Blind Justice (20 page)

And try I did, pushing and heaving ahead of him through the mass of humanity trapped in that tight little alleyway, luitil at last we were clear of them. Sir John took a moment to regain his composure, straightening his tricorn, which had been knocked akilter, and making sure of his periwig.

“Good boy,” said he. “I feared for a moment we should be trampled underfoot.”

“She’s certainly a favorite of theirs,” said I.

“Of course she is,” said Sir John. “She was once one of them. They honor her for her ascent.” He turned this way and that. “I smell a horse,” said he. “Is there a hackney carriage about? See if one is free, will you?”

Indeed there was one waiting near the alley entrance. I ran to it and inquired of the driver. Just as he informed me that he had been paid to wait, my eye was caught by movement behind the window of the compartment. I got a glimpse of something: a face seen for the merest instant before it disappeared. I could not be certain from such a view, of course, yet I had the distinct impression that it was Mr. Charles Clairmont who waited within.

The next morning began with a visit by Mr. Donnelly to his patient. When I responded to his knock and opened the door for him, Mrs. Gredge being otherwise engaged, I was surprised to find looming beside him the large figure of Benjamin Bailey.

“Mr. Bailey, sir,” said I to him, “are you well?”

“Well and fit,” said he with a show of confidence, “and ready for duty.”

“He’s nothing of the kind,” put in Mr. Donnelly, “but he insisted on coming along.”

“I will but a word with Sir John. Let him decide.”

And so the two tramped into the kitchen, while at the same time Mrs. Gredge flew in, warning Mr. Bailey not to muddy her clean floor, though it had not rained for days. Mr. Donnelly, whom she rightly took to be a gentleman, received no such caution. She made her usual offer of tea, bread, and butter, which both declined, then ran off to apprise Sir John of their arrival.

“What of Lady Fielding?” Mr. Donnelly asked of me.

“She has slept, sir, quite continually since your visit yester morning.”

“That’s to be desired, of course, yet I would not dose her too strong. And her pain?”

“You had best talk to Sir John or Mrs. Gredge of that.”

“Of course,” said he. “It’s never wise to speculate idly.”

Then came Sir John into the kitchen. “Ah, Mr. Donnelly, thank you for your visit. And I understand you have a companion?”

“It’s me, it is, Benjamin Bailey,” said he, making a loud, healthy sound with his voice

“Yes, ‘the night watchman,’ as Mrs. Gredge informed me.”

“She has her ways, don’t she?” said Mr. Bailey.

“How is he, Mr. Donnelly?”

“Not as well as he claims to be, but his recovery proceeds impressively. The woimd is knitting nicely, no sign of fever.”

“I’m ready. Sir John!” declared Mr. Bailey.

“He’s not, in my opinion,” said Mr. Donnelly. “Yet I am not here to argue that but rather to see Lady Fielding. You give me permission?”

“Nay, my blessing, sir. She has had her best day and night in months. I am grateful to you for that. I’m sure she would say more, were she not at this moment asleep. Mrs. Gredge is with her. She has attended her faithfully. Go see them now, by all means.”

“I shall,” said he, and with a quick bow to Sir John, he went up the stairs to the bedroom.

With the departure of the surgeon, Sir John turned in the direction of Mr. Bailey. “So now, Captain Bailey, you claim to be fit, but your doctor says otherwise. How do we account for this discrepancy?”

“He ain’t me, Sir John. He don’t know how I feel.”

“There is a certain sense to that, I allow, but in truth, it does seem a bit early, does it not? Two days?”

“Well … I can only say, sir, that one more day in the constant care of Mrs. Plunkett, and I may take a turn for the worse. The woman exhausts me, if you get my meaning, sir.”

With which remark Sir John broke into a hearty laugh, the sense of which then eluded me. “Why, I believe I do,” said Sir John to him. “Indeed I believe I do. Perhaps we might work out a compromise between us. Would you be willing to try?”

“Whatever you say, Sir John.”

“Well then, what about this? What if you were to return to duty, but in a somewhat limited capacity?”

“That would depend, sir.”

“Upon what?”

“How limited, and in what capacity?”

“Fair enough, Mr. Bailey. What I had in mind was a bit of day work I need done. A Mr. Charles Clairmont, who, it has developed, is the late Lord Goodhope’s half-brother, claims to have arrived from Jamaica on the night before last on the Island Princess and have disembarked at approximately half past seven. I would have you seek out the vessel’s master, a Captain Cawdor, and verify this. But more, hang about the dock a bit and find out all you can regarding the ship and its voyage. Will you do that for me?”

“Indeed I will, Sir John.”

“Go dressed as any layabout, but carry with you your commission and badge of service to board the ship and convince the captain that you are in earnest and represent me in this. But as for the rest of it, I would say there was no need to reveal your purpose in this matter.”

“Talk to them all innocent, like?”

“Exactly, Mr. Bailey. You may buy rum to loosen tongues, but do not allow yourself to be carried away. You will be reimbursed within reason. Take your time in this. Find out all you can. Say… oh, say you are thinking of shipping on and wish to know about the vessel and its captain before you commit yourself. At this point in the investigation of Lord Goodhope’s death, such information may count as very important.”

“Then rest assured. Sir John, I’ll do a good job for you.”

“Jeremy has been doing good work for me in this matter, but I think you’ll agree that the task I have put before you is beyond him.”

“If the boy showed his face on the docks,” said Mr. Bailey with a grin at me, “he’d be likely to wake up outbound for Capetown.”

“Indeed,” said Sir John. “Furthermore, this morning he and I are off for Newgate.”

This astonishing revelation set me agog and put me in a peculiar state of anticipation until, half an hour later, we departed on our expedition. The anticipation I felt was peculiar in that it was mixed. I had a natural curiosity about the place. What boy in England, nourished clandestinely by the thrills provided by “The Newgate Calendar” and other such pamphlet collections, would not be eager to see the dreaded gaol for himself? Yet I, having so nearly missed incarceration there myself, felt understandably uneasy about any such visit. Nevertheless, I kept my peace and said nothing, neither to Sir John nor to Mr. Bailey, regarding the planned journey.

In any case, there was much for me to do in the nature of kitchen work, both sweeping and washing up. Applying my energies diligently and thus calling no attention to myself, I was presently witness to a further dialogue, and that between Sir John and Mr. Donnelly. The surgeon returned from his examination of Lady Fielding after ten minutes had elapsed, or perhaps a little more. I had heard a murmur of conversation between him and Mrs. Gredge, though its content was quite indistinguishable to my listening ear. He came down the stairs and into the kitchen alone; his step was slow and his manner grave. Seeking out Sir John, who sat silent at the table, he accepted the cup of tea offered him and made his report.

“She’s sleeping well,” said the surgeon.

“And thank God for it,” said Sir John.

“She’s not likely to rouse until past noon. Mrs. Gredge will attend to her then. I had thought to reduce the dose of opium a bit, but I’ve decided against that. Her comfort at this time seems paramount.” With that, Mr. Donnelly paused, then put forth a question: “Sir John, you said that Lady Fielding had been attended by a number of physicians, that there was agreement that a tumor was the cause of her complaint, yet none as to its location. Is that as I remember it?”

“In the beginning,” said Sir John, “there was no such agreement. The first doctor said her difficulty was gallstones, the next kidney stones, yet when two others came together a month ago they agreed solemnly that her loss of weight indicated a tumor was the cause, then they fell to fighting over the where of it. One said it was on her womb, the other on her liver.”

“Her liverV

“Indeed, her liver. The two were at her mercilessly, poking and prodding, asking if this hurt, or that; and of course it all caused her pain. The poor woman burst into tears and begged only to be left alone. What angered me most, Mr. Donnelly, was that having done all they could to torment her, they assured me in her presence that there was nothing to be done for her. But hold! I say wrong. The champion of the liver was all for bleeding her so as to coax the befouled blood from her body; he thought thus to ‘drain’ the tumor. Yet considering her reduced condition, I thought it just as well that we not subject her to that. Furthermore, that notion had been offered as an afterthought, in a speculative manner. I preferred that he speculate over someone else.”

“In my view,” said the surgeon, “bleeding does no good and can often do harm. But let me say, Sir John, that I am astonished that there should have been any doubt as to the location of the tumor. It is there to be seen, a tumor on her left ovary, a lump in her abdomen as big as a lemon. Nowhere near the liver.”

Sir John sighed. “I was aware of it.”

“Yet I fear that I, too, must concur in their prognosis.”

“You see no hope for recovery, then?”

“None.”

“Ahhh!” It escaped him like a quiet wail. “My poor, sweet girl! I had no real hope for her, yet I would have welcomed any slight cause for optimism as a drowning man grasps a spar. You understand.”

“Yes, I understand,” said the surgeon, “but it would be wrong to give you, or her, false hope. Indeed, I think the end is not far off. Her heart seems weaker and the beat slightly irregular. She’s grown quite weak.”

“How near would you say? Today? Tomorrow? I’ll shut down the court, find another to sit in my place.”

“No, not so near: a week perhaps; a month at the most. That she rests so well should extend her life rather than shorten it. This should give you time to prepare for what will surely come. My advice to you. Sir John, is to make those preparations and to continue with your work in all its aspects. It will not do for you to sit and wait for the end. Lady Fielding would not have it so.”

The magistrate pondered this and concluded his considerations with an emphatic nod. “No doubt you’re right,” said he. “And I must say that of all the matters I have before me, this inquiry into the death of Lord Goodhope vexes and worries me most. I am troubled by the suspicion that if it is not concluded soon, it will not be successfully concluded at all.”

“Let me assure you. Sir John, if there is anything I can do …”

“Yes, I believe there is, Mr. Donnelly. It sticks in my memory that Lord Goodhope’s corpus has not been properly identified, at least not to my way of thinking. I recall from my first conversation with Lady Goodhope that she declined to enter the library on the night of his death and view the remains close at hand, understandable under the circumstances. That onerous task was left to the footman, who had just joined the household, and the butler, whom I frankly do not trust. Then, with the corpus removed, first to your surgery and then to the embalmer, I’ve come to doubt that she has looked upon it at all. I take it the body has been returned from the embalmer?”

“It is to be returned this morning.”

“The face has been somewhat repaired?”

“We were assured that what could be done would be done.”

“Well and good,” said Sir John. “You seem to have considerable influence upon her. I would like you to use it to persuade her to look upon the corpus and make a proper identification. You may act as my witness in this. I shall accept your word, and hers, without question.”

“It may not be easy,” said Mr. Donnelly.

“I realize that,” said Sir John, “for she is indeed a willful woman. But you may tell her for me that unless she makes such an identification, I will in no wise permit the burial of the corpus, whether in London or in Lancashire.”

“That is indeed severe!”

“It falls upon me, from time to time, to be severe.”

“As you say. Sir John.”

Mr. Donnelly pushed back from the table, rose, and made ready to leave.

“I am curious,” said the magistrate. “Have there been callers?”

“None to my knowledge.”

“Messages of sympathy and condolence?”

“Very few.”

“It does seem passing strange, does it not? To be cut in life is common enough and of no great moment in Lord Goodhope’s society. Yet to be cut in death is to be cut deep indeed. I must find out about this, though I confess my contacts at court are nil.”

“I wish you good fortune in the enterprise; in the inquiry as a whole. Now, if you will permit me, I shall take my leave. I have another call to make before looking in on Lady Goodhope and doing your bidding in that difficult matter.”

Sir John rose and offered his hand, which Mr. Donnelly took firmly in his own. “May I ask,” said he, “has Mr. Martinez been of some help in setting accounts in order?”

“He has been of great help. He has arranged a meeting at the office of Lord Goodhope’s solicitor, Mr. Blythe, this very afternoon. The situation will be discussed in detail.”

“You will attend?”

“As Lady Goodhope’s representative, yes.”

“Then let me not keep you, for you have a busy .day ahead. Goodbye, Mr. Donnelly. You go with my deepest, sincerest thanks.”

We were no more than a minute alone when Sir John, still on his feet, addressed me as though to the room at large. “Jeremy,” said he, “have you completed the tasks given you by Mrs. Gredge?”

“I have, sir.”

“Then get your hat and coat, boy, for I must now take you on a trip to an outer circle of hell.”

When I climbed down from the hackney at Snow Hill, I beheld a structure the like of which I had never before even imagined. I had seen large buildings in my travels about London during the past few days, and this one was certainly among the largest. Yet it was not merely its size that I found so arresting, but rather its entire aspect which I found profoundly forbidding.

As Sir John followed me down, surefooted as always, and settled with the hackney man, I took the opportunity to study the facade of the infamous Newgate Gaol. It stood some three or four levels high, though this, reader, was difficult for me to reckon due to the fact it had not many proper windows. Since it was destroyed during the riots of 1780 and thereafter rebuilt, it now has even fewer openings to the world outside. Built of gray stone, begrimed nearly to black, it was not without some manner of artistic decoration. Above its center arch was a grouping of emblematic figures, though what they emblemized I was never very sure. There in the middle of them, unmistakable because of the feline pet at his feet, stood a representation of the late Lord Mayor, Dick Whittington. Below that center arch was a barred gate wide enough to accommodate a carriage or a good-sized wagon. It was to that common entry that we proceeded.