Jack, Knave and Fool (41 page)

“From what you say,” said the other, “I suppose that should a married constable be killed in the line of duty, you would argue that his wife should receive a pension.”

“Though I had not considered it,” said Sir John, “I think that an excellent suggestion, for all the reasons I have just given, and I thank you for it.”

The Lord Chief Justice, having tasted Sir John’s tart irony, offered him a rather sour look. “I believe that some years ago one of your constables lost an arm. What became of him?”

“That would be Mr. Perkins, an altogether exceptional man. You’re right, my lord, he did lose his arm just about at the elbow in that notorious melee in the bookshop. Yet he trained that remaining arm of his so that it had the strength of two in it —perhaps three. He proved to me that a one-armed constable can be as aggressive, as capable as any with two. But really, there is no comparison between a man with one arm and one with one leg. You must see that.”

“Couldn’t you find work for this fellow Cowley here at the court? Something to justify paying him something?”

“I could try. I will try. But a man with one leg cannot handle prisoners, and Mr. Cowley has not education enough to be of much help to my clerk — though perhaps that might be possible. We shall see. Let me say that Mr. Cowley was exceptional among the Runners only in that he was the youngest of them, and that he had no military experience. He performed bravely when called upon, as he did on his last night of duty, but he lacked initiative. He made errors. I shall even reveal what might turn you against him somewhat. The amputation of his leg was necessitated because he did not care for his wound, as any man with military experience would have done. I shall not take another onto my force of men who has not previously soldiered. But I argue for Mr. Cowley’s pension not because he is the most deserving, but rather for the respect the Runners are due and the need to maintain their moral integrity and high standard of performance.”

At last the Lord Chief Justice leaned back in his chair, still frowning, yet now in deep consideration.

“You know, sir, you should have been a barrister,” said he.

At that Sir John laughed most heartily. “Forgive me, Lord Murray, but I recently said the same thing to a quick-witted woman who has quite confounded me. And I fear that neither I then, nor you now, meant it as flattery.”

“No indeed, sir, I meant it as plain fact. You plead your case most persuasively—and all on principle. I tremble to think what this may cost us, but I am inclined to yield to your arguments. But good God, three-quarters of his established wage! That is simply too much. Why not half?”

“Why not? Because Mr. Cowley, being the youngest and least experienced constable on the force, received the lowest wage. He married recently, however— not so much impetuously as it was out of moral obligation. His wife, as I have heard it bruited about among the constables, was with child at the time of their wedding. The two of them —nay, three — simply could not survive if he were put on half-pay. He would soon be forced to go begging to make up for what he lost.”

Silence, scowling silence from the Lord Chief Justice. Until at last: “What would you say to two-thirds?”

Leaning back in his chair, Sir John elevated his chin in an attitude of concentration. One would think that the magistrate was doing sums in his head. “Well … yes,” said he. “I believe that they can make do on that.”

“Two-thirds it is, then. But let it be understood that you will make some effort to find work for him at your court, or get him with someone who will teach him a trade. In other words, sir, it should be understood that I do not see this as a pension tor the term of his natural life.”

“Understood and agreed.” Had Sir John had his gavel at hand, I believe he would have pounded the table with it; in lieu of that, he gave it a resounding slap with the palm of his hand. “Now, what more have we to discuss? You said, as I recall, my lord, that you brought two matters with you.”

“Indeed. Word has reached me that you are holding back from me a murderess, Sir John. Do you do this out of some special consideration for the weaker sex? For if she be truly a murderess, then she is strong enough to hang for it.”

“No, I hold her back so as to save us both from embarrassment. I simply do not believe that there is evidence enough against her to convict her.”

“Do you believe her guilty?”

“I do, yes. Though she likely did not plunge the dagger, I believe she conspired in her husband’s death.”

The Lord Chief Justice gave an indifferent shrug. “The same thing,” said he.

“Perhaps, but the two witnesses who could make her party to the crime are both dead. We have no body, only an uncertain identification of the victim’s head. We cannot even prove on direct testimony that murder was committed, though we have it on hearsay from one of the dead witnesses that murder was done.”

“This is all rather confusing. I tell you, what I should like is a memorandum from you laying out the crime and whatever evidence, uncertain or hearsay, that you may have against her. I’ll look it over, and if I feel there is a fair chance to convict, I’ll ask for an indictment and put her on trial. I’ll try the case myself. I like a good murder.”

“I have her incarcerated in the Fleet Prison on a lesser charge. Would it not be better to wait a bit? I might be able to break her story with repeated interrogations.”

“You seem somewhat doubtful.”

“Well, I have talked twice to her, and she has not altered her account, not one jot or tittle. Twice is not many, and she might tire and weaken sometime in the future, though she shows no sign of it now. She is wily, clever, and stubborn. She is, in fact, the one whom I told that she should have been a barris-ter.

“Then on that alone I should consider her worthy for trial. Please do as I suggest and prepare the memorandum, Sir John. I think matters such as this are best handled when they are hot.”

“My lord, your wish is my command, your whim my desire.”

Then did the Lord Chief Justice let out a great chortle as he rose from his chair. “Ha!” saiid he. “Would that it were so. I seem to lose as many to you as I win. This time again I believe I’ve made even with you.”

Then, with no more goodbye than an indifferent wave, he turned and left for the coach-and-four that awaited him in Bow Street —swiftly as he had come.

Sir John listened to the departing footsteps, then turned in my direction, knowing exactly in which corner of the room I had taken shelter.

“There is a lesson for you, Jeremy,” said he. “In negotiating, you must always ask for more than you expect to get. I did not suppose for a moment that Lord Murray would agree to three-quarters pay. Mr. Cowley can scrape by on two-thirds, even with a child. I’ll tell him so myself. And if he cannot, I’ll raise my fines a bit. We’ll not let him down.”

“And the other matter, sir?”

“There I believe the chief judge is making an error of judgment.” And to that he would add no more.

Upon my return from posting the letter to Lichfield, I hied upstairs to the kitchen in search of Clarissa. She had languished somewhat since her ordeal. Her recovery from her pneumonia was complete, said Mr. Donnelly, yet still she wore a bandage about her neck to protect that prick beneath her ear given her by Jackie Carver. That, too, mended well under our care. Yet her mental state seemed low: she was unnaturally silent, especially at meals, which she now took with us; only with Annie, with whom she now slept, did she enjoy any degree of companionship. They had told one another their life stories, and Annie’s was every bit as sad as hers; thus they had become sisters in tragedy. To me she had had bare ten words to say since that terrible night. That troubled me.

I found her in the kitchen next the fireplace, book in hand; she had progressed to the sixth and last volume of Tom Jonu (her reading, at least, had continued apace). At my entrance, she looked up and mumbled my Christian name in greeting, and then returned to her book.

“I have good news for you, Miss Pooh,” said I, with a teasing smile. “Would you like to hear it?”

“I’m sure I must, since you seem determined to tell it.”

Undeterred by her waspish reply, I gave forth: “Only this moment I’ve returned from the letter office, where I posted a letter from Sir John to the Magistrate of Lichfield.”

She sighed a deep sigh. “Then is my fate sealed.”

“Not so,” I protested. “Did I not say that I brought good news? Since I myself took the letter in dictation from Sir John, I know its contents. In it, he said that because of the help you volunteered in returning your lather to custody—”

“Which we both know to be a pack of lies,” she interrupted.

“—and because Lady Fielding had taken an interest in you,” said I, pressing on, “he had decided not to return you to Lichfield, but rather to find a place for you on the household staff of one of the great houses of London. There! Now what do you think of that? “

Quite expecting her to jump from her chair in joy at my news, I was more than a little disappointed at her listless reply: “Well, I suppose that is better than returning to the poorhouse. But then, anything would be.”

“Surely you cannot mean that,” said I. “Why, there are hundreds of girls in London — thousands—who would be eager for such a chance as you are offered now.”

“Then they are wrong,” said she, “for they know not what awaits them — as kitchen slaveys, scrubbing away at pots and pans, or perhaps as maids of all work to be chased by the master or the butler until they yield, then leave in disgrace with their apron high.”

“You’re quoting from the romances now,” said I, though I knew there was some truth in what she said.

“Annie’s experience was not so much different, and in some ways worse.”

“Her master did monstrous deeds, and he was punished for them.”

“Those were not the deeds for which he was punished.”

She was difficult in argument, no doubt of that. Yet I persisted: “There are many houses with decent masters —and reasonable butlers, though as a class of men I do not think highly of them myself. I’m sure Sir John and Lady Fielding would install you in a good situation — perhaps … oh, perhaps in the staff of the Lord Chief Justice in Bloomsbury Square. Now there is a man who would tolerate no untoward behavior among any in his employ. Oh, and there are others —many others, I’m sure.”

She said nothing, simply looked up at me quite dubiously.

“And as for Annie,” I added rather irrelevantly, “things turned out well for her, did they not? She is happy, is she not?”

“So would I be— here”

Ah, so that was it. Once in our little domestic circle, she had no wish to leave it. Well, I could not blame her for that. I remembered my own feelings when I, not much older than Clarissa was at that moment, looked forward to an apprenticeship in the printing trade (one that I knew well, for my father was a printer). Though I had come to London hoping for just such an appointment, once I had moved into Sir John’s orbit I felt a gravitational pull as with some great heavenly body, a pull which I -was loath to break. I, too, wanted to stay at Bow Street —and I was quite overjoyed when it was permitted me. Was it so with her? Or did she but fear the unknown?

I did at last manage a response, albeit one that avoided altogether the issue raised by her: “Well, I brought you the news of the letter because it concerned you and because I thought you would be eager to know it.”

“And I thank you for that,” said she with a curt nod, which I took to be one of dismissal.

That annoyed me so that I spoke to her rather harshly. “What right have you to treat me so rudely?” I demanded, “sending me on my way like some servant. Why, were it not for me and the lie I told, you would be on your way to Lichfield in the company of a constable or a beadle, or whatever. Yet ever since your return from that terrible night, you have been quiet. I can understand that, considering what you witnessed and how you were threatened. But you have been rudely quiet to me. Miss Pooh, you have snubbed me, and I wish to know why.”

Then did she rise from her chair and meet me face-to-face. “Why? I will tell you why. You knew that my father was captive down on the floor below us that entire day, and yet you did not so much as whisper it to me. I hold that against you, and I always shall.”

“If I had told you, what then? What would you have done?”

“Why, I should have gone to see him. I could at least have comforted him, told him I was safe and well now, and that I would wait for him until he’d served his sentence.”

“You truly have no idea in what evil he was involved, do you?”

“Evil? Why, naught but drunkenness and flight. You pursued me, and I — to my everlasting shame —led you to him.”

“Nothing of the kind. I knew you two would meet to leave together for the colonies.”

“How did you know? Did he tell you that?”

“No, he merely confirmed what I had guessed.”

She was silent for a moment, her wide eyes shifting this way and that. Then did she say: “Murder —he was witness to murder. That horrible fellow who slew him said as much, did he not?”

“He did, yes, but Clarissa, you would not want now to hear the full story, nor should you hear it from me. Yet there will come a time when you will want to know. Then you must go to Sir John and ask him. He is the one to tell you — not me.”

I did then turn from her and leave her where she stood. Through the door I walked and down the stairs, having no particular destination, wishing only to be away from this troublesome girl.

Near a week went by. It passed between Clarissa and me as a state of armed truce. Whereas previously she had snubbed me, we now snubbed one another, yet we were now more careful not to let our feelings show. At table with the rest, we feigned friendliness, presented false smiles, and occasionally offered innocuous comments and remarks to disguise what I perceived to be mutual hostility. It could not go on forever so, but until she was sent out in service it seemed a satisfactory modiu vivendi

As for matters of greater import, all went well. The very evening of his interview with William Murray, the Lord Chief Justice, Sir John went to see Mr. Cowley. He made the visit in the company of Constable Bailey, and so I know not precisely what was said, but the purpose of the call was to inlorm Mr. Cowley of the pension he would receive. The young constable (or perhaps better put, former constable) was most gratified. Mr. Donnelly, with years of experience behind him in the Royal Navy, was quite surprised to hear of such generosity, as he stood by his patient’s bedside. He later told me that whenever he had been forced to amputate a leg in the past, it had seemed to him that rather than saving a life, he was simply condemning the victim to a slower death by starvation. The news of the pension so cheered Mr. Cowley that it hastened his recovery. A -week after his surgery, he went home with a crutch made for him by Mr. Brede, who had a talent for making things of wood, and stern instructions from Mr. Donnelly on the care of his stump.