“I understand, sir. I accept your judgment in this,” said I, then added, “… gratefully. None but you was ever so generous on my behalf.”
He extended his hand to me. “Then let us be friends.”
“For all eternity,” said I, grasping his hand firmly.
The verdict came down as guilty on both counts of murder. Lord Goodhope would be executed as was customary and binding by law for criminal members of the nobility: His head would be separated from his body by the executioner’s axe. There would be no appeal. His only hope was the clemency of the King.
This possibility was the subject of brief discussion when Mr. Gabriel Donnelly came by one morning only two days later to bid goodbye to Sir John and Mrs. Gredge, who had served him as a nurse for Lady Fielding, and to me, as well. He explained that he was moving his surgery to Lancashire, “where there are many more of my faith. Lve been told that I would prosper there.”
“And have ample opportunity to press your suit, I trust,” said Sir John, with a knowing smile. “Well, good luck to you in it and in all things, Mr. Donnelly. It was good fortune that brought us together. I’m sure you will find occasion to return to London in the future. I would not want us to be too long separated.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr. Donnelly, “good fortune for me, as well—but decidedly bad for Lord Goodhope. They say he languishes in Newgate, praying for the King’s pardon. He was once a favorite of the King.”
Sir John laughed a bitter laugh. “But no more,” said Sir John. “No, he’ll get no pardon. I recall telling you, Mr. Donnelly, as I told Jeremy here, that Lord Goodhope had a certain talent for mimicry, that he had oft portrayed Mr. Clairmont to the amusement of his guests.”
“I recall that, yes,” said Mr. Donnelly.
“Well, I heard from the same source that on a few occasions he had also mimicked the King, done him as a raving lunatic. Word must have got back to His Majesty, and thus was Lord Goodhope banished completely from the Royal Presence.”
There were expressions of astonishment at that from both Mr. Donnelly and myself.
“Can you imagine it?” asked Sir John. “His Royal Highness King George the Third—a madman?”
On August first of that year, when all the gentry and nobles were in such places as Bath, Paris, and Venice, Lord Richard Goodhope, fourth Earl of Tibbie, mounted the scaffold and surrendered his head to the executioner. None mourned him, least of all the King.
Yet by the time this came to pass, Sir John Fielding was deep into another demanding inquiry, this one into a crime of an even more shocking and sanguinary nature than the last. It may surprise you, reader, to learn that, notwithstanding the leave-taking described above, I myself took full part in the inquiry. Yet such are the turns of fortune. What may seem to be decided is often left open to chance. That which may seem at hazard is sometimes more certain than we could ever know. Such I have learned, and I am near as old as I write this as Sir John was when he lived it.
Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01] Page 31