Jack, Knave and Fool (28 page)

He rubbed his face carefully, then nodded in appreciation of my work. “Of course,” said he, “there is more than one Scotch plaid waistcoat in the city of London.”

“Of course,” said I, “yet the other details of Mr. Burnham’s description fitted Roundtree well.”

“Yet these are only suspicions.”

“Only suspicions,” I agreed.

He remained silent for near a minute. Then: “I have a question for you, Jeremy. Kate has said how much this girl loves her father, how tenaciously she defends him. Let us say that your suspicions of him prove out, and let us also say that our worst fears are also realized and George Bradbury has been murdered. Given all that, would you say it was likely that this child, Clarissa, would know anything of it?”

It was a question I had not considered, yet it was one to which I responded confidently and without hesitation.

“I would say, Sir John, that there is not the slightest possibility of it.”

“Hmmm,” said he, as he often did, and scratched his head in thought. He rose from his chair then. “I believe I shall take your advice, lad.”

That puzzled me somewhat. “And what advice was that?”

“I believe I shall go upstairs and make the acquaintance of this Roundtree girl.”

He proceeded in a most deliberate way to the stairway, and in another moment was lost from my sight.

Sir John remained with her far longer than I expected. Annie returned with Clarissa’s breakfast tray, dressed for her daily trip to Mr. Burnham’s reading class. As she pulled on her cape and tied it, she asked me to find a book for her.

“A book?” said I. “Which book?”

“Any book, so long as it’s not too long and not too hard. I’m past the point where I can learn anything from the primer, and much as I like to jee Shakespeare, readin’ him is quite another matter. Quite difficult he is.”

“I’ll see what I can find for you.”

“Do that,” said she. “It fair puts me out of sorts to see one young as her upstairs readin’ with such ease. I’ve naught against her, mind. It’s just it hurts me to think how long I waited to learn what every child knows.”

“Not every child, Annie— far from it. You’re doing well. Mr. Burnham himself says so.”

“Well, I’ll feel better when I’ve read me a whole book —one like that Tom Jonej she’s readin’, one with a good story.”

“I’ll find something.”

Reassured, she bade me goodbye, jammed on her hat, and left.

Next came Lady Fielding. She tiptoed in, quite surprising me, as I did the washing-up (her usual manner being to move about the house in a great flurry and dash).

Moving up close to me, she whispered, “He’s with her now.”

“Pardon, m’lady?”

“Jack —Sir John —he’s with Clarissa. I kept telling him if he but met the girl, he would understand what an exceptional child she is. Who would have guessed that he would finally pay some attention to what I told him? He so seldom does.”

“Oh, not so,” said I. “He values your counsel in all things.”

“Do you think so, Jeremy?” said she, brightening a bit. “Oh, but he can be so stubborn. Yet, to be sure, he is as good a husband as a woman could want and much better than I deserve.” She sighed, and before I could contradict her in some flattering manner, plunged on: “Be that as may be, I must now leave for the Magdalene Home. I shall try to get away from there a bit earlier than is my usual. I know I always say that, but this time perhaps I shall. Farewell, Jeremy. You heard what Mr. Donnelly said — check in on her from time to time and keep her room warm. Oh, and Jeremy, please do get to those begging letters of mine. Do as many as you can today, will you?”

Then did she grab up her cape and, assuring me she could find a hackney for herself, left the room in a much noisier manner than she had entered it.

At last, near half an hour after he had climbed the stairs, Sir John returned. I looked at him as he entered the kitchen, wondering if it would be proper to ask his opinion of Clarissa Roundtree. As it happened, there was no need to put the question to him.

“A charming young girl,” said he to me, “a singular mixture of intelligence and wit, optimism and bitter experience. And for your information, Jeremy, I’m inclined to agree with your judgment: if her father is involved in something truly villainous, then she knows nothing of it. Either that, or she is a far greater actor than Garrick himself. True, she loves her father, though he may not be worthy of it —but that is no crime in a child, a virtue rather.”

“May I ask, sir, what did you talk of that long while?”

“You may. We spoke of a number of things —my brother, Henry, for one. It seems that you began reading Tom Jonej to her, and she has picked up where you left off. It may prove a bit risky for her —though perhaps not, judging from her experience. She wanted to hear all about Henry—what sort of man he was, what else he had written, all of that. We talked also of her experiences in the parish workhouse.”

“You made it plain, then, that you had learned of her escape?”

“I suppose I did. I asked, and she answered. She has a quick mind. She would have perceived that if I knew she had been an inmate of the workhouse, then I also knew that she had escaped from it—with the help of her father.”

“And what,” I asked, “were her experiences in the workhouse?”

“Hmmm, well, they were sufficiently grim that I am prompted to reconsider my decision to send her back. Reconsider, that is —not yet have I changed my mind about it.”

“I’m sure you will decide what is right, sir.”

“Then you are sure of more than I am.” With a great sigh, he did then turn away and start for the door. “I must get on with my day,” said he. “She should not need as much looking after as earlier, though I must say you have all given her good care. I’ll send for you if I need you, Jeremy.”

He did not have need of me that whole day long. That meant that I was condemned to hours of copying out Lady Fielding’s begging letter to this lord and that earl, and to several duchesses, as well. I made intermittent visits to Clarissa, and each time found her better than when I had looked in on her last. Annie came and prepared the afternoon meal of broth and bread that Mr. Donnelly had ordered for her; I gave to her a copy of the book I had chosen for her from my store above, The Governed^, by Sarah Fielding, the last sister of Henry and half sister to Sir John. She took it gratefully and seemed specially pleased that it was a work by a woman in the Fielding family. And then it was back to the tedious task of copying. Mr. Donnelly looked in on his patient before dinner and was well pleased by her continued recovery; he prescribed meat once a day for her, yet directed that quinine should be continued in a tea twice a day until the supply be exhausted. At day’s end, all I had to show for my labor was twenty-one letters addressed to more or less distinguished personages waiting to be signed by Lady Fielding. I took greater care with the fire that night and slept the better for it.

The next two days looked to be quite as dull as that which preceded them. Yet they were not. There came first an incident which would have later consequences of a positive nature. Let us say that it began in the morning with a visit from Clarissa Roundtree. I was engaged once again in my dull work with pen and ink at the kitchen table. I had, I believe, managed to copy out only four letters when I heard a curious clopping upon the stairs. I frowned at that, for it could only mean that Clarissa was up and about; she and I were alone there in the upper floors. Fixing my face in an expression of stern reproach, I rose to meet her.

At her appearance —her cape tied over a wool nightgown donated her by Annie, shuffling along in a pair of my old shoes — I growled quite gruffly at her.

“You ought not to be out of bed,” said I. “Go back upstairs.”

“Oh, pooh,” said she, “I am well enough to sit. I sit upstairs in that chair by the bed and read. I may as well be down here and have a bit of company. I’m quite starved for conversation.”

“Nevertheless, the doctor — “

“Mr. Donnelly said I could sit. Where I do that should be my choice. Besides, it’s warmer here by the kitchen fire. That should aid my recovery, don’t you think?”

“Well … I’ll bring some coals up to replenish the brazier.”

“Oh, later. Right now, why not make a pot of tea? That, too, would aid my recovery, I’m sure. I’m starved for a cup of tea.”

“I thought you were starved for conversation.”

“All right, then, I starve for conversation, I thirst for tea.”

No doubt it was a bit warmer in the kitchen than it was up above. No doubt, too, she was a bit lonely with only Tom Jones and company to keep her amused. I could understand her wish for a cup of tea. In fact, I wanted one myself.

“Fair enough,” said I, “we’ll share a pot of tea, then up you go to bed.”

“Fair enough indeed,” said she, and gave me the first proper smile I had got from her since she arrived in the kitchen.

She took a seat at the table, and I filled the kettle and put it on the fire. I got down the tea and fed the pot generously. There would be enough for second cups for both of us. Perhaps I, too, was hungry for company.

As we waited for the pot to boil, she inquired what I was doing there at the table, and I explained in some detail, showing her Lady Fielding’s model letter and the copies I had made from it. Then, with the tea brewing, she did ask me to tell her more about what Lady Fielding referred to in her letter simply as the Magdalene Home. At that I hemmed and hawed, unable quite to describe who it was gained from this benefaction without being trapped into a discussion of prostitution, which I thought not a proper matter for conversation with one so young as she. I must have dropped a hint or two, however, for as I poured the tea, she looked at me first with a frown, and then a light of sudden understanding came into her eyes.

“Oh,” said she, “you mean it’s a place for whores who wish to go off the game, do you?”

“Well … uh, yes I do. They’re taught trades and found work —decent work.”

“That’s indeed a worthy cause,” said she, with a firm nod of approval. “I’ve known some whores and some of them quite all right, Bessie down the hall for one. But they were all ignorant women who could do naught else to support themselves.” Her face darkened once again with a frown. “I think it’s a terrible thing how women are kept down, given no education —don’t you? Don’t you truly think so?”

“Why, yes, yes I do,” said I, in all honesty.

“If it had not been for my mother teaching me to read and write, I should be as incapable as the rest. She gave me my vocation. I did tell you, did I not, that I shall be an author?”

“Yes, you did mention — “

“Of romances principally, but I shall also write poetry of the sort that — “

Then she herself was interrupted — by a knock upon the door. I leapt to my feet to answer. She responded with a look of startled caution; it seemed she had come to distrust sudden knocks upon the door.

Mr. Fuller was there. He had come to inform me that Sir John wished me to go off to the post office to pick up a letter that had just come in. Taking no notice of our little tea parry, he simply turned, having delivered his message, and marched back down the stairs.

I looked back to Clarissa and saw anxiety, even perhaps dread, writ plain upon her face.

“Would that be a letter from Lichfield?” she asked.

“No, I think not,” said I, hoping to relieve her somewhat. “Sir John is expecting a letter from other parts.” And that, of course, was no lie.

I ran off to fetch my hat and muffler. Returning, I found her changed —sipping her tea, affecting a most casual manner. She glanced up at me and smiled rather loftily, as one might at a departing servant.

“I must go,” said I.

“Well, then, goodbye,” said she.

“You must return now to the room above.”

“Oh, pooh, do let me at least finish my cup of tea. It’s rather good. Few men can brew tea — none in my experience.”

I sighed. “Well … all right, but once done you must go upstairs.”

“Once done, I shall.”

Reluctantly, I left. It seemed to me as I trudged out into Bow Street and turned directly toward the post letter office that the missive that awaited me there was almost certainly one from the Warwick magistrate; Sir John had expected its arrival this day. Had Clarissa Roundtree known its particular nature and its importance in the matter of her father, she might well have wished it were a letter from Lichfield. While hurrying along, I wondered again at the strange concatenation of circumstances which had brought Thomas Round-tree to us, and with him his daughter. More than that, I wondered at their fate.

The letter was indeed the one expected by Sir John. Once I had it in my pocket, I hurried even faster back to Bow Street. I near burst with curiosity as to its contents. It occurred to me that it would suit me well if the Warwick magistrate reported that George Bradbury was there still, attending his ailing father. I rued the day that Bunkins had brought me to St. Andrew’s Churchyard; I regretted taking him to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery for a second look at that repulsive head floating in the jar of alcohol. All in all, I should easily have believed that this was all a great mistake — Bunkins had never claimed to have made an absolutely certain identification—were it not for the involvement of Jackie Carver. That one was a killer; I knew it well, for he would certainly have killed me some weeks past.

And so I came to Number 4 Bow Street, where I saw a small crowd filing out the door; many of their faces were familiar to me —layabouts and idle women of the streets who received their midday’s entertainment at Sir John’s court. Their exit told me that the day’s session was done. Waiting impatiently until the crowd had dispersed, I entered, taking the inner door to the right which led down the long hall, past the strong room where prisoners were held, and beyond Mr. Marsden’s place of business with its imposing files and high scrivener’s writing table, directly to Sir John’s private domain. His door stood half open; he was at the moment just seating himself at his desk. I knocked before I entered.

“Jeremy, is it?” He often amazed me with his preternatural feats of sightless recognition.