In all, we three must have been there on that visit to the room for nearly half an hour. Sir John, early on, took a chair put for him by Mr. Bailey in the exact center of the place and began ordering us about and throwing out questions as to the dimensions of the room. (It was large: nearly a rod square.) Sir John wished to know if it were a proper library. Were there bookshelves? Of what dimensions? Were they filled with books? A few or many? Was there a fireplace? Of what size? What about the room’s furnishings? What were they and where were they placed?
He demanded exactitude and detail from us of the same sort he would have asked of any witness: or more perhaps. Deploring Mr. Bailey’s tendency to generalize, he chided him on a pair of occasions, and asked him to reckon in hands and fingers if he was not sure of feet and inches. I, too, was put to work, climbing about the room to examine the windows. All of them, I found, were shut and locked.
There was, of course, a fourth member to our party. He was seated quietly behind the desk, his head thrown back, a quantity of his blood spilled out over his chin and throat and splattered down upon his shirt and waistcoat. I had managed not to look directly upon him as I ran about, doing Sir John’s bidding. But there came a time at last when all that could be noted about the room had been noted, and there was no place to put our attention but upon the dead man at the desk.
Reader, I make no joke to tell you that he was the deadest dead man that ever I set eyes on. The position of his head had before disguised from me the nature of his wound. But as I approached timorously behind Mr. Bailev and viewed the disfigured face of the corpus, I found myself astonished, then fascinated by the destruction wrought by that single shot. Once I had forced myself to gaze upon the sight, I found I could barely take my eyes away.
What made it particularly irresistible was Mr. Bailey’s precise description of the wound. He had, I was to learn, spent half his life in a Guards Regiment: I shall not name it since there was some slight irregularity about his departure. He had been in battle against the French in North America. He knew wounds: It would not be overstating to say he was something of a connoisseur. Sir John had no reason to complain of his descriptive powers on this occasion. No surgeon could have done a better job of it.
If I may attempt to duplicate from memory, and with the aid of childish notes I took shortly afterward, his commentary went something as follows:
“Ooh, Gawd, it’s a nasty ‘un, Sir John. I’d say the muzzle of the pistol was close but not directly onto the face when the shot was fired. There’s black powder burns all over the skin. The ball entered at a thumb’s width from the bridge of the nose, two thumbs down from the right eye. It went upwards and across, making porridge of the nose and cutting the nerve to the left eye as it went into the brain. The wad slapped him sharp between the eyes. Not too much blood, though. I’ve seen more from like wounds.”
“The optic nerve of the left eye?” put in Sir John. “Not the right?”
“Aye, sir, it went across, so to speak.”
“Diagonally?”
“As you say. Sir John.”
“How can you tell the optic nerve was severed?”
“The left eye is popped a bit. It ain’t hanging, but it’s pushed out in a way that ain’t proper, if you follow me.”
“Yes, Mr. Bailey, I do.” Sir John was silent for a moment. “Is there a wound proving the exit of the ball?”
“Aye, indeed there is, sir. It’s blown his wig akilter. If I may remove it altogether, I’d have a better look.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Bailey. Proceed.”
That he did, pulling off the periwig in one swift movement and tossing it upon the desk. The head of the dead man bobbed in a grotesque manner.
“Now here,” began Mr. Bailey, “we’ve a spot about half a palm’s width above the left ear and just behind it where a bit of skull about two thumbs wide has been blown away. There’s some nasty matter leaking out there. It wasn’t no dueling pistol did this but a proper piece of military weaponry.”
“Where is the weapon, Mr. Bailey?”
“Ah, let’s see now. It ain’t on the desk, so it must be …” He bent down, and I with him. The pistol lay at the feet of what once was Lord Richard Goodhope, butt on the floor, barrel across his left foot. I marveled at how the dead man’s hands simply rested in his lap, the unsullied hands of a gentleman. He seemed quite at peace.
Mr. Bailev picked the pistol up carefulh and inspected it as he rose to his feet. “Yes, it was here, sir, on the Moor beneath him. Its as I said, a mihtary sort of weapon, cahbered for a ball a good thumb’s width, nearly an inch, so to speak.”
“Well and good. Now, could you possibly trace the path of the ball and find where it entered the wall? If, indeed, it did. Perhaps you could help there, Jeremy.”
I did help, though not materially. It was Mr. Bailey who located it bv the gouge it had left. He pulled his knife out of the sheath on his belt and dug out the battered chimk of lead from the wall.
“Got it. Sir John.”
“I take it, since you have not mentioned it, Mr. Bailev, that no note of explanation has been left.”
“The desk is empty, sir.”
“Then I think our business here is complete. Take the pistol with vou.”
He rose from his chair then and led us from the library, touching the log of wood with his stick, turning to his left at that point, and walking out into the hall. I left last of all, and at the door could not resist one last look at the grotesque figure at the desk. And for the first time I considered Lord Goodhope in some sense as a person and not simply as a dead man. What, I wondered, could lead one in such fortunate circumstances to do such positive and final harm to his person? Thus puzzling, I joined the others.
“Mind the chair on your right,” said Sir John, chuckling to himself as we set off down the hall. “It seems to cause difficulty to some.”
We arrived at the door to the sitting room. The butler, Potter, was nowhere to be seen, and so Sir John directed Mr. Bailey to knock. “But softlv, man.” he added, “softly. please.”
Lady Goodhope appeared in response. “You have finished?” she asked.
“We have, m’ladv. The room was given a thorough inspection, as was the fatal wound to Lord Goodhope. He died, as you yourself must have surmised, by pistol shot. It went directly into the brain. Death would have been instantaneous, and as nearly as can be judged in such matters, without pain.”
“I see.”
“No note of explanation was immediately seen, though one ma\ turn up. I thought it improper under the circumstances to go rummaging through his desk. If one should be found. I must ask that you communicate its contents to me. Barring that, I would sincerely advise you to look to Lord Goodhope’s accounts. Have them examined by someone you can trust. I can provide a name, if you wish.”
“Yes, thank you, but what are you saying, Sir John?” She seemed honestly not to understand.
“Why, that Lord Goodhope’s wound was self-inflicted, that he died a suicide. And I assure you that in most such cases the root cause for such drastic action is some financial problem.”
“May I assure you of one thing?” She seemed absolutely calm, completely in control of herself.
“Of course. What is it?”
“My husband—my late husband, that is—would never have committed suicide, no matter what his problems.” Her words were pronounced with intimidating certainty.
“But,” objected Sir John, “the door was bolted. You saw what effort your men had to put in breaking it down. There is no other door. All the windows were locked. The weapon with which he dispatched himself was there at his feet. How could it be anything but suicide?”
“I don’t dispute your findings, but I reject your conclusion.”
“Then you theorize murder?”
“I have no theories,” she said simply. “As I told you, I was in that room only briefly. I doubt that I shall enter it again. But I simply know that he would not have destroyed himself.”
For the first time since I had met him. Sir John Fielding was speechless. He sputtered a bit. There was a “Why…” and a “Well … ,” neither of which led to any proper end. His hands made uncertain movements.
Lady Goodhope, who had conducted their interview in the doorway of the sitting room, then inclined her head slightly and took a step back. “Thank you for coming. Sir John. I’m grateful for your efforts. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I wish to be alone. Goodbye.” Saying that, she turned and shut the door.
Sir John continued to sputter. He fumed. One could very nearly see steam rising from beneath his periwig.
As if by magic. Potter then appeared, handed Sir John his tricorn, and opened the double door wide for us. There was the hint of a smile on his face. Mr. Bailey and I exchanged looks, something between apprehension and confusion passed between us.
It was not until we were out on the walk before the waiting carriage that Sir John finally found words; and when they came, they came in a torrent. Without cursing them, he called down God’s judgment on all womankind. He remarked in particular upon their baseless certainty, their refusal to face cold facts, the indifference of educated women to simple logic, et cetera. And he ended with a verbal flourish that I myself have since had occasion to quote: “If God had truly meant women to be our helpmates, as scripture informs us, then He should have provided them with brains sufficient to the task.”
Then he fell silent.
We were all quiet for a moment, then Mr. Bailey cleared his throat and said, “I’ll leave you now. Sir John. I’m past due making my rounds. All the watchmen are likely to be asleep in their boxes. Time to rouse them.”
Distracted, Sir John failed for a moment to respond. Perhaps he was giving further pious thought to the Creator’s intentions as regards women. But at last he came to himself: “Yes … yes, of course, Mr. Bailey. You’d best be on your way. And thank you for your help.”
“Don’t mention it. Goodbye, Sir John, and goodbye to you, young Jeremy.”
I mumbled my own goodbye, then watched him disappear down the darkening street.
“His is the harder job,” said Sir John to me. “If we could but keep the streets safe, it would be worth three Lord Goodhopes.” Then, about to haul himself up into the hackney, he added, “Or ten.”
And so he, after calling out the address on Bow Street to the driver, settled back for the drive home. He ruminated still. At last, he said, “A strange woman.”
“Did she speak strangely?” I had noted it but felt, perhaps, that she spoke as every noblewoman did. I was then in no position to judge such matters.
Sir John considered this. The horse ahead clip-clopped along. Then: “Perhaps slightly in some foreign mode—though in very good English, of course.”
“Oh, yes sir, very good.” I thought back, remembering a visitor we had once had to our place in Lichfield. “Would you say … French?”
He thought about that. “Yes,” he said, “something Frenchy, not so much in her pronunciation as in the rhythm of her speech.” He paused at that. “Very good, Jeremy. I must look into that.” We lapsed into silence again, until he said, “But a lady, certainly, by any measure. Great dignity there.”
“She had no tears, Sir John.”
“Yes, I sensed as much.”
Again I listened to the plodding regularity of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. Somehow, his tribute to Lady Goodhope and the dignity she had shown led me to think back to her husband in death there at the desk in the library. What was there to think about him? Not the ruined face, certainly. That was nothing to remember him by. But then, quite unbidden, the picture of his hands came to me: at peace, resting in his lap. I thought of those. “It’s true, isn’t it,” I asked rather sententiously, “that you can always tell a man of quality by his hands?”
“It may be. What are you getting at, boy?”
“Well, Lord Goodhope, sir. He had very clean hands, polished nails, not a smudge.”
Sir John seemed suddenly much taken by this. “Lord Goodhope had clean hands, you say?”
“Oh, yes sir. Very clean.”
”Both of them?”
“Both of them, sir, as I remember. And I’m sure I remember correctly.”
He suddenly pounded the floor of the hackney with his stick. “Damn me for a fool!” he exploded. Then said he, “And damn Mr. Bailey, too, for not noticing.” And making an awful racket on the ceiling of our compartment with his stick, he called out loudly to the driver to turn the hackney around and take us back to the house from whence we had come.
Our second entry into the Goodhope residence was not managed so easily. Potter was at first reluctant to admit us at all, saying that Lady Goodhope had retired for the night. Sir John said he had no need to see her but had returned to give further examination to Lord Good hope’s body. Potter then informed him that the body had just now been removed from the library to be prepared for the casket which would arrive in the morning.
As if suddenly propelled by that bit of news. Sir John burst past the butler and into the house, and I at his coattails. ”We must see the body at once!” he bellowed.
“I must ask her ladyship’s permission,” whined Potter.
“You need ask no such thing,” retorted the magistrate. “May I remind you that we stand here in the City of Westminster, where I am the law. Now take us there.”
Complaining all the way, the butler led us down the hall and through a door under the main staircase. This, in turn, opened to another set of stairs leading downward. Having once been rebuked for offering aid, the butler plunged ahead and within a moment had disappeared. Sir John put down a tentative foot, then muttered a request for my assistance. The steps were narrow and steep and dimly lit from below. With his hand on my shoulder, we made it down in good order and successfully navigated the bend midway, where we had lost our guide.
At the bottom of the stairs we found ourselves in the kitchen. I marveled at this, never before having considered where such a necessary room might be placed in these great houses. Besides us three newly arrived, there were four there: two men who had recently conveyed the body downstairs to the kitchen; and two women, kitchen slaveys, who were making ready to wash the body. Water was heating in a kettle on the cookstove. Between them, in the middle of the room, lay the body of Lord Goodhope stretched out on a long table: not quite long enough: feet and ankles, now seeii only in white hose, dangled over the edge at mid-calf. The corpus was thus in a state of preparation: shoes off, waistcoat open, shirt unbuttoned.