen their little pleasures take a serious turn. I was distressed by the gentleman’s death, believe me I was, and I was distressed when the gents stayed away. But when they started coming back, I became less distressed, and about the time custom was back to what it had been, I had put it all behind me. But let me tell you, sir, had I known in advance it would turn out as it did, all of it, I would still have pursued collection, just as before, because a debt is a debt, and it must be paid.”

  Sir John himself was silent a brief time, then said he: “I hear that often in my court, though the sums involved are paltry compared to those which you have quoted.”

  “Sums don’t matter,” said Mr. Bilbo quite severely. “It’s the principle. And the earls and viscounts and such seems to think the common rules ain’t binding to them.”

  “You have caused Lady Goodhope considerable distress at a difficult time for her.”

  “That’s unfortunate. She has until the end of the month. But I declare. Sir John, I believe your supposition to be false.”

  “Suicide, you mean?”

  “It was what we began with. Lord Dickie was not the sort.”

  “What would you offer as a supposition, then? I fear you were right in what you told Mr. Clairmont about the use of that word ‘misadventure.’ It was used to obscure facts rather than reveal them. It was not I who chose the term.”

  “Murder, then,” said Mr. Bilbo. “Let us suppose murder. It seems more likely.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because, as I said early on, it’s his murder now being talked of on the street and not his suicide. To which I might add, Lord Dickie had many enemies.”

  “What sort of enemies?”

  “All sorts—Whigs, Tories, take your pick. And if you’ve asked about him, Sir John, then you must know that the late lord was one who did not care who he stepped on.”

  “Would you not count yourself as one of his enemies?”

  Mr. Bilbo jerked back as sharply as he might if Sir John had slapped him. He stared, quite in surprise, saying nothing, and then quite unexpectedly, he laughed several great, loud guffaws. Hearing him, one would have sworn he had suddenly turned quite jolly.

  “Why do you laugh?” asked Sir John.

  “Because it strikes me as funny,” said he, recovering somewhat. “I told you about the debt, did I not? That was a settled matter, as it concerned me. I knew my Lord Dickie well. He would recover in some way, and after a bit of a sulk, he would be back at my tables, and before he knew it, he would be in debt to me again. I might next time have a go at that place of his in Lancashire. So I put it to you thus: Why should I kill the goose that lays the golden egg?”

  “That, I allow, makes good sense, Mr. Bilbo, but were you not one on which Lord Goodhope trod?”

  “How so?” he asked quite dubiously.

  “I’m told that before Lucy Kilbourne attached herself so firmly to Lord Goodhope, she had attached herself to you—and just as firmly. By her own admission—or declaration, indeed—he had won her away from you. Now that, in many situations, would be judged right proper cause for murder. You must admit that, Mr. Bilbo. Jealousy is always a factor to be considered.”

  All through this speech by Sir John, Blackjack Bilbo could barely contain himself. He would not interrupt the magistrate in his inquiry, but by God and all else that was holy, he would have his say.

  “Sir John,” said he, at last bursting forth, “whatever else you may think of me, I believe you know me as a plainspoken man, and so now I speak to you plain. Just so. That woman was not stole from me. I gave her away. You cannot suppose the burden she put upon me—the constant flattery she required, the applause she demanded for her each performance at Drury Lane; oh, indeed, I attended them all, to the neglect of my establishment. She was like unto a spider the way she sucked me dry—gifts of clothes, gifts of baubles, gifts of… but it was never enough, was it?”

  Mr. Bilbo was fair panting from the force of his own words. Sir John took note of this and waited an interval for the man to coll
ect himself before putting to him another question.

  “How long were you thus made victim by her?”

  “A year—no, something less: ten months perhaps.”

  “And when did you ‘give her away’ to Lord Goodhope?”

  “Six months past.”

  “Yet she says she was acquainted with the late lord for a year.”

  “Oh, she met him here, merely, one of scores of gentlemen I introduced her to in the course of her visits And she met him more than once at the gaming tables. They had words, a bit of talk. He was frequently after us to be joining him at his evenings, his ‘impromptus’ he called them. I thought it not proper to go, though we accepted his invitation on a pair of occasions, no more surely.”

  “Why did you think it not proper?”

  “First, there was the matter of his debt. It was large and growing. It seemed wrong to play the friend to him in those circumstances. Second, I liked not what went on during those evenings. Most of it was silly and not to my taste—singing and dancing of no matter. And this was all part of Lord Goodhope’s theatricals—childish stuff for dressing up and shouting out lines made up by the host and by the guests. There was two little girls brought up from the kitchen, no older than the boy here. It seemed wrong to include them in such, for it all had bawdy purposes and little more.”

  “You show a tenderness of feeling I would not have suspected.”

  “You doubt me?”

  “No.”

  “I allow that the late Lord Dickie had keen interest in dear Lucy. He flattered her so it was quite shameful, and to have a great actress from the stage play in his parlor was to him very heaven—or so he said. And she also had some interest in him, though I made sure she knew of his debt to me and its steady growth, and that cooled her ardor somewhat. The way it all ended, she had worn my patience so thin in the way I described that I determined to be rid of her. So what I did, the next time Lord Dickie made his entreaty we should join him for an ‘impromptu,’ I said to her, ‘My dear, I cannot leave the establishment, so you go on with his Lordship and enjoy yourself.’ And to him I said, ‘I entrust her to your care.’ I did this knowing full well what would happen, and indeed wanting it to happen. And of course, it happened. She never returned to me again, except in his company. Now, would you not say that in using such a stratagem I threw her away?”