Jack, Knave and Fool (23 page)

“Very intriguing,” said Sir John. “He did actually say that he was George Bradbury?”

“He confirmed it plain as you just spoke the name. ‘Yes, I am,’ said he.”

“Have we any idea just who this impostor might be?” asked Sir John.

At that I looked at Bunkins, for I then remembered well that he had mentioned just such a tall man to me and realized for the first time that he had been dropped from his report to Sir John. (I also reflected uneasily that I might know the man quite well myself.) Jimmie Bunkins blushed in embarrassment. If I remembered the tall man, then so did he. I saw him struggle valiantly with himself until at last the better Bunkins triumphed. He admitted his omission.

“Sir,” said he, “I think I may know the cod —or at least I spied him a few times before, while watchin’ the shop. He seemed to come by certain times so Mrs. Bradbury could go out doin’ her daily buyin’ and such. He’d watch the store for her. I should’ve said something about him. I guess I just forgot —or maybe didn’t think him important enough to mention.”

“Well,” said Sir John, “now you have mentioned him. And now we know there may be three conspirators involved. It is all the more important to get that letter off to Warwick. But Mr. Burnham?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I think it best that you do not accept the invitation extended you to return tomorrow. We have planted our seed. Let us stand back awhile and see if it grows.”

After the two had left for the great house in St. James Street, Sir John returned to confer with Mr. Marsden; it was the report to the Lord Chief Justice which occupied them and would continue to do so until the month’s end. I might have held him and would have done had I been more certain in my own mind just what course I ought to take.

In truth, I was all in turmoil. Unlike Bunkins, who had merely to admit an error of neglect, I had to wrestle with myself over another’s guilt — or probable guilt — or perhaps only possible guilt. Was it up to me to weigh this? Most likely it was not. The sensible thing would be to go to Sir John with my suspicions. Let him give what importance he would to it—then the matter would be out of my hands for good.

My problem had been caused by Mr. Burnham. His description of the man who had falsely presented himself as George Bradbury included a detail of dress which had sounded in my mind as a resonant, echoing chord of music. He had mentioned that the fellow wore a plaid waistcoat in the Scottish style. While there were many tall, thin men round and about Covent Garden, there was but one I knew of who wore such a waistcoat, and that one was Thomas Roundtree.

Why not tell Sir John this? It was not so much because of any affection I had for Roundtree personally; though it was true he was likable enough, he had deceived and embarrassed me, and I held that against him. No, I hesitated because of his daughter, Clarissa, whom I liked and pitied. Her faith in her foolish father, while misplaced and naive, was in itself admirable. If I were to suggest to the magistrate that Roundtree was the third of conspirators, as they had been dubbed, it would only cause her further pain and grief. And it might indeed have the direst of consequences for him. Perhaps his involvement was quite innocent. Perhaps he merely tended shop for Mrs. Bradbury.

What was I to do? Procrastination seemed the safest, if not the wisest, course. I would do nothing for the present and await a time when the information was most pertinent, even essential, before voicing my suspicions. Perhaps the letter from the Lichfield magistrate would force my hand. It was there in my coat pocket still. That I had it seemed to have slipped Sir John’s mind for the present. It would have to be read to him, of course, but perhaps I might pick the right moment.

That moment came at the dinner table. Annie had once again presented us with a meal which, in any other household, would have seemed altogether exceptional. Yet we, spoiled by our cook, took it as the usual and our due. What she called stew was distinguished from what was customarily called by that name by virtue of its flavor —or flavors, really, for with onions, garlic, her favorite paprika, and one could only guess what other rare spices from her cabinet, there was no telling what combination of tastes might come. In short, we had all eaten well. And in that period of happy relaxation during which we sat at table, belching our satisfaction, Lady Fielding happened to mention that with the new year had come the burden of writing a great many begging letters to the great and the rich that the Magdalene Home might continue its operation for another twelvemonth.

“I was wondering, Jack,” said she, “if you might loan me Jeremy’s services as a letter writer.”

“Oh, well, I-”

Yet she plunged on: “I thought I might draw up a list of recipients and an exemplar that he might duplicate. That would leave me free to tend to day-today matters at the Home, which are quite enough to fill my day, please believe me.

“Oh, I believe you, Kate. It is only that Mr. Marsden’s time has been fully taken with this damned report to the Lord Chief Justice as scribe and reader.” He hesitated. “Uh, how many letters of the sort do you wish written?”

“About fifty, perhaps more. He would write them, and I would sign.”

“That is a great number, certainly. Well, by all means draw up your list and draft your exemplar. Jeremy will get to them when and as he can. Right, lad?”

“Right, sir. But Sir John?” said I, drawing the Lichfield letter from my pocket; this seemed an opportune occasion. “I am reminded of the letter which arrived today from Lichfield. I have it here.”

“Ah, of course,” said he. “With this Bradbury matter, it had quite got past me. If you have it, then read it, by all means. There can be naught in it to offend feminine ears.”

Annie made a face at that. I broke the seal, opened the letter, and began to read aloud. “Dear Honored Colleague,” it began, then went quickly to the matter.

” ‘Having only returned from Yorkshire in attendance of a suit dealing with family property there, I came late to your letter inquiring into the present whereabouts and past of one Thomas Roundtree. In my capacity as Magistrate of the Town of Lichfield, I had come to know the fellow well. He was frequently brought before me for drunkenness and the disturbing of the peace. Also charges of petty thievery were brought against him on a few occasions, though none were proven. He was a fair carpenter, and in homes in which he worked, items of value sometimes went missing. Mr. Roundtree left Lichfield something over a year ago, some said to London, and I was glad to be rid of him.

” ‘The circumstances of his departure were as follows: Mr. Roundtree had him a wife, a woman of good family named Sarah Gladden. He had seduced her and put her with child. Considering her condition, the family allowed the two to be married, though they were in no wise keen to welcome him as a son-in-law. The child was born, a daughter, Clarissa, and the little family had a difficult time of it, what with Roundtree’s drinking and general inability to earn sufficient. Yet also, sadly, did the fortunes of the Gladdens decline. Mr. Gladden died five or six years after his daughter’s unfortunate marriage, leaving his wife and an unmarried daughter, Esther, the sister of Sarah, only the bookshop from which he had managed to draw a living for the three of them and make occasional gifts of money to Sarah when the rent had to be paid. The two women attempted to run the shop themselves. Neither had a head for business, and it was only a few years before the shop was lost to creditors. At about the same time, Miss Esther Gladden fell ill with consumption and died swiftly; the mother was taken in by her people in Cambridgeshire. This left Sarah Roundtree altogether dependent upon Thomas Roundtree —and he proved undependable as earlier. She, too, fell ill with consumption, which she may have contracted while nursing her sister; it took a year or two, but she did also die, leaving her daughter, Clarissa, then ten years old, in the sole care of her husband. He kept the child a few months until reports of her neglect brought a visit from the vicar. From the condition of their rooms and the poor health of the girl, Mr. Roundtree was judged to be an unfit parent. Clarissa Roundtree was taken from him and put in the parish poorhouse. It was then that her father left Lichfield, declaring that he would make his fortune, prove himself fit, and return to buy her out of the poorhouse.

” ‘He did return two months past, though with no fortune in evidence. He told them at the parish office he wished only to visit his daughter. In fact, there were two visits, and on the second of them, he did spirit her away dressed in the clothes of a boy. It was my assumption that he took her away to London. Lacking the resources to have them followed, I could only hope that some hint of their location might come, as it has now come from you. Find Thomas Roundtree, and you will find Clarissa.

“‘This brings me to an urgent request which I would put to you. Just as Thomas Roundtree has made himself a fugitive, so has Clarissa Roundtree made herself a fugitive from the parish poorhouse. She should be returned to us for her own welfare. If she remains in London, as I believe that is where she is now, she will soon fall into degradation and crime, as you must certainly know. It is my hope that when you find her, for I am sure you shall, you will notify me. When I hear from you that she is in your care, I shall have someone sent from the parish office to bring her back. Thomas Roundtree is no doubt guilty of abduction, as well, but him I shall leave to you.

‘“Hoping that this does not put upon you too great a burden, I remain your humble and obedient servant, William Bladgett, Esquire, Magistrate of Lichfield.”’

When I had finished the reading of the letter, I looked up for the first time and saw that both Annie and Lady Fielding had been moved to tears. Annie’s eyes glistened; Lady Fielding wiped at the tears on her cheeks. Sir John’s head was bowed.

“Ah,” said he, “what a lot of human misery is there in the pages of that let-ter.

In truth, reader, my own eyes were damp, and on more than one occasion I had had to clear my throat to continue reading.

Lady Fielding produced a handkerchief and blew her nose, then passed it to Annie. Then said she, with great feeling, “What are we to do, Jack?”

“Why, we must do as he requests. He is entirely correct. If that girl stays in London, she will only come to harm.”

“But to return her to the parish poorhouse! Do you know what those places are?”

He sighed a great sigh. “I have heard, of course I have. Yet what other course have we to offer?”

“Why, I would gladly make a place for her in the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes. She’s such a bright girl. She could learn a trade there.”

“But Kate,” said Sir John, “she is neither penitent —for she is by your own report willful and must certainly have collaborated in her escape from the poorhouse —nor is she yet, thank God, a prostitute, though some as young as she do follow that dismal calling.”

“I know, but would it not be good to rescue her before she is forced out onto the streets?”

“You take too much upon yourself. You cannot hope to save every child in London who needs saving. There must be hundreds, perhaps thousands.”

“Oh, that’s true, but …”

“Perhaps you could find some place for her in service,” offered Annie. “She’s a bit young, but I was not much older when I began.”

Then followed a discussion of Clarissa’s age. Was she only eleven? Perhaps twelve? If the latter, she might indeed be offered in service. Lady Fielding gave it as her opinion that the girl would pass for thirteen or fourteen, for she was tall and spoke well.

“But you reckon without her wishes,” said I to them. “She seems determined to stay with her father. How do we know that if you found a place for her in one of the houses in St. James Street or Bloomsbury Square, she would be any more likely to stay than she was in the parish poorhouse? She might simply run away again.”

“Jeremy is right,” sighed Lady Fielding. “She does truly love that foolish, reprobate father of hers.”

Now, I realized, was when I might —and probably should —tell Sir John of my suspicions regarding Roundtree. Yet I did not. Instead, I said something that surprised even me.

“I think they plan to emigrate to the North American colonies. Why not simply let them go?”

“What makes you think that?” asked Sir John.

“Something that was said —or rather, not said —by her the last time I talked with her.”

“How would he raise the passage?”

“I know not,” said I. Then, improvising: “Perhaps he has indentured himself. Perhaps he has indentured them both.”

“It’s possible. There are always ways of getting there. And those who wish to run away always run west, it seems.”

At that, discussion seemed to subside. There “was a period of silence there at the table. At last it was broken by Lady Fielding, who looked sharply at me.

“When did you last see her, Jeremy?” she asked.

“That was when I delivered the cape you found for her — a few days ago it was.

“Yes, and I resolved then to keep a close watch upon her. But the day-today intervened. Things keep getting in the way of our best intentions. Let me go tomorrow and visit her again. I know not what, if anything, we shall say of all this, but let us at least talk with her again.” She reached over and touched her husband’s arm. “That will do, will it, Jack?”

“Don’t frighten her away. That is all I ask. I feel bound somewhat by that man Bladgett’s request.”

“We’ll be careful what we say, I promise.”

That is how it was left. The evening took its course. Lady Fielding retired to their bedroom with the declared intention of beginning work on the list of prospective donors to the Magdalene Home. Sir John followed to sit, as he so often did, in the dark little room beside theirs which he called his study; he would be giving serious consideration to one thing or another —perhaps to that which we had so earnestly discussed, perhaps to the Laningham puzzle, or perhaps again on what were to me the more mundane matters of the administration of his office.

As was my usual, I did the washing up after dinner, while Annie pored over her books by candlelight. She droned quietly through her primer with little difficulty — already she had read it a tew times under Mr. Burnhams guidance —and then took up one from our lot or Shakespeare plays which she had been earning about with her, Hamlet, I believe it was. This she read louder, spelling out words to me that I might pronounce them and as often as not explain their meaning. I was past minding such interruptions; they lightened the work of scrubbing and scouring. When I had done, I joined her at the table.