An Experiment in Treason (30 page)

“Good day to you, sir,” said he. “What is it you wish?”

“To talk with you upon a private matter, sir.”

I studied the fellow. He was of medium height and size, and in no wise remarkable. Of his face there was naught to say, except that his brown eyes (almost black) were of an unusual intensity. He seemed to stare at Sir John.

“Well, you may do so,” said Sir John, “but you must admit my assistant, Jeremy Proctor, into your confidence, for I have no secrets from him.”

“That is your sole condition?” It IS, yes.

“Then I accept it.”

Sir John nodded and pointed with his stick down the hall.

“This way,” said he.

Once we were seated and settled in Sir John’s chambers, the visitor leaned forward and without preamble said, “I am Jonas Hastings. I am a qualified solicitor, acting on behalf of my client, Mr. Thomas Skinner, whom I believe you seek.”

“We have sought him, you are correct, Mr. Hastings. We also seek his partner, Mr. Edward Ferguson. Do you have dealings with him, as well?”

“Only through Mr. Skinner.”

His reply struck me as rather ambiguous.

“What brings you here, sir?”

“Mr. Skinner would like to surrender to you.”

“Well,” said Sir John, “this is indeed a surprise. There is not yet a warrant out for his arrest, though he is suspicioned for the murder of Albert Calder, a footman in the household of Lord Hillsborough.”

“There are conditions, however.”

“I am not surprised to hear it.”

“First of all, Mr. Skinner would like it understood that while he admits to killing Albert Calder, death was unintended. In effect, he is willing to plead guilty to manslaughter.”

Sir John did not respond immediately. Clearly, he was giving the question some consideration. “Let us say, I am willing to accept the homicide as unintentional if he is able to convince me.”

It was Jonas Hastings’s turn to sit silent and consider. “I shall present that to him,” said he at last. “There is another condition, however, though it is related to the first. It is that no matter the charge at Old Bailey, you will recommend transportation, rather than death by hanging.”

“If he convinces me, and I send him on to the Central Criminal Court with a charge of manslaughter, he would naturally receive a sentence of transportation and penal servitude. Even if found guilty of murder, he might receive such a sentence. I sometimes recommend such, and until very recently my recommendations were always followed.”

“And what happened then?”

“My recommendation on sentencing was ignored.”

“How many times, over the years, were your recommendations followed?”

“Oh, perhaps a hundred.”

“I shall take that to him, too.”

Mr. Hastings rose, thanked Sir John, and turned to go.

“One more thing,” said Sir John just then. “It will count greatly in his favor if he surrenders.”

“That is understood,” said Mr. Hastings.

And so saying, he left. As soon as he was out of the room, I posed the question of what more might be learned from Tommy Skinner once he had surrendered. That is to say, I started to pose such a question; but Sir John cut me off in midsentence with a finger to his lips and a shake of his head. Thereafter we sat in silence for a long space of time. I must have become notably restless, for at last Sir John spoke.

“It should not be long,” he whispered. “Be patient.”

Shortly afterward, we heard footsteps in the hall again. One could tell in an instant that there were two men, for besides Hastings’s light, quick step, there was another, slower and heavier, which simply had to be Tommy Skinner.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door. Jonas Hastings stepped into the room. “May I present my client, Mr. Thomas Skinner,” said he in a peculiarly dramatic manner.

When Skinner followed him in, he turned out to be near as big as George Burkett himself. He was the man who had shared the bench with Mr. Hastings.

“Tommy and I have already met, is that not so, Tommy? “

“I never thought you’d remember, no, I never.”

“Let me see, it must be a good five years ago that you appeared before me for … what was it?”

“Drunkenness, I fear.” He bowed his big head in shame.

“Ah, so it was, so it was. You were but a lad then, your great size notwithstanding. I remember fining you a half crown and urging you to use your strength in gainful employment.”

“Yes sir, you was generous to me then, so I thought I’d try you once more.”

“There’s a bit of a gamble involved here, you know.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Jeremy,” said Sir John, turning in my direction. “Bring this Bible to Mr. Skinner, that he may take an oath upon it.” Saying thus, he pushed the Bible across the desk toward me.

I took it and brought it over to Skinner. He placed his right hand upon it, and his left he held over his heart. Then did he swear, as God was his witness, that what he was about to tell was “the absolute and honest truth.” And he added his wish to burn in hell if it wasn’t. I took the Bible then and returned it to Sir John’s desk. Skinner remained standing throughout his recitation, and his voice remained steady and calm.

The tale he told was essentially the one Sir John had put together from visits to the crime scene, my talks with witnesses, et cetera. He confirmed that Isaac Kidd had served as a kind of broker for the burglary, hiring Skinner and Ned Ferguson to do the burglary for a very high price indeed. He also arranged for them to be given a diagram of the ground floor of Lord Hillsborough’s residence, which one of the footmen had drawn, showing the probable location of the letters they were to take. They were also warned that they must make their entry at a specific time, for the footmen were guarding the place against housebreakers, and Skinner and Ferguson were to wait to go in when the inside man was making his rounds. Now, to prevent him from getting blamed for the burglary, it had been arranged that the footman would lay down upon the floor, and Skinner would give him a tap with his cosh — not enough to do permanent damage, just enough to put him under and bloody his head.

“And the truth of it is,” said he to Sir John, “I just hit him too hard. I popped him on the back of his head, and the blood just ran. He tried to hft himself up a bit, and then he fell back to the floor and stopped breathing.”

Tears coursed down his cheeks. “I never killed nobody before, and I hope never to do it again. ‘Scuse me now whilst I blow my nose.” That he did, most thunderously loud.

I, for one, was convinced and hoped that Sir John was, as well. There was something childish about the big fellow, was there not? How could such an overgrown child be punished in the same way that a practiced killer might be — one such as, say, George Burkett?

“I have some questions for you,” said Sir John, “though not many.”

“Well and good. I’ll do my best to answer them.”

“What happened afterward?”

“Not much of anything. Ned had some trouble finding the letters we were supposed to take, but he located them at last. He said they had something to do with the North American colonies. I guess we left the place in kind of a mess.”

“You did indeed. But tell me, is that all you remember of the aftermath?”

“Well, we were a day or two late getting our money, and we didn’t like that, but we got paid in full eventually.”

“Do you have the weapon with you, the cosh with which you dispatched Albert Calder?”

“Was that the fella’s name? Yes, it’s right here in my pocket.”

“Surrender it to Mr. Proctor, please — that, and any other weapons you might have on your person.”

He did as he was told, stepping over to me and handing over the leather-covered club. It weighed heavy in my hand. Indeed, it could have cracked Calder’s skull, or mine, or any other. I dropped it in my pocket.

“Tell me. Tommy, what led you to surrender and confess your crime?”

“Well, sir, you treated me right before and gave me good advice I wish to God I’d taken. I committed a terrible sin, but to be honest with you, I don’t want to get my arms chopped off for it.”

“Ah, you’ve heard about that, have you?”

“I have,” said Skinner, “and he’s been following me all round London, asking after me.”

“And what about your partner, Ned Ferguson?”

“For his own good, I think you better arrest him, sir. He bought himself a little farm just north of Robertsbridge in Sussex with his cut of the wack. I told you we got paid right rum for the job.”

The word was out in Bedford Street that the body of Isaac Kidd had been horribly mangled. Whether before or after death seemed to matter little to those who heard the story and passed it on. What caught the fancy of the mob was the manner of mutilation. Jokes were made about the missing forearms; bets were placed on where they might turn up. There were those who insisted that such bizarre brutality was doubtless the work of the Devil; and there were others who speculated that, considering Kidd’s known background in the slave trade, he was no doubt the victim of some revenge plot of the blacks in London.

There were but a few of us who knew the truth and two of that small number were riding in the post coach next morning, completing the journey to Robertsbridge. I was one, as was Mr. Perkins. Because the town (hardly more than a village) had few visitors, we had the coach to ourselves by the time we made the last leg of the journey. That gave us an opportunity to talk freely of the matter which concerned us both so deeply. I sought from him an answer to a question that plagued me.

“What I, for one, cannot understand is how the grisly condition of Isaac Kidd’s body became general knowledge so quickly,” said I. “I know that I told nothing to anyone but Sir John. Mr. Donnelly would not have divulged such matter. It must have been the waterman who discovered the body who spread the news.”

“No, it was known before ever he found it,” said the constable.

“But how?”

“Burkett, just as bold as brass, let it be known on the street that he had a body to be rid of, and that he’d pay well to them who attended to it.”

“And he actually found someone to take care of it?”

“As a matter of fact, he found two someones. Twas the Colter brothers. It’s said they’ll do anything for money.”

“It seems they would, and they did,” said I.

“The Colter brothers wrapped the Duke in canvas, bound him at both ends, and tossed him in the Thames. Now, in preparing the body for burial they couldn’t help but notice that the fellow’s arms were a mite shorter than before, and his hands, which was so clever with the cards, were nowhere to be seen. They remarked upon this to their chums and fellow drinkers in Bedford Street, and you know how it is there, Jeremy — word just traveled like wildfire.”

“Did you arrest them? Did they confess?”

“You mean the Colters? Oh, I talked to them right stern about it, and they made out to be plain shocked that such horrible stories could be told of them. The two shared the same doxy over in Southwark, and she swore she entertained the both of them a whole night and the better part of a day before the body was pulled from the river. So all we’ve got against them is hearsay, and Sir John says that ain’t good enough.”

“And you think, don’t you, that this was done as a warning to you?”

“Oh I do, no question. But something more than a warning, Jeremy — more like a … well, a promise.”

“No doubt it was also a most effective means of torturing information out of Isaac Kidd,” said I, having given some thought to the matter.

“Just as you say,” said he in agreement. “Kidd refuses to tell him what he wants to know, so Burkett just up and whacks off the Duke’s arm. Then says Burkett: ‘If you want to keep the other one, you better answer up.’ So he gets all he wants from him, and he just chops off the other arm for cursedness.”

“You think that’s how it happened?”

“Well, your ideas are worth as much as mine on that partic’lar matter.”

We fell silent. There was probably much to discuss regarding what lay ahead, yet we had both seemed to lose the taste for it. Each of us turned to the window on his side of the coach and idly studied the countryside as we watched it reel by. Sussex was farm country and, to my eye, little different from Kent. Fields and trees that would bloom green in spring were now dun brown in this mild early winter. Yet perhaps winter had not been near so mild here as in London for here and there I saw patches of snow, while in London there had been none, at least so far as I had seen.

We seemed to be entering the town of Robertsbridge, for the coach had slowed. Soon I saw houses crammed close on either side of the road, and then a shop or two, and down a side street I spied a church with some sort of activity outside it. Was it — yes, it had to be — a funeral? I slapped Constable Perkins upon the shoulder and pointed

“Look, look,” said I excitedly, “the church! A funeral!”

He strained forward to look out of the window on my side of the coach. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of the church and the little crowd before it — but no more than that, for we were past it in a moment or two. He looked at me oddly.

“A church,” said he, “a funeral? What’s there to gawk at? See what … oh … oh yes, I do see.” The light of understanding had kindled in his eyes. “You think that Ned Ferguson might … ?”

“I think we must find out,” said I.

As soon as the coach pulled to a stop before the Robertsbridge Inn we jumped out, grabbed our bags, and ran back to find the side street wherein the church did stand. There was the undertaker’s coach in front of the church. Still, the mourners I had seen before the church were now inside. The service had begun. I could hear the organ and voices raised in a hymn.

As luck would have it, the driver of the funeral coach was there still, preparing to turn the coach and team round, now that their part in the ceremony was ended. We approached in a friendly manner, not wishing to cause offense.

“Beg pardon, sir, ” said I most respectfully, “but could you tell us the name of the party whose funeral just now is taking place? “

“I could,” said he. He wsis a tight-lipped, taciturn sort of man of about forty years of age. But he looked to be the sort who would not be above playing a trick or two on a recent arrival in town.

“Uh, would you then tell us the name?”

“I would.” And that, of course, was said with a smirk.

“Well sir,” said I, my patience at last wearing thin, ‘what ij the name?”

“Ferguson,” said he. “Edward Ferguson.”

Unbeknownst to me, whilst I conducted this maddening conversation, a man emerged from the church, listening intently. According to Mr. Perkins, who observed the man descending the church steps, “he looked sharp at us and quite suspicious.” Yet I remained unaware of his presence until I felt his hand upon my shoulder and heard his question to me.

“Why do you ask after Edward Ferguson?”

I turned round to find an elderly fellow whose eyes were magnified somewhat by a pair of thick spectacles, which were perched low upon the bridge of his nose. Viewed thusly, he seemed quite fierce. Nevertheless, I was determined not to be intimidated.

“And why do you wish to know?”

“Because, young sir,” said he, sending his jowls and wattles aquiver, “I am the magistrate of Robertsbridge and its environs up to Tunbridge Wells. As such, it is my place to ask such questions, and it is your place to answer them. ‘

“If you are the magistrate, then your name must be Peter Hol-laby. Is that correct, sir?”

He was taken somewhat aback. “Why yes, yes it is.”

“Then I have a letter for you.”

I reached into my voluminous coat pocket and produced the letter Sir John had dictated to me the night before. Then did I hand it to him.

“For me?”

He said it timidly, as if he did not often receive mail of the official sort, and Sir John’s seal upon it made it plain that this letter was indeed
very
official. He pushed his spectacles higher up on his nose and set about to read the communication.

Since I had taken it down, I knew its contents quite well. It was remarkably like the letter of introduction from the Lord Chief Justice, which began our troubles with George Burkett. It presented Constable Perkins and me to Mr. Hollaby, and asked that we be given aid and information to assist them in the capture of Edward Ferguson and George Burkett. It also asked his permission that we two be given the right to carry arms within his jurisdiction, and, if necessary, to discharge them. And so, having served as Sir John’s amanuensis, and knowing what had been said, I anticipated each blink and widening of the eyes by Mr. Hollaby, assured that the letter was having the desired effect. I believe he read it through twice.

He looked up at last. “Do you have arrest warrants?”

I nodded and pulled them from the same pocket from which I had produced the letter. He took them and examined each one, then returned them to me, appearing somewhat bewildered.

“Ned Ferguson was wanted for burglary?”

“That’s right,” said I. “His partner gave witness against him.”

“And this George Burkett?”

“A murderer twice o’er, ” said I, “once in London and now, I assume, again here in Robertsbridge.”

“You two are armed?”

His eyes went first to Mr. Perkins, who opened his coat to display two pistols, worn each on his right side, for it was the side of his good arm. Then did he look at me, and I showed him the brace of pistols, belted one on each hip.

“Since this is all being done proper, I’ll make out a paper that says you’ve got my permission to wear those things and shoot them off if need be.”

I had by this time noted that the driver of the undertaker’s coach had taken such a keen interest in our discussion that he had interposed himself between Constable Perkins and Mr. Hollaby, so that now we seemed to be a group of four, rather than three. I remember well, from my childhood, the curiosity of townsmen. Where little happens, all must be known about that little.

Catching Mr. Hollaby’s attention, I pointed to the intruder in our group.

He nodded his agreement. “We must talk about this some more,” said he. “I’ve an idea. Why don’t we go to the inn and have us an ale? You two must be dry from all that traveling. I’ve got questions for you, and I’m sure you’ll want to hear a few things that I have to tell.” Then said he to the driver: “Henry, you can tell the widow that I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for the rest of the funeral, but I got called away by something important. I’m sure you’ll agree that thui is important, won’t you?”

“Oh, I,certainly do, Mr. Hollaby. All the way from London, Bow Street Runners and all. I’m sure she’ll want to hear all about that. It’ll help ease her pain, I’m sure.”

The story told by the magistrate of Robertsbridge was of the sort I might well have expected to hear. Still, the magistrate was correct in his surmise that we might welcome a pint of ale or two after our journey. And upon learning that it would be near two hours before the next coach for London came through, we were well satisfied to spend the time sipping ale, listening to Peter Hollaby’s tale and telling our own.

The magistrate was much embarrassed to reveal that he had actually aided Burkett in finding Ferguson. The big man had stopped by Hollabys office in the evening three days past and asked his way to Ferguson’s farm. He presented himself as a friend from London come down to Robertsbridge at Ferguson’s invitation.

“He said to me, T know he’s just outside of town, but I don’t know which road to take.’ I pointed out the right one to him, and that just about wrote the end to Ned Ferguson.”

I asked how long the magistrate had known Ned Ferguson, and when it was he had first made his appearance in the town, and I was surprised to learn that it was a good ten months past.

He courted a local girl — called her his “lass,” as a Scotsman would, ‘cause that’s what he was — and was well liked in Robertsbridge. The parents of the girl thought him a good match for their daughter and offered a decent dowry. Though he was a bit tight-lipped about his business (he claimed to be a coffee merchant), which took him off to London with fair frequency, banns were posted in the church, and about a month and a half past Edward Ferguson and his lass were wed.

The magistrate of Robertsbridge was a bit vague about what had happened after that. It was known about town that the young bride was eager to go with her groom on his next trip to London, but following a visit from one of Ferguson’s business associates (Isaac Kidd, according to the description given by Peter Hollaby), he made no more trips to the city and stayed rather close to the house. A change had come over him, and she let it be known to her parents that Ned was acting in a rather disturbing manner.

Yet she was not near so disturbed then as she was early in the morn, two days past, when, finding her husband absent from their bed, she went looking for him about their place and found his body in the barn.

“What was the condition of the body?” asked Mr. Perkins, who had been unusually quiet all through the magistrate’s recitation.

“Well you might ask,” said Hollaby, nodding plainly at the constable’s empty sleeve. “But may I inquire of you, sir, did you have an encounter of your own with this fiendish fellow?”

“Not the kind of encounter you mean,” said Mr. Perkins. “Yet we have met, and ever after he has been trying to frighten me away by chopping off the arms of his victims.”

“But you, I take it, are not frightened?”

“Oh, I’m frightened, right enough, yet I try not to let it bother me.”