Jack, Knave and Fool (12 page)

“Perhaps I could wait with a constable, and when I identified Roundtree, then he could be properly detained.”

“Jeremy, I have better things to do with my constables than send them out on night-long waits with you in hope of capturing a fellow gone fugitive from a public drunkenness conviction. I would remind you that Jonah Slade has so far eluded us. He assaulted Constable Cowley with a deadly weapon, and such an attack is one against us all — a much more serious matter.”

I felt properly abashed. “I … I’m sorry, Sir John. In fact, I had forgotten.”

“Oh, I know, Thomas Roundtree caused you embarrassment by slipping away from you as he did. You feel that it’s only by bringing him back that you may be exonerated. Well, there is no need for you to feel so. In truth, I would as leave let the fellow go as not.” He paused, gave his chin a stroke, then added: “The girl does give me reason for concern, however.”

“I can see that, yes,” said I. “What should be done about her?”

“For the present, nothing at all. She was quite right when she said that she had every right to be there so long as the rent was paid up—with or without a lock upon the door.” Again he went silent for a moment, and of a sudden brightened a bit as he said, “But at least we now know why he went fugitive rather than serve thirty days in the Fleet — the girl, of course, his daughter. He knew she could not survive with him away so long. He’s not an entirely bad sort, you see. Few are.”

“Probably not. But … but why did he deny having family dependent upon him? I recall that you asked him specifically if he was married —if there was any at home who might miss him if he spent another night in the strong room.”

“Yes, that is puzzling, is it not? Had he told me of his daughter, I might indeed have allowed him to pay his fine piecemeal, as he suggested. Yet rather than reveal her to me, he chose to absent himself for an additional night. That gives us cause for wonder, does it not?”

“Perhaps it was not an unusual occurrence for him to be away one night or two,” I suggested.

“Perhaps not —public drunkenness was the charge, after all. Uh … Jeremy, I know not quite how to put this, but you searched the place —would you say that there were signs that father and daughter shared the same bed? Were there, in fact, two beds?”

That was indeed a detail I had omitted. “There was a sort of trundle bed beneath the greater one. It was bigger than most such. Perhaps he had built it lor her special.”

“A carpenter, alter all. And how old did you say she was?”

“I should estimate that she was about eleven, no more than twelve.” “But near full-grown, you said.” “In height only.”

“Well,” he sighed, “be that as it may, I must discuss her situation with Kate. She may have something to suggest, may even wish to visit the girl.”

As it turned out, Lady Fielding did indeed wish to visit Clarissa Roundtree. That evening, following dinner, she questioned me at length regarding her state. I offered her the same report I had given Sir John, and she asked me a number of the same questions he had put to me. She, however, was particularly interested in the girl’s physical well-being.

“There was a fireplace, but no fire? No coal nor wood?”

None, I told her.

“You searched the closet. Was there a cape or greatcoat that might have fitted her?”

“No, I found only a second frock, and uh, a boy’s coat, too.”

“How odd. Did she seem fearful of the future?”

“Indeed not. She boasted that her father had provided for her in the past and would continue to do so.”

And so on. Having interrogated me thusly, Lady Fielding concluded that Aliss Roundtree was, in her situation, a child neglected, and that she must herself interview her to determine what might be done to help. That interview would take place next morning, as she informed me, and I would be needed to guide her there and help her gain admittance.

So it was that we set off together the following day shortly after Annie had departed for her lessons. There were no hackney coaches in sight, and in any case, Lady Fielding determined that Half-Moon Passage was only a short distance, one that could easily be reached by foot. She had not reckoned with the morning crowd in the streets, however. Her traveling to and from the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes, which she oversaw, was usually undertaken later in the day and always by hackney, as its distance from Bow Street demanded.

We set off together, I attempting to keep by her side. Yet, as earlier with Roundtree, that soon became impractical, and so I forged ahead, clearing a path for her through the buffeting mass of pedestrians. This required such effort that I suggested we cut through Covent Garden, again following the route taken with the prisoner whom I had lost along the way. Though we soon returned again to the teeming streets and were forced to dodge drunks along Bedford, we reached the dilapidated court in Half-Moon Passage without serious incident. Lady Fielding’s nose twitched at the foul smell of the place, yet she pressed on without comment, following me up the short staircase which led to the enclosed first tier of rooms.

It was on the way to the one occupied by Clarissa Roundtree that a most unfortunate event occurred. I was walking next Lady Fielding, as the width of the long hall permitted, when a door opened most suddenly and an unkempt wreck of a fellow came stumbling out and collided with m’lady; his hat he wore back to front, in one hand was his coat, and the other held up his breeches. Reaching out, I saved Lady Fielding from being knocked to the floor most unceremoniously. Then, glancing up whence he had come, I caught a brief glimpse of one of Roundtree’s notorious “nekkid ladies” before the door slammed shut.

“Ye 11 be sorry for that, y’will,” he shouted at the closed door. And to Lady Fielding: “Begyer pardon, mum, but ‘twasn’t my fault. I was pushed.”

With no more than that, he set off down the hall toward the stairs, waddling ungainly in an effort to keep his breeches up somewhere near his waist.

Lady Fielding was quite livid with anger. “Imagine,” said she, “ayoung girl in such a place as this!”

(I had the day past imagined it and thought that Clarissa must be having quite an interesting time of it. But then, at that point I was not overly sympathetic to her plight.)

Thus we did come to her door. I knocked upon it stoutly and after some delay received a response from not too far within the room, a strong and challenging “Who is there?” I could imagine her at that moment taking her place behind the chest, ready to exert all her childish strength against mine. Let her, thought I. I had won the contest once before, had I not?

Nevertheless I answered in a mild and sympathetic tone: “It is I, your visitor from the day before. I have brought with me one who wishes to inquire into your state.”

Then, from her, quite anticipated: “Go away!”

I leaned against the door, not attacking but testing it. It gave very slightly, but then held firm. Giving more pressure to it, then still more, I found I could not budge the door farther. Could she somehow have pushed the bed against the door? Not even the wardrobe would have held the door so well.

I felt a tap upon my shoulder. Lady Fielding indicated silently that I should step aside.

“Clarissa,” said she, her voice raised in a distinct, commanding fashion, “this is Katherine Fielding. I wish to meet and talk with you. It is in your interest to do so —and even more in your father’s. I have considerable influence with my husband, Sir John Fielding, who is Magistrate of the Bow Street Court. When your father is captured, as indeed he will be, only clemency from Sir John will save him from severe punishment. If you wish me to plead for clemency, then you must open this door immediately. I have an offer to make.”

Rather than the scrape and bump of furniture moved across the floor, I heard a click and a metallic slap, and then did the door swing open. Clarissa Roundtree was revealed, stepping back to make room for our entrance. Lady Fielding preceded me through the door. I entered, shut the door behind me, and examined the device that had blocked me so effectively. It was a simple hasp and staple lock, old and a bit rusty, yet still strong. It was evident that Thomas Roundtree had paid his daughter another visit.

I looked round the room for further evidence of him. There was naught to see but the fire that burned wood and coal together in the fireplace. I doubted that the girl possessed the skill to set it well; he must have started it not so very long before, for it was now a proper blaze. My eyes drifted to the curtained closet. It was only there he could hide himself. I vowed I would throw back that curtain and have a look ere we left the room.

Clarissa stood erect, tense as a string to be plucked, dressed in the same green frock she had worn the day before. She held a book in her hand, one of her romances. The single chair in the room had been pulled over by the fireplace.

“You were reading,” said Lady Fielding.

“Yes, mum, I was.” Quite in contrast to her way with me, she was courteous, restrained, perhaps intimidated by her female visitor.

“Let us go over to the fire. It’s a chill morning. You may sit, if you like.”

She edged nearer to the fireplace as Lady Fielding took a place near to her.

“I prefer to stand, mum.”

“Jeremy says there was no fire when he visited you yesterday, that it was quite cold in the room here.”

“He left me some shillings. I used some of the money to buy wood and some coal.”

“And some food, I hope.”

“Yes, mum, two loaves and some butter. They’ll last me awhile.”

“Did you thank Jeremy for his gift?” asked Lady Fielding. She knew the girl had not; I had told tattle on her.

“No, mum,” said she. Then with a bit of the old defiance: “I resented his visit.”

“You should not resent those who try to help you.”

“I resent those who come to make my father prisoner, who say he doesn’t take proper care of me. My father is a good man, and he takes care of me as best he can.”

“And he drinks much of the money he makes, is that not so?”

Clarissa Roundtree’s eyes did truly flash fire in response, yet she held back what was in her mind to say. After a long moment’s silence, during which she breathed deep once or twice, she said at last: “He has that habit, yes, but none of us is perfect, and he does as well as he can. He’s a skilled carpenter, he is.”

“I’m sure he is,” said Lady Fielding. “When did you last see him?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you that,” said she.

“It could not have been long ago, m’lady,” said I, interrupting their dialogue. “He has put a lock upon the door since yesterday, and it must have been him built this fire.”

Lady Fielding then passed me a look which said quite plain that I was to leave the talking to her. Chastened, I nodded my compliance.

“What he says is true,” said Clarissa. “He was here early and left just before you came. He left me a few shillings, as well.”

“Since he does come to visit and makes an effort to look after you, I would like you to deliver a message to him when next you see him.”

“And what is that, mum?”

In answer, Lady Fielding raised her voice considerably and half turned in the direction of the curtained closet, as if she, too, suspected that the elder Roundtree might be hiding there. “You may tell him,” said she, “that if he returns to Bow Street and surrenders himself, Sir John will overlook his escape and his days as a fugitive. Some arrangement will be made on the payment of his fine so that he will not have to spend time away from you in gaol.” She turned and faced the daughter direct. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, mum.”

“But now, about you, my dear. How old are you?”

“Oh, sixteen, near seventeen now.”

(A lie! Surely a lie! And it was all I could do to keep myself from telling her so. Only the quizzical smile that appeared on Lady Fielding’s face registering her own disbelief prevented me from saying so.)

“And how long have you been here in London?”

“Oh, ever so long —a year, no, two years, perhaps longer.”

(Another lie, of course.)

“And you came here from Lichfield? That, I believe, is where your father said he was from.”

“Uh, no, mum. For a time I lived with an aunt and uncle in … Bristol. My mother, you see, died when I was but a child often.”

(That last, at least, was no doubt true.)

“And how long were you with them?”

She had been made quite uncomfortable by the questions, worried that her improvised responses might not quite match, one with the previous. She delayed as long as was seemly. Then: “A few years. Five, I think. Yes, five more or less.”

“Which is it? More? Or less?”

“Then more—yes, a little more than five.”

“With your aunt and uncle in Bristol?”

“Yes! Yes, mum.”

Lady Fielding had managed to fluster her, and in so doing had made it plain to her that she knew the girl was lying. Much better that way than simply to accuse her of telling untruths. Had she taken instruction in interrogation from Sir John? If so, she had learned well; if not, she had a great natural talent for it. She began again in a manner at once milder and more sympathetic.

“Tell me, Clarissa, do you have a trade or a craft? Any sort of special skill?”

She considered that a moment, and not wishing to seem utterly incapable, she said, “Well, I can read.”

“Many girls of your age cannot,” said Lady Fielding.

“And I can write a good hand, as well. My mother taught me.”

“Very good. She must have been herself a woman of some skill and learning. But can you cook? Can you sew? Can you weave?”

“No, mum, but … well … I have an ambition to be an author —a poet, a writer of romances.”

“That would be an unusual occupation for a woman,” said Lady Fielding, though not unsympathetically.

“But a possible one!”

“Oh yes, my dear. More is possible for women of intelligence and ambition than the world allows. I would be the last to gainsay the possibility.”

Clarissa Roundtree considered the statement a moment and seemed to look at the woman who had made it in a new light. She smiled shyly. “I’m pleased to hear you say that.”