In Which Mr. Colquhoun Calls In a Debt
Their destination proved to be a tall, whitewashed house just off the Strand, with three storeys whose windows looked down onto Cecil Street. Any one of London’s
beau monde
would have sneered at so unfashionable an address, situated as it was almost atop the Beaufort Wharfs, but it was without question the finest house Pickett had ever seen—so fine, in fact, that when he realized the magistrate had the fixed intention of striding up the front steps and seeking admittance, the boy balked at accompanying him.
“It’s quite all right,” Mr. Colquhoun assured him, taking him by the sleeve and half leading, half dragging him up the stairs and onto the stoop. “This is the home of Mr. Elias Granger, an acquaintance of long standing. No harm will come to you, so long as you keep a still tongue in your head.”
He lifted the iron knocker and let it fall, and a moment later a man answered the magistrate’s summons, a man who gave Pickett a dubious glance before addressing himself to Mr. Colquhoun. “Yes, sir?”
Pickett thought this must be Mr. Granger, until Mr. Colquhoun answered, “Patrick Colquhoun, to see Mr. Granger, if I may.”
“One moment, sir, and I shall inquire.”
With one last doubtful look at Pickett, the manservant left them standing on the stoop—a response which surprised Pickett not at all, as he had fully expected to have the door slammed in his face. But Mr. Colquhoun showed no sign of leaving, and to Pickett’s considerable astonishment, the butler returned a short time later, and invited them both to enter. He fell into step behind the magistrate as they followed the butler across an entry hall and into a larger room whose floors were covered in a carpet so thick Pickett thought he must sink in it up to the knees.
At their entrance, a stout, red-faced man cast aside his newspaper and rose from the sofa to greet them. “Why, stap me if it isn’t Patrick Colquhoun!” He seized the magistrate’s hand and pumped it with enthusiasm. “How long has it been—four years? Five?”
“Five, at the very least—and very profitable years they’ve been for you, by all accounts,” said Mr. Colquhoun returning the handshake with gusto. “Elias, I’d like you to meet my young friend, John Pickett. Mr. Pickett, make your bow to Mr. Granger.”
Pickett had never made a bow in his life, but he touched his hand to the brim of an imaginary hat and tugged his forelock, wondering at the bizarre turn his life had taken, that magistrates—those personages who, according to parental teaching as well as personal experience, desired nothing more than to clap one into Newgate or send one to the gallows—were suddenly calling him friend and buying him dinner.
Mr. Colquhoun inquired as to Mr. Granger’s business, and the two men were soon immersed in an incomprehensible discussion as to the disadvantages of being obliged to purchase coal in Newcastle by weight while selling it in London by volume. Pickett very quickly lost whatever interest he might have had in the subject (which was not much, in any case), and occupied himself in taking stock of his surroundings, gazing in awestruck fascination at walls adorned with genuine imitation Old Masters and bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes so new (and so unlikely to be read) that most of their pages were still uncut. So engrossed was he in this exercise that he did not notice the room’s fourth occupant, a pert lass very nearly his own age who stared at him with scarcely less interest than he showed the paintings on the walls.
“What happened to
you
?”
Pickett turned toward the direction of the high-pitched query, and found himself—or at least his nose—being steadily regarded by a pair of coal-black eyes set in a piquant heart-shaped face.
“I asked too many nosy questions,” he retorted, uncomfortably aware not only of his disfiguring injuries, but also of the shabbiness of his clothing, and of how out of place both must appear in this prosperous household
.
“John, this is Miss Sophy Granger,” Mr. Colquhoun put in quickly, lest the boy spoil his chances by insulting the daughter of his potential benefactor.
“Sophy,” her father said, “why don’t you take young Mr.—Pickett, was it?—down to the kitchen for a bite to eat while we old men talk?”
Sophy Granger rose in a swirl of muslin skirts and, with a coy smile in Pickett’s direction, invited him to follow her. She preceded him down the stairs to the kitchen, where she set out two dainty china plates and a silver tray bearing half a dozen cucumber sandwiches cut into tiny triangles.
“We had some left over from tea,” she explained, pushing the tray toward Pickett.
He stared at the delicate china in front of him, fearing he had only to touch it to shatter it into a million pieces.
“Well, go ahead,” she urged impatiently, when he showed no signs of availing himself of the Grangers’ hospitality. “What’s the matter with you?”
He took a deep breath, and came to a decision. He picked up one of the sandwiches very gingerly, lest he should accidentally break the plate beneath it, and took a bite, wrinkling his nose at the unfamiliar taste. No disaster occurred to either plate or palate, and so, emboldened, he stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, then snatched up the remaining five sandwiches and added them to his pockets along with the bread from the pub.
“What an odd creature you are!” declared Sophy, her eyes growing larger with every sandwich that disappeared into his pocket. “Why are you—”
Before she could form the question, her father’s voice called down the stairs. “Mr. Pickett, can you come here?”
Suddenly Pickett wished he had followed the magistrate’s advice regarding the speed with which he’d disposed of his dinner, for the ham and cheese he’d eaten in the public house demonstrated an alarming inclination to revolt. He glanced back at the table to make sure he hadn’t unwittingly broken the china or dented the silver, then, reassured on this head, left the kitchen without a backward glance for the girl, and started up the stairs.
Here he discovered both magistrate and merchant seated side by side on the sofa, each smiling so benignly at him that he could only assume Mr. Colquhoun’s proposal had been well received.
“John, Mr. Granger has been telling me he needs another pair of hands to deliver coal to his clients,” Mr. Colquhoun said, although Pickett suspected the conversation had not followed along those exact lines. Still, the coal merchant made no attempt to set the record straight.
“I could use an apprentice, one who’s not afraid to work,” Mr. Granger concurred. “If you would care to contract yourself to me, I can offer you room and board in exchange for twelve hours of work a day, six days a week. On Sunday mornings, you will attend church with my family; the rest of the day is yours to do as you please, so long as you are not engaged in illegal or immoral pursuits. You will eat dinner once a week with the family—let us say, every Saturday night—and take the rest of your meals downstairs with the servants. I will provide you with one set of working clothes, along with a bedroom downstairs. This arrangement, if it is agreeable to you, will remain in effect until you attain your majority.”
“Huh?” Pickett asked intelligently.
“Until you are twenty-one,” Mr. Colquhoun explained. “In your case, seven years.”
“If you want to break the indenture before that time, you may buy out the contract,” Mr. Granger added. “The price, of course, would depend on how much time was left in the agreement. Still, I don’t see any reason why you should wish to do so. I can assure you that I’ll give you no cause for complaint. So long as you do the job you’ve been engaged to do, you’ll be well-fed and well-treated.”
Twelve hours a day, six days a week, for the next seven years. There would be no time for loitering about Covent Garden, that much was certain. He shouldn’t have any problem keeping his promise to the magistrate; he doubted if he would have the time or the energy to steal, even if the opportunity presented itself. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have the daily burden of finding food to eat or a relatively safe place to sleep for the night. In the meantime, both men were expectantly awaiting his answer. He took a deep breath.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
* * *
Mr. Colquhoun departed the Granger residence quite alone a short time later, having shaken his young protégé warmly by the hand, reminded him of his promise to stay out of trouble, and bade both the boy and his new master farewell. As he trudged back up Cecil Street, he noted with some surprise that the walk seemed somehow lonely without young John Pickett’s company, and hoped he had done the right thing. Yes, he was sure of it. The work might be dirty and grueling, but at least the lad would be provided for. Still, the sense of loneliness persisted, making the magistrate impatient for the comforts of hearth and home. Before he could seek these, however, he had unfinished business to settle. He retraced his steps to Bow Street, and found it choked with carriages conveying the aristocracy to the theatres at Covent Garden and Drury Lane. At the moment, however, Mr. Colquhoun had no interest in the dramatic arts. He entered the Bow Street Public Office and summoned William Foote, who seemed not at all surprised to see him.
“I’m thinking it concerns that thieving little scrub,” surmised Foote, quite correctly. “I expect you’ll be wanting me to testify at his trial.”
“Then I’m afraid your expectations are doomed to disappointment,” Mr. Colquhoun informed him. “Young Mr. Pickett will not be standing trial, at least not this time. I didn’t want to say anything to you within his hearing because I have no desire to undermine your authority, but neither will I allow you to abuse that authority. The next time you lay violent hands on a suspect, Mr. Foote, your life had better be in imminent danger, or you will be dismissed without a character. Do I make myself clear?”
“But—resisting arrest, sir!” sputtered Foote, the picture of wounded innocence. “Surely you wouldn’t want me to let him escape!”
“No, but if you can’t subdue an undernourished fourteen-year-old without beating him to a bloody pulp, I fear you may be unsuited for police work.”
“No, no!” Foote protested hastily. “I won’t do it again, sir, on my honour!”
“I am pleased to hear it,” Mr. Colquhoun said. “But that won’t straighten the boy’s nose, will it?”
With this Parthian shot, he left the Bow Street office for the second time that evening and, at long last, turned his steps toward home. He was greeted with exclamations of relief by his wife, who had spent the past hour watching the clock and fretting over his extended absence.
“At last!” she declared, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “I had all but given you up for lost. No trouble, I hope?”
“No, not exactly,” he said thoughtfully. “Janet, I’m afraid your husband is growing sentimental in his old age.”
“ ‘Old age,’ ” she scoffed. “And you not a day over three-and-fifty! What you need, my love, is a good dinner. I’ve had Cook keep it warm for you.”
“Janet, my dear, you are a pearl beyond price!” he declared, and allowed her to lead him into the dining room.
She did not press him for details, for almost a quarter-century of marriage had taught her that he would confide in her when he was ready. So she regaled him with anecdotes of the domestic variety as he ate, waiting until he had made significant inroads into the syllabub before finally asking, “And how was your day, my dear?”
He heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Do you remember that business a few months ago with the fellow they call Gentleman Jack Pickett?”
She nodded. “I do indeed. You were very pleased to have him arrested at last, were you not? As I recall, you sentenced him to be transported to Botany Bay.”
“That’s the man. Today I had the pleasure, if one can call it that, of meeting his son.” He recounted the whole story, from John Pickett’s appearance at the bench in Foote’s custody to his own last sight of the boy’s battered face as he left him with Elias Granger.
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Colquhoun when he had finished, her plump bosom swelling in righteous indignation. “I think it was very wrong of Mr. Foote to handle the poor child so roughly, and I hope you told him so!”
“Believe me, Mr. Foote is in no doubt as to my opinion on the matter.”
“But it seems to me that you have gone beyond the call of duty in dealing with the boy. You have nothing to reproach yourself with, my dear.”
“I hope you are right,” he said with a sigh. “I confess, I feel a certain sense of responsibility for the lad, since it is because of me that he was left on his own.”
She could not allow this assertion to go unchallenged. “Because of you? Nonsense! I should have said it was because of his father! You never forced the man to steal; you merely carried out your sworn duty in sentencing him.”
“Thank you for that, my dear,” he said, reaching across the table to give her hand a squeeze. “Still, I hope to prevent the lad from following in his father’s footsteps. That was why I placed him with Granger, although I did extract a promise from young Pickett that he would refrain from stealing. God knows if he will be able to keep his word, though, since it’s all he’s ever known. I warned him I would not be so lenient again.”
“Perhaps the boy will surprise you,” she predicted confidently. “Mr. Granger may exert a beneficial influence on him.”
“That is what I am hoping for,” he said with a nod, giving her to understand that the subject was closed.
What he did not tell her, what he could barely admit even to himself, was that if John Pickett should be hauled into Bow Street again, once more accused of thievery, he was not at all certain he could follow through with his own threat.
In Which John Pickett Embarks on a New Career