Blind Justice (12 page)

“I have only one complaint against the widow,” said he, “and that is that I was offered nothing to eat: nor dinner, nor supper. It seems she is fasting, good woman that she is, in penance for his sins. So I must confess to you, Jeremy, that I have now upon me a most prodigious hunger. Have you any idea where we might eat that might not cost too dear?”

I gave it hardly a moment’s thought, for I knew only one place nearby.

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “the Cheshire Cheese would do.”

“The very place! It is off Fleet Street, is it not?”

“I believe so, Mr. Donnelly.”

“Then I know the way.”

We set off at a swift pace. His legs, being longer than mine, demanded that I stretch to match his stride. Yet I managed to keep up as he regaled me with some of what he had found out during his time with Lady Goodhope. He was quite pleased with himself to have learned what Sir John had omitted: when Lord Goodhope had entered the library and his condition at the time.

“It was about half an hour before the shot was heard,” said he. “Lady Goodhope did not witness this herself but had it from two sources: that fellow Potter, whom Sir John is no doubt right not to trust; but also from the housekeeper, who happened to see him from above as she descended the stairs. Both agree that he seemed to be in good spirits, not in the least as one who had just taken poison certainly.”

“But isn’t that strange?” I responded. “Was he then poisoned and shot within the space of half an hour?”

“It is most perplexing,” he agreed. Then, after we had walked a bit, he put to me a question to do with my conversations below the stairs.

“Well,” said I, “they seem greatly fearful that the house here in London will be closed up and they be turned out to look for work where it may be found.”

“And well they might fear,” said Donnelly. “Between us, Jeremy, Lady Goodhope has confided in me her extreme dislike of this city and her wish to return permanently to Lancashire.”

“They will be much disappointed,” said L

“No doubt,” said he rather absently. Then, reflecting his true thoughts, he added, “She confided much to me this visit.”

Yet he said no more of that. He grew silent, pondering matters; though what he pondered, it seemed, was of a cheering nature. Picking up his pace a bit, he moved along in such sprightly fashion that I found it necessary to break into a trot to keep up. Then he, noticing my difficulty, begged pardon in good gentlemanly style and slowed to accommodate me. Not long afterward he began humming to himself. It was some Irish ditty, a jig or reel of a distinctly happy sound. Remembering his earlier urgency with Sir John, I found his change of mood most perplexing.

I offer this in explanation for the fact that I withheld from him the weightier matters I had learned in my conversation with Annie. How could I repeat the awful story of Meg struck dumb to one so lighthearted? Would he even give it his full attention? I kept my silence.

It was now well past dark. Hackneys, carriages, and coaches plied the streets. The street lamps winked off in the distance ahead like so many stars. As we proceeded down the broad Strand, making our way through the crowd which had seemed to swell in spite of the hour, a cold wind blew up at our back, giving me reason to wish I had brought my heavy coat when I left Bow Street that very afternoon. Perhaps the mild days of spring that had sustained me on my hike to London were now ended for a bit. Strange to think that all that had taken place was so near in time. Much in my life had changed since then and might soon change greatly more.

When we reached the Cheshire Cheese and entered inside, we found it filled quite to the walls with drinkers and diners. As we wandered about the room heavy with tobacco smoke looking in vain for an empty table, I felt a sudden tug at my sleeve. I looked about and found to my consternation that it had been grasped by none other than the windy Mr. James Boswell. He had recognized me from last night’s visit and insisted we sit down at the table which he held alone. There was method to his kindness, as there always is with such men, for it soon developed that he was bursting to know on what mission Sir John had been called away the night before.

“I recall,” said he to me, “that Sir John had hoped to see Dr. Johnson. A great pity: the eminent lexicographer arrived immediately you left. And you left in a great hurry … ?”

Mr. Boswell was already at dinner. He paused, a good-sized bit of beef at the end of his fork, as he shifted his inquiring gaze from me to Mr. Donnelly.

“It was a grave matter,” said Mr. Donnelly.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt, Mr… . ? Mr… . ?”

Alas, my social graces were those of a child. I had failed to introduce the two men when we sat down. Yet they managed this without me. Mr. Boswell took particular pride in presenting himself, going so far as to say, “You’ve probably heard of me of late, Mr. Donnelly … ?”

My older companion seemed to shift uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced at me for aid I could not provide. At last, he managed to blurt, “I’ve not, no sir, but I’m only lately settled in this city.”

“And I’ve only lately published my first book! Surely you’ve heard of it! An Account of Corsica} It is much discussed.”

“Well, yes, now that I hear the title,” said Mr. Donnelly, “I do, of course, recall your name, Mr… . Boswell. I’m honored, sir.”

“Tish-tosh,” said Boswell, playing falsely at modesty. “But you would do well to look at it, if I may say so. I can tell you are a man of affairs. Mine is the first account of the Corsican struggle for independence. I gathered my intelligence at firsthand in an extended visit to that troubled island where I became a friend and confidant to the leader of that struggle. General Pasquale Paoli.”

“I had no idea,” said Mr. Donnelly. “Then of course you are a true literary man.”

“An amateur only,” said Mr. Boswell, at last popping that bite of beef into his mouth (after having waved it about for more than a minute).

Just then a server appeared and Mr. Donnelly ordered a chunk of beef like Boswell’s and insisted, over my objections, that I have one, as well. Inwardly, I sighed, unsure that I could do it justice, having already dined well on a chop of mutton.

But then, with the server departed, the Scotsman returned to his true subject: “As I say, Mr. Donnelly, I am but an amateur author. I am by profession a man of the law, a member of the bar in Edinburgh. That is why I have a keen and healthy interest in this grave matter of the night before. You termed it so yourself.” He glanced searchingly in my direction and, getting no response, focused himself on Mr. Donnelly.

Perhaps worn down by Boswell’s insistence, or perhaps (it is possible) wishing to claim some importance for himself, Mr. Donnelly gave out a sigh worthy of an actor, leaned across the table (for the room was very noisy), and said in the loudest possible whisper: “You may as well hear it somewhat in advance, sir, for there will be a notice in the Public Advertiser tomorrow.”

Boswell joined in the mood of secrecy, thrusting his face across his plate so that only a foot of space separated their noses. “Tell me, sir,” said he. “Please do.”

“Lord Goodhope died last night.”

“But this is remarkable news. He was a man in his prime, less than ten years older than myself, I should judge. What was the cause?”

Mr. Donnelly’s eyes, which just then moved in my direction, may have caught the look of alarm on my face. Surely he would not tell this gossip all he knew! But when his answer came, it sorely disappointed Boswell.

The surgeon leaned still closer and said: “Misadventure.”

”Misadventure? But that is not a cause of death, sir. It is a … a euphemism. For what?”

Mr. Donnelly pulled back then and gave me a look I took to be reassuring. Then to Boswell: “Why, I quote from the notice, merely. More I am not at liberty to say.”

Attempting to disguise his disappointment at Mr. Donnelly’s show of discretion, Boswell nodded and went back to his dinner just as ours appeared. I dug in manfully and, may I say, hopefully at the considerable slice of beef roast placed before me.

“I understand, of course,” said Boswell. “Sir John Fielding would not want it otherwise. I assume the matter is indeed grave, as you say, and is presently under inquiry.”

“You are free to draw that assumption. Many shall do so tomorrow when the notice appears.”

And then Boswell picked up the bottle before him and splashed wine in the empty glasses around the table. He began a discourse which, had it come from any other source, should have won my respect. He was not, after all, a stupid man: merely one, as I later came to judge, who was vain, sometimes to the point of foolishness.

“Let us consider this,” said he. “If we take ‘misadventure’ to mean, as it so often does, an accident —that is, an unplanned and disastrous occurrence—then there would be no need to use the word. Unless, of course, the facts of the ‘misadventure’—that is, the accident—were of such an embarrassing nature that they could not be disclosed. There are such occasions. Yet they are not such as to rout the magistrate of the Bow Street Court from an eating place before he has eaten—and before the arrival of Dr. Johnson, the meeting of whom seemed to be the reason for his visit to this establishment. And in such a rush, I might add. It would have been handled in more leisurely fashion. No, I believe we may put aside ‘misadventure’ in its more common meaning, in this case. It was surely not an accident.

“What other possibilities are there? Suicide? Had Lord Good-hope reason for such an extreme act? He was known at court, was until recently said to be a favorite of the King as a defender of the King’s less defensible policies. A gifted speaker, I’m told: part actor and part controversialist. I myself never heard him and saw him but twice and then only at a distance. But I did say he was until recently a favorite of the King, did I not? Word reached me even in my distant northern eyrie that he had fallen somewhat from grace. My informant pleaded ignorance as to the reason. He knew only with some certainty that the Royal door had been shut to Lord Goodhope. Would that be enough to move a man to take his life? Hardly.

“Financial problems? More likely. He was a gambler, a reckless frequenter of the Bilbo establishment, as you may or may not know. Yet he drew good rents from his holdings in Lancashire. And if not inexhaustible, his resources would certainly be difficult to exhaust. He was not a poor man, nor would he ever be likely to become one.

“There is another matter that dissuades us from considering suicide. Perhaps you are aware of it, Mr. Donnelly?”

“Perhaps I am.”

I did not like Boswell luring my companion into his conjectures. I did not like it because I was sure Sir John would not.

“You are Irish, are you not?”

“I take pride in it, sir.”

“And Roman Catholic, as well? Donnelly, I’m told, is a Catholic name.”

“That is my faith, yes.”

“So, I’ve heard it whispered, was it also Lord Goodhope’s.”

Whatever effect Boswell hoped to achieve by this, he failed to achieve it, for the surgeon simply sat and looked the other man in the eye for many long seconds, gave an abrupt nod, and returned to his meat. The effect of this was to rattle Boswell somewhat. Whereas up to this point he had spoken in measured fashion, using a somewhat insinuating tone, he now fairly exploded forth.

“Well … well … you see my implication, of course!” He got no response from Mr. Donnelly, and so he blundered on: “His family is a very old one in Lancashire, which as you must know, is a very hotbed of Papist loyalty. They rose under the Stuarts. They got their title from the second Charles and rose in favor under the former George.”

“You are very well studied, sir.”

“Then murder! It must be murder! Suicide is out of the question! In law, misadventure may signal accidental homicide without blame. Why not with blame? Misadventure by murder!”

Boswell was fairly shouting it out. Talk had stopped at a number of tables around our own. Patrons leaned over on their benches to catch what would be said next.

Mr. Donnelly kept chewing solemnly, swallowed his bite, and then said: “When I told you in advance the contents of tomorrow’s notice, which I now understand to have been a mistake, I unwittingly left serious matters open for discussion. I did not, however, give you leave to publicize them, sir.”

Boswell then looked around him and noted the expectant faces. He dropped his voice to a whisper: “Forgive me, do. I became a bit carried away, I fear. But I should think you as a lawyer would understand that I—”

“I am not a lawyer, Mr. Boswell.”

“But I assumed you were somehow associated with the Bow Street Court … the boy … Sir John … last night …” He trailed off quite pitifully, seeking words to take him out of his predicament. At last he came to a full stop and forced a smile. “What is your profession, if I may ask?”

“I am a surgeon, until recently of the King’s Navy.”

A certain glint came into Boswell’s eye. Without asking leave, he took the bottle before him and emptied it into Mr. Donnelly’s glass. Then he waved the empty bottle at the server, calling for another.

If Boswell had previously impressed me, in spite of myself, with his lawyer’s logic, he now came forward seemingly as a conspirator, looking this way and that before he spoke. Would that he had been so circumspect when speaking of Lord Goodhope’s “misadventure”!

“I had not realized, of course, that you were a surgeon,” said he. “Had I but known, I would not, of course, have troubled you with such matters as I did earlier. Please accept my apology.”

“I accept it,” said Mr. Donnelly, taking a good gulp of Boswell’s wine. He belched manfully and pushed his empty plate away. I was still struggling with mine.

“I would, however, have taken up another matter with you. It is a medical matter that has troubled me greatly over the past years. I take it that you possess a diploma. You are not… a barber?”

“My diploma is from the University of Vienna,” said Mr. Donnelly, puffing a bit. He may have seen in Boswell the possibility of a patient. “What is the nature of your difficulty?”

“Venereal.”