Blind Justice (24 page)

I can tell you now, though I could not have then, that we came to a halt at a location in Mayfair that was not far from Tyburn Hill and was indeed on the way to it. Though I kept my promise to him, in later times I viewed the gallows oft on days when it was not in use.

As Sir John paid the driver, I descended from the hackney and gave my attention to the house before which we had stopped. It was very much like Lord Goodhope’s residence, which was also not far from it, though not so grand, nor of such handsome appearance.

Making ready to enter, he pulled me back and bent a bit so that his face was close to mine.

“Jeremy,” said he to me in a loud whisper, “though I have just now voiced scruples and regrets, that does not mean that I mean to shirk my duty. And that pertains in particular to this matter of Lord Goodhope. It is an ugly thing. It is murder. This place I have brought you to tonight is one to which I would ordinarily forbid you to go. In spite of how it may appear to your young eyes, no good is done in it. But we must find a man inside and talk to him.

I wished you to be present so as to study his reactions as I question him. I can hear much in a voice, yet some signs elude me. Be watchful for them.”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“Well then,” said he, “let’s be in.”

He led the way up three steps, tapping each with his stick, then used it to rap sharply on the door. Even before it opened I could hear sounds of raucous commotion beyond: high laugher and a sharp, excited chorus of exclamation. What place was this?

The door opened, and the space it revealed was filled completely by the imposing figure of a man in butler’s livery. His purpose, it seemed, was to block our way.

“What’s your wish?” said he, rudely. “This is a private club.”

“That’s as may be, but you must admit us, for I am the magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

“Then as you say, I suppose I must.” Reluctantly, the man stepped back, pulling the door wide before us.

We stepped inside, and I viewed the interior. A carpet dyed red led from the door down a hall which ended in a grand staircase, which was also red-carpeted, and curved to a level above which I could neither see nor imagine. The walls visible to me were painted a yellow that glowed nearly as bright as the red on the floor, even in candlelight. There were open entrances, each across the hall, to what must have been very large rooms, for the clamor I had heard through the door now issued from them much magnified now that the barrier was removed. This side of each door was a sofa on which women sat—oh, ladies surely, dressed most finely, yet alone and waiting in an attentive attitude of service. They had turned and now stared in curiosity at Sir John and myself.

The butler, or doorman, or whatever his position, advanced us down the hall and gestured broadly as he spoke, as if by rote: “Games of hazard is to be found in either room. Your even-odd tables is on the left and the chemin de fer, as well as other games of cards, is played in the room on the right. Ladies is available to show you about—” He looked at me skeptically. “Will you be requirin’ one or two?”

“None,” said Sir John. “We are here on an official inquiry. I wish to speak at some length with your employer, Mr. Bilbo. If you will get him, I will be obliged.”

“1 cannot leave my post,” said he who had met us at the door.

“So I shall put you in the hands of one of our ladies.” Then, surveying the selection, he chose one and called out: “Nancy!”

She was up on her feet and over to us in the very fraction of a moment, addressing Sir John boldly and quite ignoring me: “A right good evening to you, m’lord. What is your pleasure tonight? Though I daresay the even-odd wheel would suit you best, would it not? And you brought your young helper to place your wagers and pull in your winnings, while I’ll just accompany you and stand close by for good luck, like. Ain’t that as you’d have it, m’lord?”

Sir John said nothing, but he had removed his tricorn as we entered (as had I), and I could see his forehead wrinkle in concentration.

“Nancy, girl,” said the doorman, “just take him to Black Jack. That’s all as he requires.” So saying, he turned and walked back to the door.

“Plummer,” said Sir John. “Nancy Plummer.”

She, who beneath her paint and rouge appeared to be no more than five years my senior, pulled back quite stunned. There was a great and enthusiastic roar from one of the rooms behind her. At last it died.

“You remember?” said she meekly.

“Ah yes, you appeared before me regarding a matter of a stolen timepiece.”

“But that was more than two years past, and I’m speakin’ ever so much more proper these days.”

“Yes, and no doubt you look quite the lady, too. Does she, Jeremy?”

“Oh, yes sir,” said I, “she does.”

She blessed me with a quick smile.

“But no matter how well you speak, you speak in the same voice, my girl.”

“Well, I count that a wonder,” said she, “remembering me from such a time past by my voice alone.” And then she added, “You was quite fair to me.”

“There were, as I recall, no witnesses, nor was the article found in your possession—simply the suspicions of the victim. The usual. But enough of that, Nancy. Take us to Mr. Bilbo, if you would.”

“Now, where would he be?” said she, casting glances right and left. “I do believe he was in the even-odd room the last I saw of him. Let me look.”

“We’ll follow you,” said Sir John firmly.

And though she looked dubious, she set off in advance of us, offering Sir John the opportunity to whisper to me: “In this instance, I do give you permission to take my elbow. Guide me well. Let me bump into no one.”

So we set off together: I steering and he responding quite deftly. Bringing him about to the left, we entered the room where she had ducked in, and for a moment I lost her there, such a number of people there was and such a hubbub they made. All were, to my undiscriminating eyes, dressed as lords and ladies. And while indeed there may have been some lords present, they had surely left their rightful ladies at home. Most had gathered around the table at the far end of the room; the one nearer to us was hardly attended. Nancy, our guide, I spied at last mixing in with the larger group. Another roar went up from them, and a whinny of female laughter, near demented in nature, that rose above it and lingered after.

I moved Sir John toward the crowd. A few glanced our way, but paid us no mind as we circled about its edge. Far more interested were they in the play at the wheel, which even then spun again and came to rest.

Another roar; another whinny.

By this time, Nancy had separated from the midst of those bunched nearest the table a man of quite singular appearance. He was large: tall enough, but so thick in the chest, long in the arms, and short in the legs that there seemed something ape-like in his appearance. Adding to this impression was the beard he wore, black and thick, at a time when facial hair was as rarely seen as it is today. To see one of such animal nature dressed as fashionably as he most certainly was that evening seemed somehow ludicrous. Yet one did not laugh at Black Jack Bilbo.

He and Sir John greeted each other almost as old friends might.

“It’s the beak,” cackled Bilbo. “The Blind Beak’s come to call!”

A few turned and showed brief interest as Bilbo grabbed Sir John’s hand and pumped it strongly. But then the even-odd wheel began turning again and all eyes but ours went to it.

“John Bilbo, we must talk,” said Sir John, with not much of the severity those words might suggest. There was, in any case, a smile upon his face, the sort of smile of forbearance that one might bestow upon a mischievous child.

As the crowd cried out again. Bilbo threw an irritated look at the table and moved us away.

“Aye,” said he, “but not here, eh? We’ll go above, if it’s all the same to you. Nancy, back to your place, girl.”

With that, he shepherded Sir John and me out of the room, farther down the hall, and up the stairs, while all the while he talked most winningly. First he asked my name, and when Sir John gave it to him, he shook my hand cordially and declared himself delighted to make my acquaintance. And when, after inquiring, he found the doorman had admitted us somewhat grudgingly, he begged Sir John’s pardon quite humbly and said the fellow was new in his position and not a Londoner but a seaman from the American colonies; he would set him right on such matters in the future.

At this point. Sir John interjected a question about the din in the e-o room: “Was that usual?” he asked. “On my previous visits here, I’ve never known such a powerful noise from your patrons, and all of it from one table. Why such a to-do?”

By this time Mr. Bilbo had seen us to the upper floor. He took a moment to fetch out a set of keys and open a door to what proved to be a small bureau. Inside, a single candle burned. He lit a taper from it and set aglow an entire four-stick candelabrum on one side of his desk. The whole room came forth in light, revealing an oaken desk, behind which he sat down, and chairs for Sir John and myself, where we took our places. On the wall were several pictures of nautical and sporting nature.

“Ah yes, well, all that noise,” said Mr. Bilbo, leaning elbows on the desk and thrusting his great dark head toward us. “You got it right, Sir John, it ain’t the usual, but it’s one of them sometimes happening sort of things that pains me greatly to hear—and even greater to see. A fellow was having a great run of luck at the second table. Now, in the regular course of business I take in far more from the fellows what come here. I know that, and they know that. It’s the mathematics of the place, so to speak. But I also know that if the tables be run fair—and mine are, sir, you have my word on that!—from time to time the luck must turn against my establishment in favor of the player. That’s also in the mathematics of it, and I accept it. Yet when it happens, those who would play then become spectators—and that drives me quite daft! They come over from the other table to watch. Those at his table decline to play against him as his run continues. Some of the less sporting may bet with him, riding double on his horse, so to speak. But most simply stand back and take it in, like some grand bit of theatre. That way, y’see, my establishment loses double. It loses to the lucky man, and it loses the business of those who would otherwise be playing, as they by rights should be. This fellow has even pulled them in from the card room, which I do not like to see at all.”

Sir John nodded, having taken all this in, and at last said: “This is all most interesting. Not being a gambler by nature and never having considered such matters from your side, I confess I had always thought of Black Jack Bilbo’s simply as a place where men went to be quit of their money in pleasant surroundings.”

At that Mr. Bilbo laughed a great guffaw. He was about to respond when from below came another chorus, this one not a roar but distinctly a groan; the whinny did not whinny. His face was for a brief moment quite expressionless as his sharp ears caught this, and then it relaxed into a smile. And from him came a quiet but prolonged sigh of pleasure.

“Well,” said Sir John with a smile of his own, “perhaps the mathematics, as you put it, have caught up with your lucky man. Who is he, by the by?”

“Ah, it’s that man Clairmont from the colonies.”

“Charles Clairmont? Goodhope’s half-brother?”

“So he claims, and I’ve no reason to doubt him. The two were in here together about a year ago, and perhaps once before—together. And that butler they sent over from the house a day past indeed knew him.”

“Would you say the two looked much alike?” asked Sir John.

“Not so as you might notice, yet a bit—/i<2//-brother, after all. Clairmont was a bit shorter.”

“We’re getting a bit ahead of where I wished to begin in this matter,” said Sir John. “Mr. Clairmont was one of the matters I intended to discuss with you, however. Let us do it in an orderly fashion.”

“Any way you want, Sir John.”

“Well and good. Now, John Bilbo, tell me, this visit made here a year ago by Mr. Clairmont with his half-brother—that was not his first to your establishment?”

“Oh no. We carried him on the books as a member, even though he only came here when he was in London every year or so—or p’rhaps a bit longer than that between visits from—where was it?— Jamaica.”

“Yes, Jamaica. And you say he may have been here one time previous in the company of his half-brother?”

For the first time since they had begun this interview, Mr. Bilbo showed slight signs of exasperation: “Yes, and it may have been more—two, three, four, choose your number. Though I’m in the gaming rooms every night—indeed, I doss down the hall on this floor—1 go from table to table, talk to the fellows, play the host, some I sees and some I don’t. And mind, I spend a bit of time up here in this little hidey-hole every night, as well. So what I’m saying to you, Sir John, is that they may have been in together at least one time previous—I think they were, but that was some time back— seven, eight years ago, when I first opened this little house of chance. There may have been other times than one after, for as I say I cannot be sure certain.”

At about that time another groan issued from below. And again Mr. Bilbo’s great bearded face relaxed into a smile.

“Do pardon me for goin’ on so,” he said. “I just wanted you to understand that I can’t be as exact as you might want me to be.”

“I do understand, and I accept what you say, John Bilbo. But let us talk of this man Clairmont, specifically. Do you know him well?”

“No, as I say, he came in here infrequent, just in those periods he was in the city from—Jamaica, was it?”

“Jamaica. Not nearly as well as you knew, say. Lord Goodhope?”

“Oh, sure not. Lord Dickie was very frequent, he was. Much to his undoing toward the end.”

“Could you tell me something about the first recent appearance of Mr. Clairmont?”

“You mean two nights past when he just arrived?”

“I do, yes.”

“Well, he must have come in before the twelve o’clock hour, though not much before. Anyways, that’s when I gave him proper notice. I spied him at the roulette table, the first table that night, and I called him over from the game—I don’t like to do that, but it seemed the occasion warranted it—and I told him that I had heard that his brother was dead; that was what I said, though half-brother would have been more right, would it not? His natural first question was how did he die. And I told him suicide, for that was how it had been talked about on the street, at that time. Now, I understand, there’s talk of murder. Is that so, Sir John?”