An Experiment in Treason (17 page)

“But you were never told what it was in that room you were guarding that was so important that you were to do without sleep to protect it from theft?”

“No, we were never told that. All I can say is, whoever killed poor Albert must’ve got what he came for.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because there’s no more of that house guarding. I got a fair night’s sleep the last few nights.”

“What were your instructions regarding the use of your weapons?”

“Try to capture the thief, if possible, and if not, shoot to kill. What I think happened was, Albert come upon the robber and pulled out his pistol and told him to cease and desist, not knowing there was another robber just behind him. He got whacked from behind, as anyone could plainly see. It must’ve been one hell of a blow put him down.”

“It could’ve been you.”

“Ain’t I told myself that a hundred times?”

I waited then, allowing him to make it one hundred and one. He roused himself then and gave me an expectant look. It was as though he had something to tell, yet would offer me nothing gratis. He depended upon me to ask the right question. I perceived this, yet knew not what that question might be.

“What sort of man was he?” I asked lamely.

“What sort is any man? He was a fine fellow, was Albert. There’s little could be said against him, the way he could get everyone laughing and carrying on.”

“Yes, I’ve heard he was quite a dinner-table entertainer.”

“And so he was.”

“But I’ve also heard that in the last few months he seemed secretly to be worried.”

“You must have heard that from Carruthers,” said he, yet waited for no confirmation from me before plunging on: “About a month past he come to me and asked what was it wrong with poor Albert. I told him there was nothing wrong with him — just that he ran into a spot of trouble, as we all do from time to time.”

“I was told that Albert Calder’s problems were money problems.”

“Ain’t they always? By God, with money enough a man could solve all the problems life puts before him. Now, ain’t that true?”

“It may well be,” said I, “but I would like to know what dort of money problems Calder was having.”

He, who had become quite forthcoming, did all of a sudden fall sUent. Taking a step back, he gave me a hard, assessing look, as if to satisfy himself that I was worthy of the information he might or might not offer me.

“What did you say it was you had to do with Bow Street? ” he asked.

“I am Sir John Fielding’s assistant.”

“You look pretty young for that.”

“That’s as may be,” said I. “Nevertheless, that is who I am and what I am.”

“You got any piece of paper says so?”

“Could you read it if I did? Listen, you have something to tell. I want to hear it. You can either tell me now, so that I may pass it on to Sir John, or wait until tonight when one of the Bow Street Runners comes and hauls you out of bed and brings you to Sir John that he may hear it direct from you. Of course by then he may be asleep, in which case you shall have to wait in our strong room until morning when he wakes and has breakfasted. And, of course, by this time Lord Hillsborough
may
have missed you, at least to the extent that he will have noticed that there are not two up top his coach but only one. And having noticed that — “

“Awright, awright,” said he, “you made your point right enough. What do you want from me?”

“What you have to tell me. I asked you what sort of money problems Albert Calder was having. Answer that, and we’ll have made a good beginning.”

He sighed and then nodded his assent. “Albert Calder was a gambler. He would as soon bet upon the fall of a penny as drink the ale the penny could buy. He’d bet upon anything, whether it be two mice made to race, or the time it would take for the shadow of the Admiralty to reach the Middle Yard. And if he’d stuck to those farthing and tuppence wagers and suchlike, he’d have been alright, but he didn’t. The worst thing that could happen to any gambling man happened to him.”

“And what was that?” I asked.

“He got lucky.”

“How could that be bad?”

“Oh, you know how it is. You win a bit, and then a bit more, and pretty soon, you’ve got a few pounds and maybe a sovereign or two, and with them you get the itch to try your luck at the games where winning would mean winning big — like dicing and twenty-one. Oh, and he used to visit the terrier pits, the big one down in Bedford Street. The funny thing is, his luck held up — for a while — and he was bringing five or ten pounds of an evening. Albert was getting rich, or would have been if he’d had the good sense to quit whilst he was ahead — but he never. He just looked at all the pounds, shillings, and pence he won as just so much to gamble with to get more.

“Well, you know what happened. Just as quick as the luck had come to him, it went even quicker. It couldn’t have taken more than two or three nights to clean him out. And if that wasn’t bad enough, that last day of losing and maybe a day or two after, he played on credit at this one place. The man who ran the game took his notes and chits, and Albert woke up one morning to find himself in debt near a hundred pounds.”

“And that, I suppose, was just about a month ago.”

“So it was, ” he said, “so it was.”

“Just about the same time you two started house-guarding.”

“Well now, you got that right. Why didn’t I ever think of that?” And just in case I had not caught his attempt at irony, Will Lambert delivered to me a great wink of his eye.

“I have but one question more for you, sir,” said I.

“And what is that?”

“What was the name of that fellow who ran the last game, the one wherein Albert Calder was allowed to play on credit?”

“Can’t help you much there. Y’see he don’t have a name so much as he has a sort of nickname — and that is ‘Duke.’”

“Duke? Is he a duke? One of nobility?”

“No, not by much, he isn’t. It’s for the way he dresses, which, as I’ve heard, is in the manner of a gentleman.”

“Ah,” said I, “then perhaps you can tell me where it is that he runs his game of chance and what sort of a game it be.”

“You said there’d be no more questions after the last.”

“Oh, did I, didn’t I? But then, that answer you gave wasn’t much, now, was it? No name but a nickname?”

“Ah well, perhaps you’re right. No, I can’t tell you where the game might be, but I think it must surely be in or around Bedford Street, for ‘tis there that the Duke spends most of his time. And as for what sort of game it is, I don’t really know that, either, for I ain’t never been there. I’ve no doubt, though, that it is played with cards and could even make a poor man of the king.”

I learned soon enough why Sir John had requested that I return to Bow Street for his court session. There was little time to discuss the matter beforehand, for he was on his way into the courtroom when I arrived.

“It’s you, is it, Jeremy?”

“Yes sir, and I’ve found out some things about Albert Calder that you’ll be interested in.”

“I’ll be glad to hear them — but not now. I must get on with it, I fear. I’ve a full docket today.”

“As you will. Sir John.”

Mr. Marsden threw open the door to the courtroom and assisted the magistrate in his entrance. I held back, thinking it best to seat myself at the rear of the room. But Sir John would have none of that.

“Come along, Jeremy,” said he. “I want you in the front row, for you’ve a role to play in this drama.”

What role? What drama? Truly, at that moment I had no idea, yet as I was then as always Sir John’s faithful servant, I followed him in and, following the “all rise ” intoned by Mr. Marsden, took a place in the front row that had been held for me by Mr. Fuller, the day jailer.

Sessions of the Bow Street Court are usually well attended by the denizens of Covent Garden. And on this day it seemed that an especially large assembly of layabouts, whores, and pimps had come for their midday entertainment. They came to laugh at the predicaments of those who came before Sir John on such petty charges as public drunkenness and disturbing the peace; to jeer and cheer at those who brought their disputes to be settled in magistrate’s court; and, finally, to thrill to the tales told in their own defense by those charged with felonies, who would in a day or two face trial at Old Bailey. Whatever was brought before them, the crowd found diversion and even some excitement in these daily sessions. But lately, as Sir John oft complained, they had grown a bit unruly; and the boldest of them seemed to wish to influence him in his decisions with their catcalls and shouts.

At that moment, there was a loud hum of anticipation, so loud, in fact, that Sir John found it necessary to beat upon the scarred table before him with his gavel, and call for order. They responded properly, and soon all had quieted down.

“Mr. Marsden, call the first case.”

“We summon Lady Marie-Helene Grenville before the bar.”

There was an immediate response from the crowd, more in the nature of a roar than a hum. Any criminal charge to a member of the aristocracy or the nobility was of keen interest to those of the lower classes. Yet this one had been talked of for weeks for a number of reasons. First of all, Marie-Helene was (it was rumored, for none had seen her) a beautiful Frenchwoman. She was bold and brave and had undertaken to fight when challenged in the course of a smuggling expedition. And, finally, she was under the protection of Black Jack Bilbo, gambler and previously a privateer. Mr. Bilbo, long a favorite with the mob, was said also to be her lover.

I turned and looked behind me, half-expecting to see them marching down the aisle in answer to Mr. Marsden’s loud summons. Yet only half, for well I recalled Clarissa’s clear-eyed prediction of their defection. Sir John, too, must have been of a like opinion.

Nor was I the only one who turned to look for them. All round the courtroom people turned and stretched their necks that they might catch a glimpse of Marie-Helene or Mr. Bilbo. Where were they? The roar of the crowd rose to a hubbub. Sir John beat down savagely upon the table with his gavel.

“Order!” said he. “I will have order here, or I shall clear this courtroom, if I must.”

That was in no wise necessary, for immediately he had spoken a hush fell over the crowd. It seemed to me it had come to most that neither Marie-Helene nor Mr. Bilbo were present, nor would they be arriving late.

“What is the difficulty, Mr. Marsden?” he shouted out to the man who sat next him. “You summoned the woman. Where is she?”

“She does not appear to be anywhere in this room,” said Mr. Marsden.

“Oh, she does not, eh? Well, we shall see about that, so we shall. If she will not come to the law, as she has been ordered to do, then the law will come to her.” He paused but an instant before bellowing out my name.

I jumped to my feet, not quite knowing what lay ahead. “I am here, sir. What is it you wish?”

“I wish Lady Grenville to be here in this courtroom, as was solemnly promised to me by her and by another party, whom I take also to be absent. Now, Jeremy Proctor, I do hereby deputize you as constable and direct you to arm yourself and proceed to the house in St. James’s Street, which is known to you, and bring back Lady Grenville to stand before me. Use all means necessary. Do you understand?”

“I do indeed, sir.”

“Then on your way.”

As I slipped out of the courtroom, I heard Sir John ask Mr. Marsden to call forth the next case on the docket.

Strange it was to perambulate the rooms of the house in St. James’s Street which I knew so well. They were empty — emptier than empty, for only a few remnants of furniture were left; and they, it seemed, belonged to another era, another time and place. I wandered about, looking into this room and that, so I might report to Sir John that I had searched every room. Nevertheless, it was evident from the way my footsteps echoed through the entire house that it was quite useless to expect to find any other living soul present.

I had entered by the front door, for it was unlocked. As I made my inspection of the rooms, I looked forward to viewing the last there on the ground floor. And just as I expected, in that room, the entrance to the tunnel I had discovered a few years ago had been left open, revealing the final exit taken by Black Jack, Marie-Helene, and Jimmie Bunkins. They would have emerged in the mews out beyond the back hedges. There, Black Jack’s coach-and-four would have awaited them and taken them away to Black Jack’s
Island Prince
, which he had kept moored somewhere in Wapping. And from there, you could be certain, they would have sailed on the morning tide.

Then, interrupting my ruminations, came the sound of voices from the front of the house. The door slammed. I heard footsteps echoing hollowly in the hall, just as mine had done only a few minutes before. By the sound of them there were but two men. If they were burglars or looters I resolved that I would chase them away. As the footsteps approached, I moved swiftly into the hall and, with pistol drawn, challenged them to identify themselves.

One of them, well-dressed and properly bewigged, stepped forward and announced himself as William Slade. He looked familiar, and the name, too, struck a certain chord in my memory. Who was he?

“I am the owner of this house,” said he. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

I gave him my name and explained my errand. As I did so, I took note of the man beside Mr. Slade. He, too, looked familiar, and it did not take me more than a moment to identify him. He was the one I had seen in the King’s Pleasure in company with Arthur Lee. And Slade? Still I was unsure of his exact identity, yet ever so certain that our paths had crossed previously.

I tucked the pistol away in its holster, which seemed to ease matters considerably between us.

“I should have known that Mr. Bilbo would sell this house rather than simply desert it,” said I. “They have gone then?”

“On the morning tide. He could be anyplace within a hundred miles by now.”

“So he could,” said I. “I believe that we have met before, sir.” At last it had come to me.

“Oh? That could be, I suppose.”