Jack, Knave and Fool (5 page)

“I do, yes, and I mean to study them tonight in order to explore this possibility, this ‘doubt’ of yours. In all truth, I was quite dissatisfied with the opinion I gave to Lady Laningham as to the cause of her husband’s death. I told her that her husband had died of circulatory failure. This is very like saying that he died because his heart stopped beating. That, of course, is the ultimate cause of all death.”

“Would you hazard a guess as to the penultimate?”

“I should be reluctant to do so. It seemed to be a gastric disturbance of some terrible proportion. What might cause such has me quite baffled. Barring further study of the kind I mentioned, and barring an autopsy of Lord Laningham s corpus, there would seem to be no way …” Mr. Donnelly paused, a frown upon his face, a look of frustration.

“What is it, sir? Something has occurred to you.”

“Indeed something did occur—though now quite useless to us. It came to me that had we saved that which Lord Laningham vomited from his stomach and brought it to a competent chemist for analysis, he might have told us if there was some foreign element in it which could have caused such a violent reaction. But you, Sir John, gave permission to the innkeeper to clean up the stage after the body had been removed.”

“Ah, so I did. It seemed only proper.”

“As we left, I happened to notice one of his servers with mop and pail making rid of the mess.”

“Well, perhaps another time —though indeed I hope there be no other time.”

Through this conversation which took place between Sir John Fielding and Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, the two other gentlemen had remained silent—yet their attitudes differed greatly. For his part, Mr. Humber was clearly fascinated by all that passed between them. Mr. Goldsmith, on the other hand, seemed merely tolerant, bound by his affection for his friend Mr. Donnelly and his respect for Sir John to let them have their say. When a brief silence ensued upon their conclusion, I was in no wise surprised when it was Mr. Goldsmith who broke it.

“I have but one more objection to make, if I may.”

“Make it then, by all means,” said Sir John, flapping a hand indifferently in the air.

“It is this, a simple appeal to good sense: If one were to wish to poison another, one would not choose a setting as public as these Sunday concerts. After all, up there on the stage? With hundreds looking on? It makes no sense, sir.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Humber, swayed once again in the other direction, “Mr. Goldsmith brought that up on our walk from the Crown and Anchor. It does seem a good point, Jack.”

“Ah, but is it?” questioned Sir John. “What was it that those hundreds saw? An old man of seventy-five who had probably eaten too much and certainly drunk too much, up there before them, prancing about as one his age should not have done, playing the fool as he had often done in the past, overexerting himself. Many there knew he was not a well man. There could have been little surprise at his collapse. Some indeed may have made such dire predictions, attending simply in the expectation that it would one day happen just as it did and they might be there to see.” He shook his great head and quaffed the last of his brandy. “No, I reject Mr. Goldsmith’s final point more emphatically than his others. I believe contrariwise, that if one were to wish to poison another —that other being Lord Laningham — he would choose just such a time and place as the Crown and Anchor stage within the process of a Sunday concert.”

As we climbed the back stairs to the kitchen, I heard the voices of Annie and Lady Fielding raised in such a way that it seemed they were quarreling. While that proved not quite to be so, they were certainly in disagreement.

“But Annie, you must!” Lady Fielding’s voice rang insistently as we reached the top of the stairs. “It is a great honor to be chosen.”

Then, as I opened the door and Sir John followed, Annie, her back to us, responded vehemently, “M’lady, that is just what I was told by Mr. Wills, the choirmaster. But how can it be an honor when it will only lead to my shame?”

We two walked into the kitchen, and the two females fell silent for a moment—but only for a moment, for both turned to us, each to argue her case. Sir John stood in bafflement, preparing himself for the assault.

“Jack,” said Lady Fielding, “you must talk a bit of sense to this girl.”

“Sense, is it? It seems just now to have come in high fashion. Forgive me that remark, Kate. I have just now left a discussion in which many appeals were made to good sense. My adversary seemed to think I lacked all trace of it. But let that pass. What is the trouble?”

“Annie here was invited to join the Handel Choir specially by the choirmaster. The other two volunteers were dismissed with thanks after the sadly aborted performance. But our girl Annie was asked to become a permanent member of the choir. He was most flattering about her voice —she admits that —told her it was quite outstanding. And do you know how she replied? She told him that she was employed as our cook and had no time lor racfa things.”

“Well … does she? That is to say, we do depend upon her for our meals, do we not?”

“Of course we do. But it seems that she told him in such a way as to offend him —I hope not overmuch —as if to say that music was of little importance when put against her daily duties.”

“Why, I think that quite admirable. Bravo, Annie, good, loyal girl!”

“Jack, no! She has a talent. It has been recognized. She should be given the opportunity to cultivate it. I have put myself forward to fill in for her here in the kitchen on those Sundays on which concerts are to be given. There are rehearsals, but they take place during the day.”

“Well, yes, I see what you mean, Kate. Only on Sundays, eh?”

“And not every Sunday— only on concert Sundays in the season. In fact, we have taken advantage of her willing nature since she has been with us. In many households, cook is given Sunday—or allowed to prepare an early meal so she may have the rest of the day to herself.”

“Ah, yes, hmmm, I see.” Sir John rubbed his chin in thought, nodded in much the same way as he might when weighing testimony in his courtroom. “This must, however, be Annie’s matter to decide. We cannot force her to go off Sundays and sing Handel merely because we think she should. Perhaps it was not because she wished to serve us better that she gave this as her reason to the choirmaster. Perhaps that was merely an excuse to cover another, more personal.” Then did he turn in her direction. “Annie, tell me, as I entered just now did I not hear you mention ‘shame? I believe you asked, ‘How can this be an honor when it will only bring me shame?’ —or words to that effect. You did say that?”

“I did. Yes, Sir John.”

“What did you mean? How would it bring you shame?”

“She cannot read music,” put in Lady Fielding.

“No, it’s true I can’t. When they handed me the music sheets, all the notes was like so many flyspecks upon the page. One of the ladies sang me my part, and I got it right enough as far as she was able to take me — I’ve a good ear for a tune —yet we had soon to go on the stage, and she could only take me so far. No farther could I go. Mr. Wills, he said he knew right when I quit, for the life went right out of the sopranos. Which was meant as flattery, but indeed it made me feel ashamed that I could only open and close my mouth and pretend to be singing with the rest.”

“I see. Well, perhaps at a proper rehearsal you could be taught the rest and sing it entire.”

“P’rhaps,” said she, “but it is long and has many tunes in it. But then, there’s this other thing that shames me even more.”

“And what is that?”

Her lower lip trembled, she sniffled a bit, yet she plunged on: “Even when I was singing I could only go ah-ah-ah, for I could not even read the words upon the page. Some of them I made out, for Jeremy has worked with me a bit, but I fear I’m not a good scholar.”

“She is a good scholar,” said I, seized by guilt and blurting it out. “It is I who am not a good teacher. I lack patience.”

“I often do myself,” said Sir John. Then did he return to rubbing his chin as he considered the matter. “You wish to learn reading, do you?”

“More than anything, sir. I feel such a dunce in this house having no letters.”

Then did a thought strike me, one that should have come months before. “Sir John,” said I, “there is a Mr. Burnham who has worked a wonder in tutoring Jimmie Bunkins. With no more than a few months’ instruction, he has Bunkins reading from the Public Advertiser and has just put him to work on Rob’uwon Crudoe. No teacher before him could bring Bunkins even to the beginnings of literacy.”

“Is it so?” said he. “Then perhaps you might make an inquiry of this Mr. Burnham. If he were willing to take on another scholar, I would be willing to pay for her tuition—within reason, of course.”

“Oh, Sir John,” said Annie, “I should be the happiest cook in all London.”

“And would you then accept the invitation to join the Handel Choir?” asked Lady Fielding, pressing her sudden advantage.

“Oh, I would, I would. If I could but read the words, I would gladly sing the song.”

“Fair enough, then. Jeremy,” said Sir John. “Visit Mr. Bilbo’s domicile tomorrow and make inquiries of this fellow Burnham.”

The next day began as many another. Waking about six, or a little before, I dressed hurriedly to warm myself against the damp winter cold; then did I descend to light the kitchen fire, as was my morning duty. Annie appeared, rubbing her arms and doing a dance upon the kitchen floor to set the blood a-flowing, and then did she set to work. Whilst she put the water on and made tea and hauled down the flitch of bacon to cut from it the rashers for breakfast, she did gush her excitement at the prospect of learning letters from a proper teacher.

“Not that I don’t appreciate what you did for me, pointing at the words and saying them, as you did, Jeremy old friend.”

“Yet I cut you off when the Itutitutej of the Law came to me. I had only time for what / wished to do.”

“You’d a right. Each has his own purposes. Besides, I was then forever after you for this word or that. I know I was a bother.”

“And I was often ill-tempered when you came to me. It was good of you not to mention that to Sir John.”

“What would have come of it? Anyways, ‘twas you thought of Mr. Burn-ham.” She hesitated then and gave me a most inquiring look. “Oh, Jeremy, do you think he’ll take me?”

“Well, I hope so.” Then, thinking upon it more, I said, “Yes. Yes, I think he will.”

It was about that time that Lady Fielding came down the stairs, dressed as was her usual at breakfast, in slippers, nightgown, and a warm wrapper. She sat down upon a chair and huddled close to the fire, warming her hands. She was early. Sir John usually preceded her, dressed for the day. I wondered at his absence. She accepted a cup of strong tea from Annie with thanks and explained that he had been called downstairs by Constable Benjamin Bailey to attend to some matter but had promised to return for breakfast.

“It was not so long ago,” said she. “I heard you, Jeremy, on the stairs shortly after. I’ve been in that half-waking state since then, unable quite to rouse myself, unable quite to return to sleep.”

“Did he go out?” I asked. I was nearly always called to assist him on such expeditions.

“I think not,” said she. “He did not return for his cloak, and he would indeed need it on such a morning as this.”

And so, cutting off a great chunk of bread and topping it with butter, I took it with me for fear I might have no more for breakfast. I said I would summon him to breakfast and discover the nature of the matter. If there was to be action that morning, I wished to be in the very thick of it.

All was hubbub as I descended the stairs. It seemed, looking about below, that near half the force of red-waistcoated Bow Street Runners were milling about. They had organized themselves in pairs, each armed with pistols and cutlass, and were receiving instructions from Constable Bailey, their field commander. Each pair, having got their assignment, would then strike out for the street. Close to Mr. Bailey, but a step or two behind, was Sir John, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court and general to the Runners. He would, from time to time, put in a few words of encouragement to his departing soldiers. I stood somewhat at a distance, chewing on my chunk of bread, as this business was negotiated. I had no wish to interrupt during what I clearly, and rightly, judged to be an emergency. When the last two had gone forth, I came forward. Mr. Bailey, I perceived, was also about to depart.

“We’ll have covered all the likely places one such as this Slade might go on the sneak,” said he to Sir John. “He’ll be in the strong room in an hour, or I miss my guess.”

“I dearly hope so,” said the magistrate. “We cannot allow an attack upon a man of the law to go unpunished. Tell the men tonight how grateful I am to them for extending their time to make this search.”

“Not a bit, sir. Cowley may not be the best of us, yet he is one of us.” Looking about him then as if taking stock of the situation for a final farewell, Mr.

Bailey spied me nearby and gave a sober nod. “Hullo, Jeremy,” said he. “What news do you bring?”

“News of breakfast,” said I, perhaps a bit too facetiously. “I am sent to bid Sir John to come and eat, if he’s a mind to.”

“Well and good then,” said Mr. Bailey, turning to leave. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Good luck to you, sir,” Sir John said. Then to me: “Eat, is it? Well, I suppose I must, for there is little more I can do here.”

“What is it has happened?” I asked.

He sighed. “Late, quite late, last night, Constable Cowley came upon a robbery, as one might say, in the very act. He subdued the robber right enough with his club and took from him the knife with which he’d threatened the victim. Yet as Cowley bent to frisk him, the fellow drew a dagger from his sleeve and stabbed poor Cowley in the thigh —the meaty part. It did not do terrible damage nor make the blood to spurt, but it was enough to make pursuit impossible, for the villain took to his heels the moment he had stabbed the constable. The robbery victim remained and assisted Cowley to Mr. Donnelly’s surgery, which, thank God, was not far off. He’s well enough and resting there now.”