Jack, Knave and Fool (37 page)

“So that was why he held back from me so resolutely!” said the magistrate. “He feared for his daughter. I had not thought him an altogether bad sort. Sad, is it not, what poverty will force a man to do?”

“He awaits you, Sir John.”

“Ah, but I cannot go just yet. I must put questions to the butler — Poole, I believe, is the fellow’s name. I must find out from him if the bottle from which Lord Laningham drank was taken from the general supply, or if it had been laid aside specially for his master’s own consumption.”

“Would you like me to remain for that, sir?”

“No, I think it best that you go back to Bow Street. Lady Fielding can help me about this place. You, I think, should continue to talk to Roundtree — no need to question him further, simply keep his spirits up. Tell him I accept his condition and promise to keep his daughter safe. Tell him also that I shall be with him in less than an hour.”

“I will do so, Sir John.”

With that, I turned to go, but was detained by his hand upon my arm.

“But one thing more. Take that bottle of claret with you. Find a cork and stopper it. It might be safest to take a hackney for your return. I’ll not have you dropping it along the way. Have you enough for the fare?” I have, sir.

“Then on your way.”

I found Lady Fielding at the door, Mr. Trezavant beside her. Both were engaged in murmuring comforting words to Lady Laningham and their daughters, Charity and Felicity. I waited patiently by her side until the moment when her inspiration flagged and a pause came. I then touched her on the shoulder, and having her attention, pointed into the room at Sir John, who waited alone where I had left him. She nodded to me, excused herself, and went to him.

And I, reader, I went off in search of a cork.

Upon my return I went direct to Constable Baker and handed over to him the bottle of wine. He took it and held it up to the light.

“Half full, I see,” said he with a wink. “Good stuff, is it?”

“You might not think so if you’d seen what happened to him who drank from it.”

“Oh? What did happen, then?”

“Poisoned him.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet. But last I looked, he seemed on his way.”

“Ah, well, then no need to sample it. I’ll put it away under lock and key in Mr. Marsden’s evidence box.”

“You might label it poison, as well, lest Mr. Marsden be similarly tempted in the morning.”

“I might indeed, or leave him a note.”

“Any word from Mr. Cowley on our prisoner?” I asked.

“Not a word. No news is good news, I reckon. I did hear the chains rattling a bit some time ago. Most likely your prisoner’s asleep.”

“If not, I shall talk with him a bit more until Sir John arrives.”

“Do send Cowley back to me, would you?” said Mr. Baker. “Though it’s a bit early, I feel a great hunger coming upon me. I believe I’ll send him out for dinner.”

And so, with a wave, I left him. Having remarked upon his hunger, he had reminded me of my own. Far more than keep company further with Roundtree, I should have preferred to go upstairs to the meal that I was certain Annie had saved for me. Still, I saw the good sense of Sir John’s instruction. I had led Roundtree to the water of salvation. It would not do to allow him now to back away.

Upon reaching the door, which was but half open, I did hear heavy breathing— a light snore —that indicated he I had come to visit was indeed asleep. I hesitated a moment, considering whether it might not be better to allow him to sleep a bit longer that I might go up and eat my cold dinner; but indeed no, I had received my orders, and I would carry them out — even if it meant wasting an hour sitting by a sleeping prisoner. I pushed the door gently open so as not to waken him. What, then, did I find?

Not Roundtree, but Constable Cowley it was who slept —quite comfortably in a chair set in a far corner of the room.

The prisoner was nowhere to be seen.

I leapt to the place he had been — to the empty chair —and found chains and hand irons still attached to the link driven into the floor. Then, looking about, I saw the box of tools was also gone. Had I left it within his reach? No, I was certain I had not. Yet I examined the hand irons and the chain, and I was relieved to find no marks of a file upon them. What I did find, however, was bits of shaved skin and blood smeared over them, and I immediately understood that somehow he had made those long hands of his narrow enough so that he had managed to squeeze out of the irons. The gore and scrapings left on the manacles was the price he had paid for his freedom. It must indeed have been a painful escape. Yes, of course, I saw the open window, and the chair standing to it. He had gone out there, taking the toolbox with him—all that while Cowley slept. Well, he would sleep no longer.

I went to him and shook him roughly.

“Mr. Cowley,” said I, near shouting in his ear, “awake! You have let the prisoner escape.”

Even so, I had to shout his name a second time before his eyes came open.

“What …” said he, the thickness of sleep still upon him, ‘what did you say?”

I repeated the plain fact of the matter and pointed to the prisoner’s empty chair.

Then did his sleepy eyes widen. Then did he jump from his chair.

“Oh, God,” he wailed, “oh, dear God!”

At that moment came the sound of running footsteps, and Mr. Baker leaned through the door. “Did I hear it aright? The prisoner’s gone?”

This time I pointed to the open window.

“Oh, Cowley,” said the constable, with a shake of his head, “you’ve crapped it for certain this time. We’ve never before lost a prisoner out of Number Four Bow Street. Could you not stay awake for once?”

“What can I do? What shall we do?” he moaned. I feared he might commence to weep.

“The first thing you can do,” said I, “is go out and search every part of the yard in back and make sure the prisoner is not hiding somewhere there. That’s where these windows lead.”

“I’ll do it!” he yelled —and ran from the room.

“And don’t forget to look in the privy!” Mr. Baker called after him.

But then we heard the door slam and could not be sure Mr. Cowley had heard or no.

“What can be done? ” I asked Mr. Baker, appealing to him as the wisest and most experienced of us three.

“Well, where would this fellow, this …”

“Roundtree.”

“Where would Roundtree go? Think on it.”

That I did, concentrating most hard upon the question. At last I said: “I can think of only two places.”

“Then go to them. Take Cowley with you. He’s armed, got a brace of good pistols by his side. You’ll need a constable with you to take your prisoner back again.”

No doubt he was right. “But what of his leg—the wound? Can he travel?”

“Bugger his leg and his bloody wound. If he don’t bring back the prisoner, he’ll have no job to return to. If he’d showed a bit of sense, he’d not have gotten that knife in his leg in the first place.”

I nodded my understanding, yet perhaps withheld my agreement. I was not at all sure Sir John would let him go over such an offense, for he had treated it lightly when Roundtree escaped from me. On the other hand, the fellow was then not known to be witness to murder. And as for the other, I knew not the exact circumstances of his wounding.

“And yet a thing more,” added Mr. Baker. “When you get out there with him, chasing your man, you take command. Tell Cowley what to do. That poor cod can follow orders right enough, but without someone to tell him, he’s plain lost. You hear me, Jeremy?”

“Yes, Mr. Baker, and I’ll do as you say.”

A minute or two more and Constable Cowley had returned, shaking his head. “He ain’t nowhere about out there —and yes, I looked in the privy. He had but a low wall to climb to get from here. No telling where he’d be now.”

“Jeremy’s got a couple of ideas about that. You go with him, and do as he says.”

Constable Cowley looked at me and then at Mr. Baker. “Yes sir, I’ll do it just so.”

And so we started for the door to Bow Street. Mr. Cowley grabbed his greatcoat and was pulling it on when Annie, of all people, came racing down the stairs.

“Jeremy,” said she, “have you seen Clarissa about?”

I looked at her rather stupidly. “Down here? Why, no. Is she not upstairs?”

“No, and I’ve looked everywhere.”

“She’s not up top in my room?”

“I’ve looked everywhere, I tell you —even in the sitting room, the dining room, and the bedroom of Sir John and Lady F. I’ve looked in cupboards and wardrobes — everywhere. She’s nowhere up there.”

My thoughts raced. Did Clarissa perchance know that her father was in detention down here? Could she have known her father would escape? Could she have aided him in some way? Had not her last conversation with me had the tone of farewell? Yes, I had remarked that a little afterward. Then, from somewhere deep in my memory, came Roundtree’s voice in my head, and the words that echoed there were these: “Some way or other, I’ll get her in five days.” That was what he had said when he waylaid me outside the chemist’s shop. I inferred that it was in five days that their ship sailed for the colonies, nor had he gainsaid me. Then, counting back, I realized that tomorrow might be counted as the fifth day —or might so by Roundtree. This meant that their ship would depart tomorrow — no doubt on the morning tide. They thought to board her tonight and sail away undetected on the morrow.

All this came to me in less than a minute. Annie stared at me impatiently, reasonably expecting some response from me. When she was about to turn away, I at last managed a reply.

“She will be with her father,” said I to her.

“Well and good,” said Annie, having no notion of the circumstances. “You must find her father then, lor she is not yet well enough to go about on such a night as this.”

Then did she start back up the stairs.

“Come along, Mr. Cowley,” said I. “We now have a third possible place to search for the prisoner.”

And with neither a question nor an argument he followed along behind me out the door to Bow Street. As we tramped along together, I considered the situation of father and daughter in greater detail. It was just possible that Clarissa had known her father was down below in the strong room. If she had been in the kitchen, and the door to the stairs was open, she might have heard his voice —but that seemed unlikely. Could she have crept downstairs merely out of curiosity and unexpectedly found her father staring out at her from behind the bars? Could they then have made their plans together? Also unlikely, for neither Mr. Fuller in the daytime nor Mr. Baker at night (both of them quite vigilant) would have allowed her to go walking about, exploring their domain; even less would they have allowed her to talk to a prisoner. And had any such event occurred, I should have heard about it from either one of them, or from Sir John. No, I thought it far more likely that father and daughter had acted independently; each knew the date and time of the ship’s departure; their passage had been paid in advance; each had confidence in the other to meet—but where?

We had made it past Russell Street and now walked along Tavistock Street. Not far along, I realized that in my haste I had set too swift a pace for Constable Cowley. Though he was taller than me by a good many inches and had a longer stride, he now moved with such a pronounced limp that he was having great difficulty keeping up. He had not complained, yet his face — his tight mouth and the determined set of his jaw —made plain the strain upon his wounded leg.

“Here, Mr. Cowley,” said I, slowing to a pace not much better than a crawl, “let us not go so quick. I’ve a need to think, and I find it difficult to do so at such speed as is natural to you.”

“Oh … sorry, Jeremy, I’d no idea.”

“Your legs are longer than mine.”

“Aye, so they are, but one of them’s got a hole punched in it with a knife by that villain Slade. Quite throbbin’ it is now. I’m happy to move along slower.”

What I had said to him was, in one sense, true enough. I did need to think a bit on where we might go first to look. Had it been Roundtree alone we sought, I should have thought it likely he would go to Bradbury’s pawnshop — or go there first, at least. Though it was locked, he might gain admittance by breaking a back window or forcing the door. He would know where the cash was put, since he had kept shop for Mrs. Bradbury. Indeed he might even have some idea where the trove of treasure taken from the late George Bradbury was hid. He would reason that he and Clarissa needed money, as much of it as could be found, if they were off to start a new life in Boston or Baltimore, or wherever their ship might put in.

I stood upon the corner of Maiden Lane with Mr. Cowley, still considering this urgent matter. To the right lay Bedford Street and the pawnshop; to the left was Half-Moon Passage and that sordid warren of a court wherein father and daughter had lived for months in a single room.

What did Clarissa know of the pawnshop? Simply that it was the place where her father went to hide from the law—-if indeed she knew that. It seemed to me most likely that they would expect to meet in the room. They would collect their belongings, and then perhaps he would take her to the pawnshop to rob it.

“Tell me, Mr. Cowley,” said I, “is it still January?”

“So it is,” said he. “Tomorrow’s the last day of the month. Rent’s due.”

Then the room would still be theirs. They would know that. They would meet there.

“This way,” said I, starting off toward Half-Moon Passage. “We shall go here first, then try another place on Bedford if our first visit yields naught.”

And if our visit to the pawnshop should also prove fruitless? That was another question altogether, one that I put to myself as we two trudged on, past the stable and into that fearful stretch where the street narrowed into a tight passage which came out into the Strand. I’d not visited this stretch at night, and I was grateful to have an armed constable with me on this occasion. Two or three men lurked in a passageway—to no good purpose, I was sure — and ahead I saw the great hulking figure of one even larger than Mr. Cowley. Could Clarissa have come this way? I doubted it.