Blind Justice (26 page)

Taken aback somewhat by such reaction, Mr. Bilbo fumbled in his response: “Well … well, yes, what I mean is, she was. You heard that silly high laugh of hers, like unto a horse’s neigh? That’s as she laughs when she is not on the stage, low drab that she is. She was sitting beside Clairmont as he was robbing me to—”

“Jeremy, you did not see her?”

“N-no, Sir John,” said I in apology, “nor Mr. Clairmont. The crowd about them was too much for me.”

“Well and good,” said Sir John to me, and then: “Mr. Bilbo, thank you for your time and your willing answers. Now, if you would but take us to this oddly matched pair.”

With that, he stood and I with him. Bilbo, somewhat baffled, rose more slowly and blew out the candles he had lit upon our arrival. “This way,” said he.

And he led us back down as we had come, speaking little, and that only in condemnation of Lucy Kilbourne, remarking upon her facility in moving from companion to companion without a break in stride—now from brother to brother.

Upon our arrival in the room we had left, I saw that all had altered to a state I took to be usual: The crowd had dissipated and was now evenly distributed between the two gaming tables. But looking about, I quickly determined that neither of the two we sought was to be found there. Mr. Bilbo, coming also to this conclusion, led us back into the hall and summoned the ever-helpful Nancy.

“My girl,” said he to her, “have you seen Clairmont and that silly twat Lucy about? Or have they already absconded with my funds?”

Then, turning, she pointed to the door. “Just leaving,” said she.

And so they were, the two of them, adjusting their coats and skirts, making ready to go with the help of the doorman.

“I’ll hold them for you,” said Mr. Bilbo, and went on swiftly ahead of us.

“Take me to them,” said Sir John to me, “but let us proceed at a sedate pace and feign surprise at meeting them.”

Thus we advanced down the long, red carpet to the point, at its end, where Mr. Bilbo now detained the two in talk. I spied Lucy Kilbourne (at last fully clothed in her widow’s weeds) glance our way, recognize us, then give a tug at Mr. Clairmont’s sleeve. This I conveyed to Sir John.

“Good,” said he, “now gesture toward them as if you had just informed me of their presence. And that done, we may pick up our pace a bit and catch them up.”

Just so. And even in advance of our arrival Sir John had put upon his face a most pleasant smile. “Is it you two?” he called out. “Mr. Clairmont? Mistress Kilbourne? Why, how fortunate to run into you here!”

“And such a surprise,” said Mistress Kilbourne.

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Clairmont, in a manner most dry, “is it not?”

Sir John took a place close to them by the door, and I by his side. Mr. Bilbo, displaying keen interest, remained.

“So you two mourners found each other, did vou?” said the magistrate, still in the most jovial humor. “Well, I think that admirable. Oh, quite, for after all, life is a gift to us all, and we must celebrate it. Look into your heart, Mistress Kilbourne, and I’m sure you’ll agree that if the late Lord Goodhope were able to speak to you from the beyond, he would urge you not to mourn him in sadness, but in that mode of good spirits and wit which I’m told he possessed in such abundance.”

“Why, Sir John,” said Mistress Kilbourne, “that was the selfsame argument Charles used in coaxing me out this evening.”

“Well thought and well argued I”

“It seemed appropriate to the occasion,” said Mr. Clairmont.

“Indeed, but how came you two to be acquainted?”

“Lord Richard introduced us quite some time ago,” said she. “I believe it was on your last trip to London, was it not, Charles?”

“It was, ves, and in this very place.”

“Then it is quite fitting you should return. I trust the occasion was blessed by good fortune?”

“Charles won handsomely.”

At that point Mr. Bilbo intruded himself into the proceedings: “Though not as handsomely as I first feared. His luck left him.”

“But still,” said Mr. Clairmont, “a tidy profit—not so, Lucy?”

“I note,” said Sir John, “that you two salute each other by your Christian names. Thus acquaintanceship has ripened to friendship. It would not be untoward of me then to invite you both, together, to an affair I have planned for tomorrow night.”

“Oh? What sort of affair?” asked Mistress Kilbourne.

(I wondered that myself!)

“Simply a meeting, nothing formal; it will give us all a chance to discuss the matter of Lord Goodhope’s untimely demise. I’m afraid my little house would not be at all proper for the occasion— others will be coming—and so I’ve decided to hold this meeting at the Goodhope residence. As it will be held under my aegis, Lady Goodhope will offer no objection to your coming to the house. I give that as my pledge. You, Mr. Clairmont, will have the opportunity to convey to the widow the condolences which you might have expressed had she not barred you earlier. You, Mistress Kilbourne, will have the opportunity to say to her whatever you deem fitting— or, indeed, to say nothing at all, if you deem that fitting. I would, however, advise against parading in that black dress you have been wearing lately.”

As each detail of this surprise meeting emerged, the smiles fixed on the faces of Mr. Clairmont and Mistress Kilbourne began to fade until, at the end, both were solemn-faced, each regarding the other with serious looks. Yet they recovered somewhat.

“Speaking for myself,” said Mistress Kilbourne, “it may not be possible for me to attend. I have a previous engagement.”

Mr. Clairmont cleared his throat. “Much as I should like to speak to Lady Goodhope, I’m afraid I must meet with that prospective buyer whom I mentioned to you. This matter is, of course, of the utmost importance. It is why I am here in London.”

“Ah, commerce, yes,” said Sir John, “it is of inarguable consequence, and no doubt your engagement, Mistress Kilbourne, is also of considerable importance, too. Yet I must ask you both to cancel those appointments, for attendance at this meeting tomorrow evening—at nine, by the by—is not optional but obligatory.”

Mistress Kilbourne: “But …”

“I know,” said Sir John, “it must seem a terrible annoyance, but do save us the trouble and you the embarrassment of sending a constable after one or both of you.”

“As you say. Sir John,” said Mistress Kilbourne. Then, nodding at the doorman, she made ready to go.

Mr. Clairmont simply nodded. The door swung open and both departed. The door shut after them.

“Well,” said Mr. Bilbo, “that was most interestin’.”

“I’m glad you judge it so,” said Sir John, “for I shall also be requiring your attendance.”

“But, Sir John, I have matters that—” “I’ll hear none of that, Mr. Bilbo. You will be there promptly at nine.”

A great sigh from Mr. Bilbo. “I’ll be there, Sir John.”

“See that you are.”

A nod from Sir John, and the door came open again. We marched out together into the night. A light rain was falling. I was glad to see Mr. Clairmont helping Mistress Kilbourne up into a waiting hackney, and glad also that there was one behind it for us.

As it drew up. Sir John shouted out, “Number Four Bow Street,” to the driver. We climbed inside, and I began my report to him. I told him all I had observed, from Mr. Bilbo’s glances in my direction as he talked directly of Mr. Clairmont to his hot desire to answer back on the matter of jealousy with regard to Lucy Kilbourne.

“What thought you of Mr. Bilbo, in general, as a witness?”

“I thought him very interesting,” said I. “What I mean is, he is a great talker, is he not? He seemed to be holding little back.”

“Little, yes. I like him. Probably I should not, but I do. Do you know, Jeremy, it is rumored that he opened that gaming house of his with a fortune he earned in piracy.”

“Piracy?” said I, amazed. “Truly?”

“That is the rumor. There are, however, no witnesses about to testify as to his former life.” He sighed. “He is quite capable of killing Richard Goodhope or indeed anyone else upon provocation. Yet I thought he argued well against that notion, didn’t you, Jeremy?”

“Yes, indeed.” I hesitated, but gathering my courage, I said, “Sir John, I think I should tell you something.”

“What is that, boy?”

I had been arguing with myself, scolding myself, since we left Mr. Bilbo’s office. I realized that I had been at fault, and that I must confess this. Yet knowing it had to be done made it no easier. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour and my fatigue, or perhaps the overwhelming chain of events that had brought me to that moment, but trembling, as I was, on the brink of revelation, I lost control. Reader, I wept.

“Jeremy, what is it? Here, take this.” He pushed into my hand a kerchief he had fished from his pocket. “Use it, please.”

I did as he urged, wiped my eyes and blew into it lustily.

“Good job,” said he in praise. “You play the man so well that I forget you are still but a child.”

“But I want to be a man!” And having said so, I proved myself a child by beginning again at that moment to snivel.

“You will be soon enough,” said he. “Now blow again and tell me this awful thing that must be told.”

Again I did so and began at last to address the matter at hand. I recalled him to the night before and our exit from Drury Lane by the stage door, Lucy Kilbourne’s entrance, and the surge of the crowd.

“Yes,” said Sir John, “I remember it all very well; what of it, Jeremy?”

“Once we were clear of them, you sent me to engage the hackney that waited at the head of the alley, by the street.”

“Yes?”

“Well, the driver said he was engaged, and indeed there was someone inside, a man. I had but a glimpse of him, yet it seemed to me that it could have been Mr. Clairmont, sir.” I hesitated, but then plunged on: “But that was just it, Sir John, I wasn’t sure, and in court you are always so particular that witnesses be sure of what they saw and heard. I knew that if he was there, he might indeed be waiting for Lucy Kilbourne, and I thought that strange. Because I was not certain, I said nothing to you of it. But tonight I saw that it was of great importance to you. I … I didn’t understand that.”

“But it proved of no matter, Jeremy, for we did find them together tonight and had our little talk with them—did we not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And as for the principle you observed in keeping silent, you were, of course, quite right about matters before the court: Witnesses cannot guess; they cannot voice suspicions; they cannot repeat what others have said as truth. But an inquiry is conducted according to different rules. In an inquiry, guesses, suspicions, and hearsay are all relevant, for they may lead us to direct evidence of one kind or another. And remember, Jeremy, what I told you earlier about details—nothing too small, nothing too insignificant to call to my attention.”

“I’ll remember.”

“I know you will. You’ve a good mind, boy.”

So delighted was I to hear that, and so caught up was I in the spirit of confession that I then laid before him my transgression in the dressing room of Mistress Kilbourne. I was much relieved when he expressed amusement at the tale told him so earnestly.

Though he forbore laughter, he made to comment merely: “Better you should be engaged in fastening her up than in unfastening her.” And that was said with a smile, somewhat ironic.

Thus, shriven and penitent, we arrived at our destination, climbed down from the hackney, and made our way up the back stairs to the magistrate’s living quarters. I had no idea of the hour, though I was quite sure I had never been so late awake, not even in the course of my flight to London. Yet half-asleep was what I was, truly, so fatigued suddenly by the emotional expense of those past minutes in the hackney.

Saying good night to Sir John, I made my way up to my room on the topmost floor and undressed in the dark. I sank into sleep near immediate. It seemed, however, that the last sound I heard before succumbing completely was the resumption of that pacing from the study two floors below.

I KNOW NOT ALL OF what transpired during Mr. Donnelly’s visit the next morning, for most of it took place behind closed doors. There was, first of all, his examination of Lady Fielding, which he undertook with Sir John and Mrs. Gredge present. The poppy seed tea was administered, and the two men emerged from the bedroom, talking in grave tones, the sense of which was incomprehensible to me as I worked below in the kitchen. Though I was powerfully curious, I had made up my mind not to eavesdrop. If something was said in my presence, or said loud enough that I might hear without taking special pains—then well and good; but I would not sneak about like some furtive butler with my ear pressed to the door or my eye at the keyhole. I knew full well that Sir John despised Potter of the Goodhope household for such practices.

From thence the surgeon and the magistrate adjourned to the study, where, as it later came clear, much more than the patient’s condition was discussed. I should hazard that the two talked at some length over the document of identification signed by Lady Good-hope and witnessed by the surgeon. A more sensitive matter was the meeting that I had heard but late the night before was planned at the residence. Not only did Sir John require Mr. Donnelly’s presence, he depended upon him to make Lady Goodhope aware of the absolute necessity that the meeting be held there in the residence, specifically in the library, the location of the crime.

That this second matter was thus discussed I am indeed certain, for after half of an hour the two men left the study and descended the stairs to the kitchen where I scrubbed and polished. Mrs. Gredge had by then returned from the sickroom, and after a word with her, ascertaining that the patient slept, the surgeon returned to the subject which had then been but recently under discussion.

“She will not like it,” said he to Sir John. “She will rail against it.”

“Indeed,” said Sir John, “that is certain, and that is why I send you as my emissary to impress upon her why it must be so.”

“I’ll do what I can, of course.”

“You must do more than you can, or more than you imply by that. The meeting must take place, and it must take place there in the library. A dozen chairs are to be set out, or more to be on the safe side. But she is to expect near that number at final count.”

“And all this by nine o’clock in the evening?”

“Exactly so,” said Sir John, then added: “And do not forget the kitchen girl, Meg. Tell Lady Goodhope that she is to be present, and in proper dress.”

“Very good, Sir John. I shall do all I can—and more.”

“I trust you to it.”

The two had by then reached the door. Upon those last words, they shook hands solemnly. Sir John fumbled slightly for the door latch, found it, and threw it open to a powerful clatter and clump on the stairs below. Who should appear but Mr. Bailey and his second-in-command, Mr. Baker, each of them heavily armed with a cutlass and a brace of pistols. Mr. Donnelly ducked past them with a muttered, “Until nine then,” and with a nod to Mr. Bailey, disappeared through the door.

Mr. Bailey seemed quite agitated, as indeed did Mr. Baker. The two men called together for Sir John’s attention, setting up a considerable clamor in the kitchen.

“Please, wait!” said he. “One at a time. Give me your report. Is the prisoner now with us, Mr. Bailey?”

“He is not, sir, though we tried our damnedest!”

“And the circumstances is passing strange,” put in Mr. Baker.

“Tell me then. You left near two hours past.”

Let me here interject, reader, that I in no wise was aware that the two constables had been sent to Newgate to fetch Dick Dillon, as the magistrate had promised him. Their departure would have taken place even before Mrs. Gredge had roused me from my sound slumber. Since I had slept little, I was left to suspect that Sir John had slept not at all.

“Aye, sir,” said Benjamin Bailey, “two hours past. We gone direct to Snow Hill. The gatekeeper let us in, after we showed him the papers all sealed with the court seal which you gave us. But instead of sending us to the Master Felons Ward where you said the prisoner was to be found, he directed us instead to the chief warder. So, having no choice in the matter, really, we went to him.”

“I’d not met the fellow before,” put in Mr. Baker, “though Ben had. Quite the blackguard, in my opinion, Jonathan Wild reincarnated, Sir John.”

“A like description,” the magistrate agreed.

“Well, this one whom indeed I have had dealings with on past occasions,” continued Mr. Bailey, “he fiddled and farted about, reading your document and then reading it again, and then telling us that what you requested was quite impossible.”

“I did not request,” said Sir John. “I demanded

“That’s as I told him, sir.”

“Then we asked why was it impossible,” said Mr. Baker, “and he says it’s because the prisoner is down in the hole. Solitary.”

“And why was that?”

Mr. Bailey: “For punishment, says he. He’s a very hard case. He injured a warder during the night most severely.”

Mr. Baker: ” ‘Knifed him,’ said he, ‘carved him up like a Christmas goose.’ “

Sir John: “Don’t tell me! I hazard that the warder’s name was John Larkin.”

At that, Bailey and Baker looked at one another, each with raised eyebrows, halted for but a moment in their collaborative account.

“It was so!” exclaimed Mr. Baker.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Bailey. “That’s as we discovered when we asked to see the prisoner. Well, they took us off to some part of the place that was nothing to do with the gaol proper, but was a manner of sickroom for the warders. There they showed us this warder, Larkin.”

Mr. Baker: ” ‘See what your man done to this poor fellow,’ the chief warder says to us. ‘How can we let such a vicious animal outside Newgate, for this is the safest prison in the realm. What would he do if he were to escape from some other? He would be like some wolf loosed upon the innocent lambs of London!’ Sir John, ain’t that the utterest piece of nonsense ever you heard? Innocent lambs indeed! Were he to show his face in Seven Dials again, he’d probably have his nose slit for putting to bother one of their company.”

“And then,” said Mr. Bailey, “when we made to question this fellow Larkin as to the particulars of the incident, he became very shifty. In truth, sir, he was not all that bad hurt. His hand was pierced through, and he had what I would judge to be a slight nick on his throat.”

“Why do you judge it so?” asked Sir John. “That could have been intended as a mortal wound.”

“Well, it was bound up, sure enough, so I could not be sure, but there was no blood on the bandage, and this Larkin had no trouble talking.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Baker, “he made himself quite the victim of his own kindness. He claimed that the prisoner, Dillon, had called to him for water and said he was in the throes of the ague. And when this man, this warder, Larkin, had entered, he was immediately set upon by Dillon and wounded many times by him with a dirk. Well, ‘many times’ was a considerable exaggeration, for his wounds was as Ben described, and the whole account had about it the nature of a fabrication. You know how it is. Sir John, when we arrest them on the street they all have a story, or sometimes the supposed victim of the crime has one, but the story they tell is not quite right in their manner of telling. And of course with this one there were some questions that arose immediately.”

“Such as,” put in Mr. Bailey, “how came the prisoner to be in possession of the dirk.”

“What said he to that?” asked Sir John.

“Said it must have been smuggled in to him. He knew not by who.”

“Another question,” said Mr. Baker. “What was the prisoner’s intention in attacking him so?”

“Aye,” said Mr. Bailev, “they claimed escape was his intention. Yet they were hard put to explain whv he never left the Master Felons Ward. Larkin just pushed him out into the corridor and waited for him to be rescued by the warders, who set upon him and disarmed the prisoner. They said they got to him before he could decide which wav to run. That, again, I doubt somewhat because the telling of it seemed false. We tried to go round a bit with him on it, get him to repeat it, looking for details that might not match up, as you might. But the chief warder would have none of that. He brought us awav from Larkin. So then, we asks to visit the Master Felons Ward so as to put questions to the warders and the inmates and view the scene. And he says to us, ‘Who are you to doubt that fellow’s story?’”

Mr. Baker broke in: ” ‘We are constables is who we are,’ said I to him, and if we cannot see the prisoner, then we demand to see the Keeper of Newgate.’ “

“He laughed at us, he did. And he said, ‘The Keeper of Newgate will not see such as you.’ “

“Well, he will see such as me,” said the magistrate, whose countenance had grown increasing dark during the telling. “Jeremy!” he bellowed of a sudden, “fetch my coat and hat from the study.”

I jumped to his command and ran for it up the stairs. As I helped Sir John into his coat, I hoped fiercely that I might be asked along, yet I was not surprised when no such invitation was extended.

“You still have my writ in your possession?”

“Aye, sir, it is here in my pocket,” said Mr. Bailey.

“Then let us be off, all three of us, for I promise we shall return with the prisoner.”

And so they made a hasty departure down the stairs, Mr. Baker leading the way, then Mr. Bailey, and Sir John last of all with his hand on Mr. Bailey’s shoulder, as was his wont when descending.

I watched them in excitement but was brought suddenly to myself by Mrs. Gredge’s harsh command: “Shut the door, Jeremy.”

I did as she bade me and went direct to her to comment upon this new turn in a matter already too complicated for my understanding.

Yet she cut me short, quite surprising me with a comment which betrayed her ignorance of the affair. “All this fuss about a felon!” said she with a dismissive wave of her hand. “What matter can it be?”

I had somehow fixed it in my mind that she, a grown woman and considerable more, would have the same interest in such concerns of Sir John as I had. Yet when I sought to explain the significance of what we had heard to her, which is to say, Dillon’s likely importance as a witness in the Goodhope inquiry, then she brushed it aside, saying it was all the same to her. And so, I was forced to add indifference to her ignorance. And in truth, I had, in the time I had been there, not heard her ask a single question of her master regarding what went on in the courtroom below, much less about matters more private, such as the inquiry into the death of Lord Goodhope. This last demonstrated the extent of her isolation from the talk of the street, as well, for, as I was to learn, no subject was at that moment of keener interest to the purveyors of speculation and of gossip as that which one of the pamphlets soon to appear would call “The Horror in St. James Street.” Say what I might of her, Mrs. Gredge was quite separated from such stuff of sensation, which was perhaps best for a magistrate’s housekeeper and cook.

It was a bit later on when, having completed my appointed tasks, she asked me if I might go below to Covent Garden and do some buying for her. I agreed readily, realizing that she was entrusting me with what she considered to be one of her most sacred duties.

“Did you sometimes go to the market and buy foodstuffs for your father?” she asked me.

“Oh, often,” said I, “when he was busy with his printing work.”

“Can you buy meat? Potatoes? Greens?”

“All of that.”

“Well and good. I’ll try you out. What I fixed for Sir John and us last night fair cleaned me out, and I am loath to leave Lady Fielding alone in the house.”

So we sat down together and prepared us a list, she doing the telling and I the writing of it, for as I had come to suspect and later confirmed, she was without letters. Then she presented me with the large market basket, put some monev in my pocket, and sent me on my way.

Although I had passed through Covent Garden on separate occasions with Mr. Bailev and Sir John, I had not had occasion to tour the place as I did that morning. Mrs. Gredge put no limit of time on me, and so I made a leisurely journey through the stalls and the crowds round them, choosing a cabbage here, and potatoes, carrots, and turnips there—for she had in mind to make a stew that might last more nights than one. But what makes a good stew but good spices? Therefore, when I heard a maid’s call, rising above the rest—

Here’s fine rosemary, sage, and thyme. Come buy my ground ivy. Here’s fetherfew, gilliflowers, and rue. Come buy my knotted marjoram ho!

—I thought it a particular invitation to me. I hastened to her through the mob, and after a bit of pleasant bargaining, bought bay leaves and thyme. The maid who had sung her wares was not much my senior; she was good in commerce but took no advantage. She did, however, advertise her leeks to me, and since I decided they would go well in the stew, I took a bunch of them, as well. Since none of these were on the list Mrs. Gredge had made up with me, I bought them from my own dwindling store of coins and then had but two shillings left and a few pence, but I assured myself it was all in a good cause. It made me feel quite the man to do a bit of buying on my own.

Turning away from the spice merchant’s stall, my purchases in my basket, I felt a gentle hand laid upon my arm, looked about, and found before me a face that was familiar, yet difficult to place. Who could this handsome woman be?

“Your name is Jeremy, is it not?” she asked.

“Indeed it is, ma’am. I believe we have met, though to my shame, I cannot say your name.”

“Katherine Durham,” said she. “Sir John Fielding introduced us but a few days past in the Haymarket.”

“Oh yes,” said I, “you must forgive me for not remembering. Since I’ve come to London, so much has happened.”

I recalled her at that moment aright. She it was whose son had been saved from the gallows and sent to sea.

“Indeed,” she said, “it is a most confusing place. I well remember when I first came here with my late husband from Plymouth—the constant tumult, the babble—but I grew accustomed. You will, too. As I recall, you’re a young printer. Has Sir John found you a place?”