Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01]

by Alexander, Bruce

  For his part, the pretender himself kept his eyes cast down to the floor—not in sorrow, and even less in shame. He seemed, rather, to be gathering himself within, perhaps, thought I, he was even then planning a defense for his indefensible act.

  “Was that night the last you saw of Lord Goodhope?” asked Sir John of Dick Dillon.

  “No, the last till now, if I may correct you, sir. That’s him, sitting close by.” He pointed his finger at him. “He’s done up quite well as Mr. Clairmont, he is. He’s good, but he ain’t perfect. I spent more than a day with the real man, and he don’t fool Dick Dillon.”

  At that, the man now twice recognized as Lord Goodhope leapt from his chair and covered the twelve feet that separated him from Dillon in but two or three long steps. And as he did, the stick in his hand did, as if by magic, become a short rapier. With it, he stabbed his accuser deep in the chest. I went at him, but Meg reached him first, digging and clawing at his face. I grabbed him at the waist and held on tight, but Mr. Bailey ended it with a blow from his club. Yet it stunned him merely, and keeping his feet, he staggered away from the three of us, no longer armed, but in the direction of that gaping entrance to the tunnel.

  “What is happening?” Sir John was shouting it over the tumult. “What is happening?”

  Only Constable Baker stood between him and it. He held his pistol leveled square at him.

  “Vou would not dare,” said Lord Goodhope to the constable.

  Then said Mr. Baker to Sir John. “He thinks I would not shoot a lord.”

  “Shoot awav. Mr. Baker. You have my permission.”

  Mr. Bailev also had his pistol cocked and pointed. Lord Good-hope looked from one to the other and stopped where he stood. His face was scratched and streaked where Meg had dug her nails and pulled off paint and skin. Glancing at her now, I saw her heave and tremble so that I thought her about to go at him again. In the course of her attack, she had pulled from his face the bit of actor’s putty that formed the hooked nose that had been Charles Clair-mont’s. Lord Goodhope was finally and completely revealed to one and all as the man he was.

  Mr. Donnelly had hastened to the wounded man. now on the floor, and ministered to him as best he could. Yet it was quite useless, for the small sword which even now protruded from his chest had dealt him a mortal wound.

  “I fear,” said the surgeon, ‘“that Dillon is dead. He has been run through the heart.”

  Sir John, who had a moment before been given a brief report on these dire happenings bv Mr. Bailev. took Mr. Donnellv’s news with an expression of deep anger.

  “Had you thought. Lord Goodhope,” said he. “that you might slav the witness against you and be free of the charge? All here witnessed your act of murder, just as all of us heard the victim’s testimony and will not forget it. For all of that, I also have it sworn and signed by him in a statement at the Bow Street Court. No. indeed, you are not so easily out of your troubles. Thev are. I assure you, just beginning. Take him away, constables!”

  As thev moved to follow his order, he held up a hand to stav them. “But wait.” said he. “We have not heard from her who may indeed be the slaver of Charles Clairmont. Mistress Kilbourne. I promised you your sav. You may have it now.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Thev are all lies which that man told! How can you have believed him?”

  “I believed him in the exact details he gave, and now in the fact that he has been slain for them. His death gives great weight to his testimony. If all he told were lies, then we have not the time to hear you refute them one by one. You shall have your chance to do that tomorrow in court.” To constables Bailey and Baker: “Take her away, too, and while you are about it, bring with you Captain Cawdor for his false witness. Put them all in the strong room, and let them spend the night, each blaming the other. As for Potter, we shall bide our time with him.”

  Exeunt Goodhope, Kilbourne, and Cawdor in the custody of the two constables.

  Sir John took his seat again only after the footman, Henry, had been summoned from below and had, with Potter, borne the corpus of Dick Dillon from the room. In the meantime, those still seated in attendance conversed in tones of amazement amongst themselves at the events which had transpired in the past minutes. At one point. Lady Goodhope seemed quite near fainting, yet Mr. Donnelly saw her through this crisis. Sir John calmly waited to the end of it all.

  “There is one last point to be addressed tonight,” said he. “We first managed to fix the identity of the victim, and then that of the murderers, and perhaps most important of all, how the deed was done, for few murderous plans could match it in complexity and ingenuity. What remains to be answered is why it had been so conceived and why so cunningly executed.

  “It could not be mere malevolence which inspired it. Lord Good-hope was, by report, on good terms with his half-brother since childhood. And while by no measure a good man, he was not so evil as to simply pick one known to him at random and destroy him as an exercise in sin. Such would be an act akin to madness, and Lord Goodhope is, most assuredly, a rational man. There was a rational purpose behind all this, and to help us understand it, I call upon Mr. Roger Redding of the East India Company.”

  He, of course, was the single member of the assembly hitherto unknown to me. A tall man as he stood, fair of complexion and features, he appeared to be not much over twenty, yet was every inch the gentleman-to-be. He had most certainly been sent as an emissary, and the sheaf of papers he held in his hand would no doubt provide the information Sir John had sought in the request I had delivered. Sir Percival had kept his word.

  “Yes, thank you, Sir John,” said Mr. Redding to begin. “My part in all this may prove somewhat anticlimactic, yet as you suggest, it is essential to our understanding of this entire monstrous affair. The search through our files, which I undertook on behalf of Sir Percival Peeper, has yielded information directly pertinent to the matter at hand, information which I shall now summarize. To wit …”

  And here, Mr. Redding made direct reference to the papers in his hand: “The Island Company was formed under a charter issued by the East India Company in 1758. Because of that, its papers of organization were held in fair copy by us. What is important is this: While thought to be the sole enterprise of Charles Clairmont, it was in truth a partnership between him and his half-brother, Lord Good-hope. Both put up equal amounts in capital to fund the company. Both were to share equally in its profits. Yet in all wise Mr. Clairmont was to act as its sole proprietor, administering the enterprise day to day, though major decisions regarding the sales of its parts or major expenditures in new areas had to be agreed upon by both partners. If I may interject here, it is my supposition that Lord Goodhope wanted it so because he had no wish that it be known that he was engaging in commerce, even at a remove. Such arrangements are more common than you might suppose.

  “Now, our general knowledge of The Island Company is that it was a most successful enterprise which, under Mr. Clairmont’s administration, yielded good profits regularly. It continued to grow, acquiring properties in the Antilles and coaster vessels to serve them, until approximately three years ago—still profitable yet no longer growing. Sir Percival noted to me, as we discussed this matter, that it was about at this time that rumors began to be heard regarding Lord Goodhope’s financial difficulties. These rumors persisted and grew. He saw not how this pertained, however, unless the first report of suicide be true. Now, however, though I apologize to Lady Good-hope for adding to her now quite overwhelming burden of embarrassment, those rumors seem quite pertinent. The revelation that Mr. Clairmont was the victim and not Lord Goodhope leads one to speculations that I shall leave to Sir John to make.”

  And so saying, Mr. Redding seated himself and looked most hopefully at Sir John.

  “Very well summarized,” said the magistrate. “I shall not at this point do much in the way of speculating. The details will out in time. However, Mr. Redding most helpfully emphasized the chief consideration, and that is that a
ccording to the papers of organization, both partners had to agree on matters of acquisitions and sales. While profits continued, they became latterly for Lord Good-hope but drops of water to a man who needed gallons to slake his thirst. If he had amassed a considerable debt to Mr. Bilbo over a period of years, I doubt not that he owed money to other, lesser gaming houses in this city. An inquiry I made to the proprietors at Bath yielded the information that a single visit made there of a week at the end of the season in the company of Lucy Kilbourne put him in debt to the gaming establishment there for no less than ten thousand pounds. Eventually we will know the extent of his debt. It is sure to be an astonishment. With all this, he must have asked, then demanded, that Charles Clairmont sell off properties. Mr. Clair-mont must have continually refused. The result you saw before you tonight.”

  Sir John then slapped the surface of the desk where he sat and rose to his full height, which seemed to me a little greater than when he took his seat at nine o’clock.

  “This meeting is concluded,” said he. “Though it has come to the hoped-for conclusion, I regret the pain it has caused Lady Good-hope. I offer to you, my lady, all help I can give within the bounds of my official office.”

  He felt for his stick, found it, then took his hat and planted it upon his head. “Jeremy,” he said quietly, “take me out of here.”

  Yet that was not so swiftly accomplished. Messrs. Bilbo, Humber, and Redding gathered round him, detaining us, showering congratulations upon Sir John, praising his acuity and boldness. I looked for Meg, but she was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared to her place below the stairs. I longed to discuss these events with her, even as they were now being discussed by those surrounding me. I might never have that opportunity. Indeed I might never see her again.

  Lady Goodhope was not immediately in my view. I caught sight of her, however, slipping out the library door in the company of Mr. Donnelly. It was certainly the last I would ever see of her.

  At last Sir John begged away from the group, complaining of exhaustion. We left the three, who were still conversing amongst themselves. We were down the long hall and nearly to the door when a timorous female voice was raised, and Mrs. Mary Deemey stepped out of the shadows.

  “Sir John, I take it you’ll not be needing me tonight?”

  “Who is that? Oh, but my God, it’s Mrs. Deemey, is it not?”

  “It is. I was not called.”

  “My regrets. Mistress Kilbourne was so incriminated by testimony that we had no need to call you. Nor will you be needed tomorrow when she will be bound over for trial. There will come a time soon, however, when what you told me will be of the utmost importance.”

  “I see,” said she. “Well, I said I would help in any way I could.” “So you have, and so you will. I shall ask Constable Cowley to see you home. You are no doubt as eager to be to your home as I am to mine at this moment.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In which matters are concluded

  and a place is found for me

  in the printing trade

  Mary Deemey saved Lucy Kilbourne’s life. She was called to testify in the latter’s trial, which was held at Old Bailey before no less than William Murray, Earl of Mansfield, Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. Such was the grave urgency associated with this case, the most infamous of its era.

  In her testimony, Mrs. Deemey made clear that, as Sir John had suspected, Mistress Kilbourne had ordered up her widow’s weeds a bare two weeks before the arrival of Mr. Clairmont in London and the execution of the murder plan. And she went on to say that Mistress Kilbourne had ordered up a goodly number of new gowns to be delivered before her departure “to a place that had no proper dressmakers.” Among these, said Mrs. Deemey, were “two right fine ones for her confinement.” It was thus out, and to make it all the more clear, she added: “Mistress Kilbourne is with child, m’lord.”

  Of course the sworn statement taken from the late Dick Dillon, read in open court, was so damning that there was no verdict that could be returned but guilty, but the jury recommended leniency in sentencing, “taking in consideration her condition.” Indeed, the Lord Chief Justice himself was bound by custom, and in lieu of condemning her to hang, as he made clear he would have preferred to do, he sentenced her to transportation and a life of hard labor.

  Though there was a bit of back and forth with the Maritime Court, Captain Cawdor was tried in the King’s Court in the same proceedings as Lucy Kilbourne. The jury believed his earnest protestations that, while he had cooperated in the plan on the promise of a continued share in The Island Company’s profits—he had it in a letter from Lord Goodhope—he had never suspected that the end of the plan was murder. Yet he had cooperated, and the end of the plan proved to be murder, and so he was sentenced to transportation and ten years’ hard labor.

  Their fates were sealed by their separate destinations. Lucy Kil-bourne was sent off to the colony of Georgia and sold into servitude at a very high price to a bachelor master. He made her his pet and eventually, when trouble came between King George and the North American colonies, he made her his wife. She became a very firebrand for separation, a local heroine in the struggle. And for all I know, she lives there still in her declining years, her past behind her, an eminent dame by their standards. I am assured, by the by, that although her husband is deceased, he lived a long life and died of natural causes.

  Captain Josiah Cawdor was not so lucky. Although his sentence was lighter, he was sent to serve it back to Jamaica. There he was purchased by one to whom he had once given offense and sent out to work in the fields with the black slaves. Among them, as it happened, were some who had made passage with him on the Island Princess. He did not last but a month in their company, as I understand.

  As for Potter, he disappeared the night of the revelations and was not heard from again. It came to be known that he was indeed privy to the plan—and its end—and so he must have felt it incumbent upon him to leave England. Perhaps he, too, made for the colonies.

  A strange sort of trial it was in which the principal plotter and chief defendant was absent from the court. The Lord Chief Justice remarked upon this a number of times in the course of the case before him. Yet while his companions in mischief stood before the bar of justice, Lord Goodhope waited in Newgate in accommodations far more luxurious than I could ever have imagined were available there. He waited, and he waited, for Lord Goodhope had requested a trial by his peers—nothing, more or less, than the law allowed. Yet in his case, of course, that meant a trial before the House of Lords. That august body of nobles was, understandably, quite reluctant to try one of their own. And so they delayed, and Lord Goodhope waited.

  But I anticipate somewhat. Let me, rather, describe a conversation with Sir John some nights after that night of revelations in the Goodhope library. There were many questions I wished to ask, of course, but there were events of a pressing nature which occupied Sir John, and so I bided my time. There were, first of all, the legal proceedings involving the three defendants which occupied most of a day. With them locked away—Lord Goodhope in Newgate, and his partners in crime installed in the Fleet Prison—he seemed to withdraw a bit, performing his duties in a routine manner, giving his attention to Lady Fielding as she required it, and resting himself as best he could. The last days had taken a great toll upon him.

  Mr. Donnelly continued to make his morning visits and did all he could to ease Lady Fielding’s last days. It was quite evident she could not last longer. And so at some point the house took on the hushed air of a deathwatch. Mrs. Gredge moved exceeding quiet through the place and saved her squawking and screeching for a later day. I did all the work I was bidden to do and more, wishing only to keep busy. And Sir John simply waited.

  The nights seemed most especially long. Unable to sleep, I sat up with him in the kitchen on an evening a week past that one described in the last chapter. As we sipped dishes of tea from a pot brewed for us by Mrs. Gredge, we discussed one thing and another, and
at last Sir John said to me: “You must have questions regarding the Lord Goodhope matter.”

  “I do, yes sir.”

  “Now is a good time to ask them, Jeremy.”

  I had so many. Where was I to begin? But so then, simply, “When did you first suspect that the corpus in the library was not that of Lord Goodhope?”

  “Ah yes, that. Well, my first suspicion was only a suspicion, for it was given to me only as such. That poor child Meg, may the good Lord protect her, began to talk to me in the garden, and she told me a number of interesting things. First and foremost at the time was that she had a feeling that the body she and the other girl had washed was not that of her master. There was a darkness to the face and hands of the kind caused by repeated exposure to the sun and a certain anatomical difference about which she was not specific. I did not press her on the point.

  “Then, further, she told me a little of Lord Goodhope’s impromptus and his love of theatricals. It seemed that her master fancied himself an actor and possessed a talent for mimicry. One of his favorite turns, it seemed, was to parody his half-brother, Mr. Clairmont—his voice, his odd walk; those who knew the man said he had him down to the life. This meant little to me at the time, for if you will recall, I had only that day heard of the half-brother’s existence. But when I talked with him later, you yourself remarked upon his glistening skin.

  “He was wearing theatrical makeup, applied, no doubt, by his paramour Lucy Kilbourne. She may have convinced him that this charade would be possible with her aid in the arts of the stage. Yet he immediately grew overconfident. The putty applied to his nose and the paint which darkened his skin were sufficient to deceive a few seamen after dark on the Island Princess. And tried upon Mr. Bilbo in candlelight later that night at the gaming club, they worked again. Yet he grew so bold that he tried his disguise in daylight the next day. And do you recall Mr. Bilbo’s comment to us?”