Jack, Knave and Fool (17 page)

With that and not a word to Lady Laningham, he swept Sir John away. She, having thus been ignored, turned to me in anger. Whether it was that she wished me to do something about the snub she had been given, or in some perverse way blamed me for it, I could not say, for she said nothing. She seated herself with a great thump and turned away from us all.

I trailed along in time to hear Mr. Paltrow’s wife, Pamela, and two daughters, Felicity and Charity, offered in introduction to Sir John. They were plump females all; the two girls, only a bit older than myself, were as unlike their father as any could be, except for a certain same eagerness in their eyes.

Mr. Paltrow sought to prolong things a bit, speaking in grand terms of the dinners and musical evenings he planned once he was “properly situated.” He promised that Sir John would be invited to the very first of them.

“I shall look forward to it.”

“Not more than I.”

Just then the group was approached by one whom I recognized as the innkeeper of the Crown and Anchor. He greeted Sir John hastily, then addressed Mr. Arthur Paltrow, urging him to the stage that he might address the audience, as was his wish.

“The orchestra is ready, sir,” said the innkeeper. “They await you.”

“Then, Sir John, I must go,” said Mr. Paltrow. “I’m indeed so happy to have met you at last.”

“And I, you and your family,” said Sir John with a polite bow. “Jeremy?”

He signaled that we were to return to our table. As we marched back, he muttered to me, “I shall not be drawn into their domestic squabbles! The idea of it!”

“What, sir, is the matter?” I called back to him.

“He intends to move his family directly into the Laningham residence, and now the present Lady Laningham wishes her husband dug up and cut up simply to take revenge by casting suspicion on the next Lord Laningham. Does she not understand that she lost her chance when she buried her husband?”

His voice had risen in indignation. As we pushed along toward our table, I noted heads turning in interest at what was said. He was not usually so careless about speaking of such matters in public.

Nevertheless, I asked, “Is that what she was whispering about?”

“Yes, it was,” he hissed angrily.

We managed to seat ourselves just as Arthur Paltrow walked out upon the stage and took his place before the orchestra. I noted, with some surprise, that an empty chair had been placed at precisely the spot it had occupied the week before, and beside it lay his uncle’s knobbed staff. Did Mr. Paltrow mean to remain and play his uncle’s role that evening, capering and jumping about? Even to one as inexperienced and ignorant in the ways of the great world as I was then, that seemed to me to be in singularly bad taste. But whatever his intention, he waited until the audience had grown quiet, and only then did he speak forth.

“My name,” said he, “is Arthur Paltrow. I come before you this evening as a representative of the late Lord Laningham’s family.”

(He did not, at least, introduce himself as the heir apparent to the title, though it was common knowledge by that time.)

“Speaking for the family,” he continued, “I wish to assure you all, members of the Academy of Ancient Music and those of you who attend individual concerts, that our family will continue its patronage of the society and its concert programs in the future, just as it was done under my dear uncle. We are certain as can be that he would have had it so. And we would just as certainly want it so.”

At that point Arthur Paltrow paused, and a scattering of applause was heard from the audience; the scattering took on force and volume until it thundered approval and thanks through the wide ballroom of the Crown and Anchor. He waited modestly, his head slightly bowed, until at last the applause subsided. Only then did he raise his head and look out upon the multitude.

“Thank you,” said he -with a nod. “The program this evening is a repetition of the one offered last Sunday. It consists solely of pieces by the late, lamented master Mr. George Frederick Handel. To wit: his Opus three concerti grossi numbers one and two, the choral work Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day, with the Academy chorus, and that great favorite, the Water Miuic. The program is repeated because it was never completed. Interrupted it was, as you all must know, by Lord Laningham’s tragic death on the very stage upon which I stand. Therefore this concert is performed as a memorial to him. Think of him, I beg you, as you listen to the strains of this beautiful music. You will note that here beside me are his chair and staff, so familiar to you all. They will remain here throughout the evening as a reminder to you all of Lord Laningham. Then they will be removed and put in some place of honor, yet to be determined. None but he will sit before the musicians on this stage.

“That is all, and again, I thank you.”

So saying, he turned and walked slowly off the stage. Immediate applause followed him this time, swelling to an ovation even grander than the one he had received earlier. He had quite won them over.

Even Sir John, who had not taken part earlier, clapped loudly with the rest. Then did he turn to our table and shout over the applause: “A good speech! Would you not say so? Spoken with grace and humility —a good speech, by God!”

And all at the table did most heartily agree, turning to one another, nodding, each offering his separate comments in praise.

Then did the concertmaster stand, claiming the attention of the members of the orchestra, to whom he offered the downbeat. The concert was begun.

I am no connoisseur of music in the grand style, reader, though I have been since to more concerts, operas, and musical evenings than I can count (for the most part at the behest of my good wife, who is, I’m convinced, something of a connoisseur). Nevertheless I can tell you in truth that I have never heard such music, Handel in particular, played and sung better than it was that night. The two concerti grossi were better than I had remembered from the week before, perhaps because I had earlier been distracted by Lord Laningham’s playful attempts at leading the orchestra. But the Ode for St. Cecilia a Day, with the entire choir onstage, was truly glorious; and this time, I do swear, I could hear dear Annie’s voice giving strength to the entire section as it soared over the kettledrums and competed with the trumpets. And the Water Mudic, so often played, could not have been done with greater dignity and strength; it was, as I remember it now, music that suggested to me the perfectibility of man —or at least the hope of it.

With great applause and shouts of “Bravo!” and “Bravissimo!” the audience expressed its intense pleasure at the performance. Mr. Alfred Humber, who was a member of the Academy of Ancient Music and a faithful attendant at the concerts, had no hesitation at calling this one quite the best he had ever known. Though he, Mr. Donnelly, and Mr. Goldsmith left directly the program was done, the rest of us remained. Mr. Burnham offered lavish congratulations, and Annie gracefully returned them to him, saying that she owed all to him; then did he take his leave from us, thanking Sir John and Lady Fielding for having him at their table, winning a warm farewell from Sir John.

As we four started for the door, the innkeeper appeared and called Sir John aside. I might have sidled along to listen in, for I had keen interest in the matter of the missing server, but just then Lady Fielding caught us both, Annie and me, and demanded to know why we had not told her that Mr. Burn-ham was a black man.

“But my lady,” said Annie, “he isn’t black, he’s brown.”

“Don’t be impertinent, young lady.”

Then did I hasten to say, “I —we, that is — had not thought it would matter. It did not to us.”

“Well,” said she, somewhat nonplussed, “of course in his case it didn’t … really … matter. But I do think I should have been forewarned. I’m afraid I gawked a bit when you brought him to the table, Jeremy.”

“Oh, really?” said I. “I had not noticed.” (Though certainly I had.)

“I hope he did not,” said she, quite sincerely. “When you left the table with Sir John, I had quite a pleasant conversation with him —about his homeland and such. His father has made quite a young gentleman of him. Yet Mr. Burn-ham will not deny his mother. He says he misses them both greatly—and equally.”

“And he’s such a good teacher, mum,” put in Annie.

“Oh, I have no doubt of it. Even coached you on the Cecilia ode, did he?”

“Taught it to me, music and words —though words he calls ‘text.’”

“Playing it upon the harpsichord, no less. Such an accomplished young man.” She sighed. “But both of you, please, do give me a bit of advance notice in the future, won’t you?”

Sir John then broke away from the innkeeper and signaled his readiness to depart. We were among the last. The Laningham party had left long before by some exit known to them, avoiding the crowd. I had noticed how rigidly apart from the rest Lady Laningham conducted herself as they moved away from their table. Had she truly been as badly used by Mr. Paltrow as she had claimed?

As for ourselves, we reached the street to find the captain of the Bow Street Runners, Mr. Benjamin Bailey, awaiting us that he might see us back to Number 4. Though Sir John had not requested it, he seemed gratified to find the tall, imposing figure there at the door to the Crown and Anchor, though not so happy to hear the news he had to impart. It seemed that one of Constable Perkins’s snitches had passed on the word that Jonah Slade (he who had assaulted Constable Cowley with a knife) had managed to slip out of London.

“And where has he gone to?” asked the magistrate.

“To Ireland, said the snitch.”

“Ireland, is it? From what I’ve heard of Slade, he’s pure Londoner and should stick out like a zebra in a herd of horses. We shall notify the Castle in Dublin to keep a watch for him. If not there, he should turn up in Cork. Such as him cannot live outside cities.”

“I’ll just walk on ahead a bit,” said Mr. Bailey, “and clear the way for you.” He hesitated. “We should be glad, Sir John, bein’ quit of one such as Jonah Slade. The search for him has caused no little trouble and time.”

“Right you are, Mr. Bailey. Still and all, I do hate to see one such as him get away from us here. Others of his ilk may be encouraged to think they can do the same. We must put fear into them.”

“As you say, Sir John.”

Then did Benjamin Bailey march off at an easy pace, and we four following, Sir John and I together, and the women close behind. Annie twittered her excitement at being part of the evening’s triumphant performance. She thanked Lady Fielding effusively for having sent her up to the stage the week before. And on and on … never been so happy in her life, et cetera.

Sir John moved us ahead of them a few paces, and pulled me close.

“What thought you, Jeremy, of that fellow Paltrow, soon to be Lord Laningham?”

“Well, sir’ said I, “to be frank, I thought twice of him. When he rushed to you to introduce himself, he seemed altogether too eager to make a good impression. Quite unsure of himself he was. I thought there was little noble in him.”

“Truly said, Jeremy.”

“But then,” I continued, “I thought, as you, that the speech he gave in introduction to the concert and in memory of his uncle was meet and fit in every way. I could scarce believe the man you had just met had given it. Even his bearing had altered.”

“Yes, well, it sometimes is the case that men show their true mettle before the public, rather than in private conversation. In any case, neither of the two men you describe — and I concur in your estimates—would seem likely to commit murder. Lady Laningham, however, presents us with a greater possibility than I had perhaps earlier realized. She has a good deal of venom in her.”

“She was quite modishly dressed, even for one in mourning.”

“I’d like to know when she ordered up her widow’s weeds —perhaps a little early? We might make inquiries of her dressmaker if we can discover the shop that serves her.” We walked on a bit. Then did he ask: “Rouged and powdered, was she?”

“Discreetly so, yet I thought a bit improperly under the circumstances.”

“Oh, indeed. Could she have a lover? Who would know? Why, Mr. Goldsmith, of course. He is a great font of tittle-tattle, it would seem from our own experience. By the bye, Jeremy, you must mention nothing of this conversation or any other to him, even if he should specifically inquire — specially not then.”

“I noticed you had little to say to him at table,” said I.

“True. I would not cut him, for he is Mr. Donnelly’s friend, and has been a guest in our home, and he is in many ways a good man. Yet he is one or those with whom one cannot speak freely.”

The women had fallen somewhat behind. Mr. Bailey had halted to allow them to catch us up. When we resumed, it was at a slower pace. The night was mild for January, yet as ever on a winter night in London, there was a damp chill about us. And our breath clouded out before us as we walked the empty street. Sir John sent out a great billow in a deep sigh.

“What is it, sir?” I asked.

“Well, I have been thinking on it, Jeremy, listening to myself, and I tell you true, I am quite ready to give up this notion of poisoning. It was, after all, a mere fancy, a maggot at my brain. Mr. Goldsmith may indeed be right. Perhaps I am needlessly suspicious. Here I am, taking Mr. Paltrow’s measure, asking myself if such a man could commit murder, and I look with doubts upon an old woman’s efforts to make herself look pretty and perhaps a little younger —could she have a lover? I ask. All this, and the matter of poison, is pure supposition on my part. It has not been proven. It is not now likely to be proven.”

“And the missing server?” I put in at that point. I had great faith in Sir John’s suspicions and liked not to see him surrender them without a fight.

“That was the thinnest straw at which I grasped, a mere hypothesis. You yourself said Lord Laningham hailed the server at random.”

“He seemed to.”

“Well, even that straw has crumbled to dust. The missing boy turned up today, I was told by the innkeeper, and he had been called away by word of an illness at home. He had not even remained to see Laningham s collapse. His memory of the incident was dim, but he remembered collecting the bottle at the table, opening it, then pouring a glass for the remaining gentleman at the table before bringing it to the stage.”