An Experiment in Treason (31 page)

“And have you been successful in that?”

“In all truth, I cannot say that I have been.”

“Well, I hope I didn’t cause you any pain making inquiries where it ain’t my business to do so, but I have to tell you, sir, that ever since I was summoned to that barn I have been frightened. I’ve had bad dreams, I have. I wake up nights in a proper sweat. The constable who went out there with me quit the next day. And the young widow — she’s done naught but weep and carry on ever since that dreadful morning, and I can’t say that I blame her any. The place was all bloody, blood on the straw, blood on the walls, and the milk cow was goin’ crazy.”

“What was judged to be the cause of death?” I asked.

“Well, besides having both arms chopped off at the elbows as you two have certainly guessed by now, he had a gash in his throat of a kind so deep it damned near took his head off.”

“Yet he kept quiet through it all?” I asked.

“He was gagged, and Mrs. Ferguson was a sound sleeper. But that fellow — Burkett, was it? — he must have spent an hour or more with him, torturing him, trying to get him to tell something. There must be a lot of money involved in this.”

“No,” said Constable Perkins, “I think Burkett does it because he likes it. No other reason.” Then did he ask if there might be any possibility that Burkett were still in the area of Robertsbridge.

“I’m certain that there’s no chance of that. He was on horseback, and he left in the direction of London at a gallop. You could tell by the track he left.” At that point, he paused. Then he came back to us with a demand. “Now, ” said he, “you’ve heard my story. You must tell me now what this was all about. And don’t say that this man Burkett was a rival coffee trader. We may not have much experience of this kind of thing here in Robertsbridge, but we’re all pretty much agreed that this wasn’t about coffee. You say Ned Ferguson was a burglar … ? “

I had a difficult time offering him information enough to satisfy him, yet not so much that he would know the part played in it all by Lord Hillsborough and Lord Mansfield. In fact, I had decided that Mr. Hollaby should know as little as possible about the burglary and nothing at all about Benjamin Franklin, Tommy Skinner, and Arthur Lee. The result was a rather disconnected narrative, one hardly deserving at all to be called a narrative. The magistrate asked many questions, a few of which I could not answer. He looked skeptically at me a number of times and must have thought me a terrible dunce. Nevertheless, I managed to get through my so-called recital of the facts as Sir John would have preferred: divulging as little information as possible.

By contrast, however, Mr. Hollaby seemed to get on wonderfully well with Mr. Perkins. As time grew shorter before the departure of our London-bound coach, he seemed to direct more of his comments and questions to him.

Finally, as we two waited to board the coach, bags in hand, the magistrate turned to Mr. Perkins and asked if he were from Sussex.

“No,” the constable replied, “but you’re close. Just the next county over — in Kent.”

“I thought so. You’ve got a certain way of speaking common to people down here.”

“I grew up on a farm just outside Deal.”

“You see? I wasn’t far off at all.” He hesitated, then came out with what I judged to be the reason for his remarks. “If ever you get tired of London and want to come back south, you just let me know. I need a good constable, always do.”

Mr. Perkins chuckled at that. “You mean you’re hiring one-armed fellas like me? You must be desperate.”

“No, I reckon that if you’re good enough for Sir John Fielding, you’re good enough for me — one-armed, one-legged, or whatever.”

Again, Mr. Perkins laughed in embarrassment.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” said the magistrate, persisting. “Whatever he’s paying you in London, Mr. Perkins, I’ll match — and you’ll find your money will go a lot farther in Robertsbridge than it will in London.”

“Well, I-”

“No, don’t say a word. Just think about it, and look round you as you leave town. No place nicer than Robertsbridge.”

Having had his say, Peter Hollaby bade us farewell and sent us on our way. All the way to Tunbridge Wells, I teased Constable Perkins intermittently regarding the job offer. He simply laughed and allowed me to have my fun, yet I could tell that he took the matter more seriously than I. Why should he not? He had an affinity for the south of England, for it was from here that he had come. Oddly, he had received the offer of a job in Deal but a few months past in much the same way as he had here. And again, why should he not? He was one of the most able — in my opinion, the best — of all the Bow Street Runners, worth more than any man with two arms, it seemed to me.

Passengers boarded the coach at Tunbridge Wells, and I ended my mischief. Mr. Perkins must have thought it high time that I should have done. He dozed then all the way to London.

We arrived in Bow Street after dark and made our report to Sir John in his chambers. Sir John was sobered by the news of Ned Ferguson’s death, and he wished to hear all the details whilst they were still fresh in our minds.

“You wish to know if his arms was intact?” said the constable. Sir John sighed. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I do.” “They were cut off at the elbows, just as it was with Isaac Kidd.” Without hesitating, he added: “I want to go out and look for Burkett.”

“No,” said Sir John quite firmly. “You were out last night doing your job. You traveled all day today. You’re tired and weak, and you must sleep the night.”

“But I have a good idea of where I might find him.”

“No. If I must threaten you to make it plain, I shall do so. Even if you find him, bring him in, and lock him up in the strong room, I shall discharge you forthwith. You will no longer be a constable. And you know me well enough to tell the difference between a mere threat and a promise. What I have just offered you is more promise than threat. Do you understand me?”

Evidently he did, for he nodded and took his leave. Sir John then rose and suggested we have our dinner.

“It awaits us above,” said he. “A special treat is to be served us this evening, I am told.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“Clarissa has cooked the entire meal herself, part of her culinary education. The girl seems quite determined to learn all that she can as quickly as she can.”

“Under Molly’s strict supervision, I assume.”

“I assume so, too. Oh, I know. You’re doubtful, are you not? Yet Kate assures me they know what they’re doing.”

If I seemed doubtful, it was not without reason, for I recalled that not so long ago, before Molly had joined our household, Clarissa had attempted a meal on her own (a beef stew, as I recall) which left us all a bit queasy. Sir John himself seemed to suffer most.

“And what has she prepared for this evening?”

“Beef stew, as I understand.”

Sir John hastened to admonish me to give Clarissa a proper chance.

“A good lawyer must always keep an open mind,” said he.

As it happened, no special consideration needed to be given. Dinner was as good as any Molly had made for us that week. I realized, as Clarissa later confessed, that she had served as little more than Molly’s hands in preparing the meal. Nevertheless, I was also aware that with Clarissa’s memory and eye for detail, she would probably be able to duplicate that same stew in appearance and, most important, in taste, a month or even a year hence. There were frequent comments round the table and all of them quite flattering to Clarissa. I joined in with the rest and praised the spicing of her stew. “You’ve made good use of Annie’s paprika, ” said I, earning a frown from Molly. (I later learned that the red spice was the single original touch in Clarissa’s stew; Molly had warned against it because of its exotic origin.) But by any measure, the evening was a great success for Clarissa — and she deserved it.

She remained in the kitchen after the others had left, savoring her triumph as I washed up the pots, the pans, and the dishes. I was oddly aware of her eyes following me round the kitchen as I went about my usual duties. What did she mean by watching me so closely? I was made a bit uncomfortable by such attention. I was relieved when at last she spoke.

“What did you think of the meal?”

“Why, like all the rest I thought it excellent — wonderful, really.”

“Good,” said she with a solemn smile, “for it’s you I wish to please, more than anyone else in the world.”

I was quite taken aback by what she said. I knew not what to say. None had ever addressed me in such a way.

“Please don’t look so shocked, Jeremy,” said she. “You’ll be hearing more of such from me now.”

“Now?” I echoed.

“Yes, of course —
now
that you and I have an understanding. Now that I’ve no need to watch my tongue, lest you think me too flattering, too forward, lest I frighten you with such words and have you run from me. Why do you suppose I was so often tart, so frequently critical of you?”

“I don’t know; because it is your nature, I suppose.”

“Well, that’s partly true, but it was also true that I did not wish to frighten you.”

That seemed a strange thing to say. Frighten me away? George Burkett frightened me, not Clarissa Roundtree. “I don’t understand,” said I — and I truly did not.

“Oh, never mind,” said she, scowling, putting words to her sour expression. She was silent for a moment, then did she blurt out in a most ironically mundane tone, “And tell me, Jeremy, what did you do today?”

Not knowing how better to respond to that, I treated it as an honest inquiry. I shrugged. “Constable Perkins and I went down to Robertsbridge in Sussex to arrest two men and bring them back to London.”

“And did you?” She was becoming interested.

“No,” I sighed. “One of them was dead, and the other, who’d killed him, had already fled.”

“Oh, Jeremy, you do such dangerous work for Sir John. Supposing the killer had not fled. Supposing he had tried to kill you. What then?”

“Why then, Mr. Perkins would have killed him.”

“But…”

I disliked the turn that this had taken. Just as with Sir John and Mr. Donnelly, I thought it unwise to discuss the nastier aspects of keeping the peace with the women of our household. I decided that it would be wise to change the subject.

“Something interesting happened there in Robertsbridge, however,” said I.

“Oh? What was that?”

“Well, toward the end of our stay there — just before “we boarded the return coach — the magistrate in Robertsbridge offered Mr. Perkins a job there as constable. He said he would match what-ever he was paid here in Bow Street, and that his money would go much farther in Robertsbridge. I’m sure he’s right about that, too.”

“Did Mr. Perkins accept the offer, or not?” She seemed oddly disapproving.

“Neither one. The magistrate wouldn’t let him turn it down. He told him just to think about it. And frankly, I believe he is doing so.”

“Well, I cannot understand that, ” said she.

“You mean, why he should be considering it? You must remember that he grew up in that part of the country. And as for Roberts — “

“No, that is
not
what I meant,” said she, interrupting sharply. “I care not if he be considering the matter. What distresses me is that this magistrate should be offering him the position and not you. Could he not see your worth? Your superiority?”

“Clarissa, Oliver Perkins is likely the most capable of alt Sir John’s force of constables. He is brave and intelligent … and …”

“You are far more intelligent. You have the law! When will you cease underestimating yourself? “

“First of all, I do not have the law — not yet. I have not been admitted to the bar. When I am and am looking about for a position, I shall not accept one as a constable. I shall aim higher.”

Still she sulked. “Well, that’s good to hear. Still, I think that the magistrate, whoever he may be, should have offered it first to you. Then at least you would have the chance to turn him down. You deserve recognition. If only you knew what I see in you!”

I was beginning to have some notion of that, and, quite frankly, I found it disquieting. I wondered if I could ever live up to her expectations. I wondered if anyone could. Love, marriage, and all the rest made great demands, did they not? I only hoped that I was equal to them.

Of a sudden we had little more to say, each to the other. I wondered if it might not be true that she, too, had suddenly been struck by the immensity of what lay ahead of us. Until now I had given little thought to anything beyond the completion of my studies and admission to the bar. But beyond that lay all of life. How was I to prepare for that?

Next day, as I went out to do a bit of buying for Molly in Covent Garden, I was halted by the cries of the newsmongers who ran about shouting the news and selling their papers. There were remarkable events in America. I snatched up a gazette from the nearest lad, and raced with it back to Bow Street, ran down the hall, and into Sir John’s chambers.

“What? What is it?” said he to me. “What is worth such a disturbance?”

“News from Boston,” said I.

“Of what sort?”

“Insurrection — or something close to it.”

He groaned. “All right, let us hear what that wretched gang of rebels have gotten themselves into now.”

With that, I set out to read him the entire article, which, I noted, had been reprinted from a Boston newspaper of four weeks past. (It was not always that news came so swiftly from America.) The story it told was bizarre in the extreme. Let me summarize briefly, reader, for the event is no doubt still well known and well remembered.

In protest against the tax levied by Parliament against the tea sold by the East India Company (chartered by the king), many of those in the colonies had simply refused to drink English tea. They instead drank tea smuggled in from Holland, or formed a new habit and took coffee as their morning drink.

Yet a plan was hatched to force the most recalcitrant of the colonies, Massachusetts, to accept English tea in spite of the tax. The price was lowered. The tea was sold in advance to American importers. Nevertheless, the Massachusetts patriots held firm and insisted they would not allow the tea to be unloaded in Boston.