Jack, Knave and Fool (36 page)

“Yes, it was, but where, then, did you dispose of the box of Bradbury s remains?”

“We threw it off the Westminster Bridge late at night when they was nobody about. I went out and got good and proper drunk —had to after that. I did a terrible thing, and I knew it, but I did it for the passage to America. But I managed to get so drunk that I was arrested, and you know all the rest.

I kept silent for the moment, giving him time to recover himseU. “Mr. Roundtree,” I said at last, “I want you to tell Sir John Fielding what you told me. I promise you, as he will promise, that we will keep Clarissa with us until Carver be caught, no matter how long it may take.”

“You mean upstairs of here?”

“Yes, where Sir John himself dwells. There she has a room to herself and she eats well, probably better than she has ever in her lire. She passes her time reading.”

“Oh, she would, she would do that.” He said nothing for quite the longest time. Turned away he was, considering what I had said. I waited. “Well”— he spoke at last — “I suppose not even Carver would dare to go there.”

“Mr. Roundtree, I know Jackie Carver, and he is not near so bold as you think him.”

“P’rhaps you’re right. He murdered Bradbury while he slept.” Then with a sigh: “All right, bring the magistrate, and I will tell him what I told you—and more. But I will tell him nothing at all if he does not promise to keep Clarissa safe.”

I rose from my chair and grasped his hand once again.

“This is what it is right to do, Mr. Roundtree. It is what Clarissa herself would have you do, believe me. I shall return soon with Sir John —as soon as ever I can.”

Though Sir John had left no instructions with me as to the disposition of Roundtree should I feel it propitious to fetch the magistrate from the Laninghams’, it seemed to me wrong to return him to the strong room. Who could say what might transpire between him and Mrs. Bradbury were they to be thrust together again? She might remind him of Jackie Carver’s threats and thus discourage him from proceeding with his confession; he, on the other hand, might throttle her for her casual betrayal of him. No, some other place must be found for him. I went to Mr. Baker with the problem.

He listened, nodded, and asked, “Is he secure there? Chained to that link in the floor?”

“Oh yes, but Mr. Fuller had the prisoner so far back he was stretched out and could barely move. I put him forward so he could at least sit upright.” I was quite indignant on Roundtree’s behalf.

“One of Fuller’s little tricks,” said he, with a wrinkle of his nose. “But as to the question of where the prisoner should be put, I’d say where he is now is as good as any place. He’ll need a guard —and I’ve got just the man for you.” Then did he raise up and shout, “Mr. Cowley!”

So it was that Roundtree was left in the care of Constable Cowley, he who had returned to limited duty while the knife wound in his leg did heal. I last saw Cowley armed and limping visibly as he walked toward Sir John’s chambers. And so I was off to the Laningham residence in St. James Square.

Had a hackney been somewhere in sight as I left Number 4 Bow Street, I might have jumped inside, yet so charged was I by what I had accomplished that, seeing none, I set off at a run, assuring myself I could flag one down on the way. But having gone half the distance without success, I settled down to a fast jog trot and covered the remainder on loot, as well. As a result, I arrived at the door of the great house overheated and perspiring there in the cold night Mr. I took a moment to catch my breath, yet not so long, for I did not wish to catch a chill. I rapped hard with the knocker, waited, then rapped again. The door opened, and I caught the sound of music within —an instrument I had not heard before, somewhat like a harpsichord yet without the jangling sound of it. I recognized the man at the door as the butler of the house. I recalled his name.

“Mr. Poole,” said I to him, “I am come on an urgent court matter for Sir John Fielding. Can he be called away?”

“Not perhaps at this moment, but come in, lad, and I’ll get you to him quick as ever I can.”

I thanked him and followed him past the grand winding staircase and down the long, wide hallway. As we approached our destination, the music swelled louder, an intricate weaving of a single theme at a slow, quite majestic tempo. It was, as Lord Laningham had promised, quite funereal in tone. The book-lined room, when reached, was quite deep — and wide as it was deep. Great double doors opened onto it. Before we entered through them, Mr. Poole held me back and bent close to whisper in my ear.

“I shall seat you just left the door,” said he, “away from the rest. As soon as the musician is done, you may simply go up to Sir John and deliver your message. He sits, I believe, in the first row of chairs.”

Nodding my agreement, I thanked him and was led in through the double doors. He pointed out to me three empty chairs placed against the wall and gave me my choice of them. As I seated myself in the nearest of them, I glanced back at the butler and saw that he had taken a place beyond the door on the other side. There he stood—though not for long. I saw him waved over by none other than Lord Laningham himself. The lord—perhaps exercising the host’s prerogative — sat in a corner apart from his guests and a bit out of their sight. That struck me as a bit odd, though never having attended such an affair as this one, I had no particular reason to suppose it so. He gave to Mr. Poole an instruction of some sort and sent his servant out the double doors.

The music continued somewhat monotonously. It seemed to have had a soporific effect upon the dozen or so who were seated in the chairs directly before … what was it? The fortepiano? Yes, that was the name of the instrument; I recalled it from the invitation. A few young men in the second row of chairs seemed to be nodding, though Mr. Donnelly seemed quite alert. Of those in the first row, Thomas Trezavant, the coroner—whose abundant form quite overwhelmed his chair —rested his chin upon his chest, evidently deep in slumber; Sir John may have appeared to those who did not know him well to be dozing, yet I knew him well enough to recognize his attitude as one of cogitation; the women — Lady Fielding and the black-clad females of Lord Laningham s immediate family—were all of them admirably attentive.

I confess that the seemingly endless repetitions and minute variations of the music also began to have a dulling effect upon my own brain. No doubt I was tired from my great rush to arrive at this place. In fact, I myself had begun to nod, so that I missed the butler’s reentry into the room. Yet shaking myself to a wakeful state, I made a swift survey of the room and saw Mr. Poole bending to offer Lord Laningham a wine bottle and an empty glass upon a serving tray. So the lord had sent his butler off for a tipple —how ignoble of him! He would drink while his guests thirsted. Perhaps that was why he had chosen that secluded corner to listen to the concert. Yet he made no further effort to hide his purpose. He allowed the glass to be filled, then indicated by his sign that he wished the bottle to be left on a small table nearby. Immediately the butler had left him, he gulped down the contents of the glass and poured another — even shaking the bottle a bit as he did so. (To what purpose? I wondered.) I should not have thought him so keen for claret—yet of course I hardly knew the man. But then did I remember a detail told by the late Lady Laningham: that when the late Lord Laningham had called for the bottle of wine from his table, Arthur Paltrow had insisted on drinking from it before he would allow it to be taken away. Perhaps he who had hosted this dignified occasion was a secret sot, as much a slave to good claret as Roundtree was to common gin. I resolved to mention this to Sir John.

He drank as a sot would drink, gulping down the second glass as quickly as the first. But then, his greedy desire temporarily satisfied, he sat back as if he intended to relax—yet could not. Something in him denied him repose. Was it an immediate thirst for another glass of wine? Or had perhaps guilt possessed him that he had given in so completely to his need. In any case, though tense, he remained back in his chair and made no further move toward the wine bottle.

Had only I seen this? I looked at Mr. Poole. He was back at his post, erect, head turned neither to the right nor to the left, the serving tray now tucked under his arm. Apparently he had witnessed nothing. Not wishing to stare (I had attempted to see all I had seen by means of repeated glances), I willed my attention elsewhere, focusing for the first time really upon the musician who, after his fashion, entertained us. Mr. John Christian Bach was a short, thickset man who wore a wig, no doubt to cover a balding head and perhaps for warmth, as well. Though much of him was hidden behind the great large instrument that he played, I judged him to be thickset by the size and movement of his wide shoulders, and I knew him as short by the fact that his feet bare touched the pedals of the fortepiano. Mr. Bach must indeed have been famous, for even then I, who had no real knowledge of the London music world, had heard his name. (In fact, he was Music Master to the King, and his appearance that night must have cost Lord Laningham dear.) Nevertheless, I liked his music little —monotonous it seemed, with none of the joy of Handel.

Still, I listened closely, attempting to judge him fairly. And listening closely, I soon began again to nod.

Then, of a sudden, I was brought up sharp by a sound, a most remarkable sound, which issued from that corner of the room which the host had taken as his own. It was a long, sustained “Ohhh,” which was moaned out in the most frightening way that could be. I looked immediately to my right and saw that Lord Laningham was on his feet, swaying uncertainly. Others looked, too, turning in their chairs, mouths all agape. Mr. Poole hurried to his master. Yet too late he was, for just as he arrived, Lord Laningham collapsed upon the floor and began most hideously to vomit.

I rushed to him, as did the rest. It took but a moment for all to be crowding about him in much the same manner as the musicians and members of the chorus had pressed upon the dying man on the stage of the Crown and Anchor. And Lord Laningham —that is, Arthur Paltrow — did regurgitate the contents of his stomach just as violently as had his uncle before him. One paramount difference there was, however, between the two occasions, and that lay in the fact that through all this turmoil, indeed for many minutes after it had begun, Mr. John Christian Bach continued to play in the same manner as before; this lent a bizarre element to all that transpired—-the shouting of the men, the screaming of the women, and with it the repeated revolutions of the fortepiano.

Because I was perhaps a bit closer, or quicker on my feet, I reached the prone figure just after Mr. Poole. Seeing the vomit gush forth from his mouth and spread upon the carpet, I called out one bit of advice — “Turn him on his side that he may not drown!” — and saw it promptly followed by the butler. Then there was much more advice shouted.

“Give him room!”

“Give him air!”

“Call a doctor!”

But of course, a doctor was present. Mr. Donnelly was down on his knee beside the sick man, attempting to push back the rest of the people. Then did I hear my name called in a voice most familiar.

“Jeremy! Jeremy Proctor! Are you here? Did I hear your voice?”

It was Sir John. I glimpsed him on the periphery of the encroaching circle where he had been led by Lady Fielding. I fought my way out of the crush, and in a moment I was by his side.

“How long have you been here? Did you see what happened before his collapse?”

“I did, sir. I came because Roundtree —”

“No, listen,” he interrupted. “Lead me away from all this mad shouting, and tell me what you saw.”

And suppressing my desire to tell of my triumph as an interrogator, I did exactly as he had instructed me. Again, as I had done at the Crown and Anchor, I gave him all the events that I had witnessed — the call for the bottle of claret, the rapid guzzling of two full glasses, and, oh yes, the shaking of the bottle ere he poured the second glass. The last detail interested Sir John greatly.

“You say he shook the bottle? As if to mix its contents?”

“Well, yes, more or less, I suppose.”

“Then, Jeremy, I must have that bottle from which he drank.”

“But Mr. Donnelly said there is no proper test for …” Somehow I dared not say the word.

“Get it, lad, for I have a test of my own.”

Taking that as a direct order, I hastened back to those clustered round the fallen Lord Laningham and saw immediately that the bottle remained still on the small table, and remained also— mlrabile dictu!— upright; not a drop of its contents had spilled. I leaned over and grabbed it, and with it firmly in hand I stepped back. And as I did, my eyes came in direct contact with those of Lady Laningham. She looked sharply at me, though her expression registered neither shock nor disapproval. Then she shifted her gaze to where it properly belonged: to her distressed husband. He was at that moment being raised by Mr. Poole and the largest of the young gentlemen, under the direction of Mr. Donnelly.

“Put him in his bed,” said the medico to them. “I shall fetch my bag and do all I can for him.”

Then did I return to Sir John and tell him that I had the bottle, and it was half full.

“Good. Now I believe I heard Mr. Donnelly say that he was going off to tend Lord Laningham. Has he left? Can you bring him to me?”

I could, and I did, detaining him at the door as he was about to make his exit. He came willingly enough, though he obviously felt his duty lay with him who was at that moment borne into the hallway.

“Yes, Sir John, what would you with me?”

“I’ll not detain you long,” said the magistrate in a voice low as a whisper. “What I have heard from Jeremy leads me to believe that Lord Laningham himself may have purposely brought on his condition.”

“Poisoned hinwelf? That seems a bit far-fetched, Sir John.”

“Perhaps, but could he not produce the same symptoms with a simple emetic? The vomiting, of course, is real enough, but could not the extreme condition be performed as a bit of theater?”

“Well, it is possible, I suppose. I’ll look for signs of it. Still, it does seem quite like a repetition of the same fatal disorder I saw in the late lord.”

“If he lives, I shall be suspicious,” said Sir John.

“If he lives,” said Mr. Donnelly, “you may attribute it to my powers as a physician.”

And then, ducking his head sharply in a hasty bow, he turned on his heel and left us. I fear he was somewhat miffed at Sir John.

“Now, Jeremy, you may tell me what you wished to regarding Roundtree.”

That I did very quickly, emphasizing that we had but to promise that we would keep Clarissa safe with us until Jackie Carver be caught, and Roundtree would tell all he had told me and more to Sir John.