Wild

by Nathan Besser

  ‘Jonathan,’ said Papa carefully, his eyes a little weakened. ‘Mah bonny Isobel. Ah cannae hae ’er exposed ta –’

  ‘My Lord,’ replied I, with formality. ‘I am sorry for what you witnessed today. Isobel will never encounter the same. I give you my word that such features of my business …’

  His concerns, I realised, were now inflated beyond his daughter’s welfare; the whole Lemon reputation was staked on my own. The Baronet had formed his own fictions, not dissimilar to Isobel’s, of a man in the ascendant. An ambitious enforcer of our good laws who, by happy coincidence, was rich too.

  If you can rely on the British for one thing, it is to eschew reality and to embrace the euphemism. When, by example, over brandied coffee at Warbleton, I told a table of four lord about the execution of a certain Madam Cockshot, generalities were sufficient. I steered towards victims and away from perpetrators. Victims who were fine men, landed men of income, fine men indeed, who were robbed, beaten and extorted. I begged for their confidence, leaning clandestinely over the cowhide table, before dropping a few names they would know viz. Blee, Hitchin, Carteret &c. My audience gave throaty concurrence: to each other, to the deserved punishment, to me. For now I was one of them, not one of them. And so thought Sir Stephen too, as we pulled up outside the Exchequer.

  ‘Ye hae mah trust,’ he finally gurgled. The rouge wasn’t running just yet.

  Heneage Finch, the Earl of Aylesbury, stood waiting for us. Apparently, as unfortunate as the timing was, this impromptu meeting was our most crucial. The Earl Mortimer Robert Harley was the glue keeping the Scottish Alliance stuck. If he was supportive then the House would be, too. There was much nervous nodding as we conferenced. Heneage counted connections on his fingers.

  ‘There’s Cotterell, there’s Baird. There’s Goold of Old Court, Cork. And let’s not forget Medlycott. Medlycott knows …’

  Via rifled guards in a cavernous vestibule we were shown to a meeting table – horseshoe-shaped, set with little lamps, inkwells and tumblers of water – and sat at unsettling distances. Beyond the windows, a groundsman snipped at the hedges.

  The towering doors were swung evenly inwards and the large and busy-minded Harley broke his furrow to acknowledge us. We all stood.

  ‘And you must be the famous Mr Wild,’ said he, shaking my hand.

  ‘My thanks to your Lordship.’ I bowed, and in this motion was once again made worryingly aware of my innards. My guts were imposter guts; they belonged as much inside my belly as a Thief-Taker did inside the Exchequer.

  ‘Your petition,’ said Harley, laying down the papers at the head of the horseshoe, ‘includes an impressive number of advocates. Evidently the peerage of Scotland care very much for Thief-Takers in London.’

  I was amazed he could talk, with no lips at all.

  ‘Viscount St John,’ added Cumberbatch, his secretary, ‘included.’

  ‘A fine hunter,’ said Heneage. ‘My cousin’s great uncle, Medlycott, likewise enjoys the hounds. Do you know Goold, perchance?’

  There was a large mechanical clock ticking between two tall windows. Harley ignored Heneage to flip the pages, reading. Cumberbatch leaned over to point.

  ‘You understand,’ said Harley, peering over his glasses briefly to each of us, ‘that what you’ve proposed has never been granted. I don’t believe it’s ever been proposed.’

  ‘Maah Laird,’ said the Baronet, giggling. ‘We ur most painfully awaur, aye.’

  Harley paused to consider Papa. The hedge scissors were briefly in perfect contra-tempo to the clock. My belly gurgled. ‘Sir Stephen,’ said Harley, pausing, then slowly producing a smile from his gash. ‘How goes the Kirkwall estate?’

  ‘Och, Mah Laird. Ye can rely oan th’ win’ taw bortha mah lady. Rain tay.’

  ‘One for London then?’

  ‘Aye, Mah Laird.’

  ‘And I understand it’s your daughter, by happy coincidence, who our Thief-Taker wishes to marry?’

  ‘Mah bonny Isobel. Ne’er hae ah seen such a tru’ loue.’ Papa placed a hand upon his heart.

  ‘A coincidence indeed,’ added Heneage. ‘As high as my adoration for the Baronet is, my name and the name of my step-cousin wouldn’t be on a petition for love alone.’

  Cumberbatch leaned forward. ‘What is your interest, then, Aylesbury, in Mr Wild’s ennoblement?’

  ‘Well,’ replied Heneage, looking directly to Harley. ‘I was first made aware of the Thief-Taker’s contribution by my wife’s uncle, Antrobus of Antrobus. Know him? No matter …’

  A fart suppressed on rare and blessed occasions can sometimes be disappeared back inside the system, miraculously reabsorbed by the internal viscera, however in my own experience I must admit that for every suppression there builds an equal and opposite expression. I was becoming gravely concerned I would sneeze or cough or move a certain way that would disturb focus. Furthermore, I was sitting on a hard wooden seat, without the slightest give.

  ‘… with the increasing need for similar braveries, would set an example for our aspiring young,’ Aylesbury concluded.

  ‘Needless to say, any such petition,’ said Cumberbatch, ‘would require a personal approbation from the Crown Himself.’

  ‘Let us hear from the man,’ said Lord Harley, looking at me, then down to his papers, then to the clock. ‘We have five minutes more.’

  I dared not shift in my seat. Maybe it was now a full shit that would come out.

  ‘My Lord Harley. Mr Cumberbatch,’ answered I. ‘It would be my grateful honour to address thee. I am but a lowly Thief-Taker, so please forgive the plainness of my speech …’

  I must have appeared to be in a trance-like meditation, still as a statue, my eyes half closed and hands resting upon the table. I needn’t have worried about the chair, for the shit was flowing from my mouth. Who knows how I conjured such oratory? I spoke for a thrilling and fluent five minutes, concluding upon a comparison between my love for Isobel and my love for London.

  ‘For aren’t a young woman’s sensitivities equal to the delicate balance of deterrence and confidence required in London’s citizens?’

  When I finally turned my eyes to the audience, they were enraptured.

  ‘Compelling words, Mr Wild,’ said Cumberbatch.

  Aylesbury and Lemon were close to tears. The fart was thankfully passed.

  ‘I have a question,’ said Harley.

  ‘My Lord,’ replied I.

  ‘I have heard the most dangerous in London is a robber named Jack Sheppard. And he escaped from St Clement’s Roundhouse only yesterday. Are these reports true?’

  ‘Most unfortunately, My Lord, true on both accounts.’

  ‘I’ve heard it said he broke the roof off the prison. And that he’s only twenty-two years?’

  ‘They do dub him The Lad,’ concurred I.

  Cumberbatch, leaning sideways, consulted with Harley in undertones.

  ‘And do you believe he’ll be apprehended once more?’ asked Harley.

  To this, I gave my first hint of aplomb – I leaned slightly back. ‘You have my word on it. I have men on the way to a tavern he frequents now, the Blue Boar. And this time, My Lord, he will be placed directly in the condemned cell of Newgate, from which I assure you, no man can escape.’

  ‘A curious business,’ said Harley, finally, standing.

  In concert so did we, a very minor honk from my arse blessedly disguised by the scraping of chair legs, without a single head turning my way. Yet another victory.

  ‘Your petition will be duly considered,’ concluded Cumberbatch. ‘The next House plenum is November sixth. Pending our investigations, it will be brought as a matter for vote. Following that, your fate is in the hands of the House of Hanover.’

  The Baronet’s smile grew very wide.

  ‘Mah Laird –’

  ‘Sir Stephen,’ interrupted Harley, holding up his hands. ‘We still have a way to go. Your future son-in-law better be whistle-clean.’

  Two doormen materialis
ed from the wallpaper – from the waist up a matching paisley, their legs and boots a fluted white panelling – to swing the double doors. And then the Earl Mortimer was gone.

  We piled into my coach to debrief.

  ‘We ur en mah mukkers!’ cheered the Baronet, slapping my knee.

  ‘Very encouraging, very encouraging indeed,’ said Aylesbury. ‘Medlycott was the clincher.’

  ‘To the Duck & Duck & Goose!’

  ‘Medlycott. Maybe Goold too.’

  ‘You’d better capture that Lad, Thief-Taker.’

  ‘Mah Isobel will beh ourvrejoyed.’

  ‘My Lords,’ said I. ‘I’ve been holding back on this one.’

  I took one knee in each hand, spreading my legs high and wide. It sounded like an enthusiastic amateur trombonist with palsy. Their faces went from confusion to amusement to revulsion. I thought it a fitting lark to our celebratory moment, but evidently my audience weren’t inclined the same.

  On my account we indulged in French wine at the Duck & Duck & Goose, Sir Stephen and the Earl of Aylesbury recounting each and every of my scintillations. When Lord Lubbock and Guernsey came through the door, I knew it would be another heavy night of imbibing, so bade the men luck and farewells.

  Astley, as always, stood maudlin at the bar.

  ‘Dear Astley, why do you stand here emulating men you do not wish to emulate?’

  ‘I emulate no one,’ answered he, evidently in no mood to natter.

  ‘At the most exclusive alehouse in all of London? Come …’

  ‘I’ve heard things, Wild. My father might be willing to sell out his daughter to save a few guineas, but I’d prefer to see her poor with pedigree, than with fifty Felton & Hatchetts in the driveway.’

  ‘But the cushions are so bouncy.’

  Astley dusted his shoulder in my direction.

  ‘Think of your sister, who is in love. Think of your parents who can keep their estate.’

  ‘Isobel is fifteen. What does she understand of love?’

  ‘Love is to be felt, not understood. And she’ll be sixteen soon enough.’

  ‘The Honourable East India Company served alongside me in Pontevedra. Last week I dined with a certain captain. He complained to me of how many had defected to shore leave and a drunken team of brigands. I heard some disturbing things, Mr Wild. Not least that this Sheppard fellow used to be in your employ.’

  ‘And who is this captain, exactly?’ asked I, reaching for my journal.

  Astley frowned, looking me over. ‘I’ll keep the information to myself, thank you.’

  ‘False libel,’ I spat.

  Astley watched Guernsey and his father compare buttons, then turned back to me, scowling. ‘Careful, Wild,’ said he, wagging a finger. ‘If I heard such things, you can count on Lord Harley hearing them too. As cunning as you are, the House of Lords is triply so.’

  ‘And who are you with then? The House of Lords or me?’

  Astley smirked, then laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I have had many enemies in my time, Astley, many enemies. From every station. And I can’t say they’ve fared well.’

  ‘So I’m to choose,’ he paused, sniggering, ‘if I stand with the Lords of the United Kingdom, or with … you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Astley continued his snorting, shaking his head. ‘Well Mister Wild,’ he said. ‘I suppose we shall see.’ He stared down to me. On his young handsome face slowly emerged – maybe the first time I’d seen such a thing – a wide and open-mouthed smile. A proclamation of war.

  ‘Astley, wait,’ begged I, placing a hand on his sleeve. ‘Wait. I apologise. It’s only habit. I don’t want …’

  But it was too late. He held the smile then carried it, together with sherry, to his father’s table.

  ‘Well, I do say. High time for a wee Brusquembille. Another round too? Enough of this French bull. The 1673 Oloroso must be opened. What, Father? Never seen your son jolly? I am a Lemon, after all …’

  I stepped into the cool night, embraced by the quiet street. Sykes, on my approach, began lighting the chaise’s interior. I settled back into my seat and took out my WONK I ESOHT. After a moment’s deliberation I inscribed the following words: Lieutenant Astley Lemon.

  WILD

  The bonny bush

  April 1724

  ‘Disclose some or other detail,’ entreated Aylesbury. ‘We are rejoicing the news. Omit the confidentialities if you must.’

  We were fourteen in the Warbleton dining hall, not one week since the last banquet. No wonder Papa’s coffers were running dry.

  ‘If you’ll excuse my reticence,’ replied I, ‘I prefer to leave business at the office.’

  The decanters twinkled. Isobel’s harpsichord tutor played unaccompanied sonatas. There was a glazed apple wedged in the saggy gullet of a pig. On a filigree pedestal were halved melons, costards, apricots, limes, robitussons, and pomegranates draped in vines of differently sized and coloured grapes.

  ‘Gou’un ma boy,’ encouraged the Baronet. ‘Wuuur celebrautin’.’

  Isobel was opposite me, forward on her chair. Her lively eyes danced to her fiancé’s importance.

  ‘For Papa,’ she implored.

  Astley slumped, drumming his fingertips on his belly. His fiancée, Bertie Beamish-Fitzhugh, couldn’t hide her interest.

  ‘I have a commitment to keep Isobel protected from my business.’ I paused briefly here, building anticipation. ‘But on this occasion, given you will hear it from a crier soon enough, I will break my vow.’ There was a titter of delight. Astley rolled his eyes. I raised a hand in warning. ‘This once only.’

  ‘We won’t molest you on it further,’ offered Aylesbury, pointing his miniature goblet at me.

  ‘Very well. My friends. My friends. I employ a vast network of informants spread throughout the city. They come at a great expense and form the beating heart of my concern. They are my seeing eyes, my hearing ears, my feeling fingers.’

  ‘A born poet,’ muttered Astley.

  ‘They are your candlemakers,’ I continued. ‘Your butchers. Your nightmen. Your watercarriers. They are penniless, dirty, drunk, unintelligible. But if you carefully coordinate them – much like disparate pieces of a picture puzzle – you will render the whole crime. Where it began and where it will end. And that’s where I’ll be, waiting and ready …’

  ‘With your “feeling fingers”?’ asked Astley.

  ‘Son!’ shouted the Baronet. He slapped his palm on the table. His and the pig’s cheeks jiggled.

  ‘One of my informants,’ I pressed on, ‘is a fearsome fellow whose name I cannot reveal but whose information is dependable. He came to me with intelligence the very morning The Lad escaped from St Clement’s Roundhouse. According to the informant, The Lad would not last a day without a dram at his favourite ginhouse, a rowdy and sordid venue located on the road to Tyburn called the Blue Boar. It was there, together with three of my men, that we lay in wait, our pistols trained on the barkeeps lest they forewarn The Lad. We stationed ourselves near the two entrances and sure enough, dressed as a lady, he wandered right in.’

  ‘You were there, personally?’ asked Aylesbury.

  ‘Aye.’ (I had been in my coach, drinking chocolate.)

  ‘They say he is almost seven feet tall.’

  ‘Not quite, but surely a dangerous man.’

  Heads shook in eager bewilderment.

  ‘Weren’t you afraid?’ begged Bertie.

  ‘Fear I cannot afford. They sniff it, like dogs.’

  ‘Astonishing,’ said a guest I didn’t know. He chewed on the arm of his spectacles.

  ‘Should have brought my earhorn,’ said Marmaduke, cupping a hand around his ear.

  ‘Don’t interrupt,’ said his wife.

  ‘Is it also true,’ sneered Astley, ‘that The Lad was one of your men?’

  ‘Astley!’ shouted the Baronet. ‘Wharrt huu –’

  ‘’Tis all right, Papa,’ said I. ‘Astley has heard corre
ctly. The Lad, a long time ago, was one of my runners. A poor orphan, who, like many of our city’s wretched, turned to thieving to support a dependence on the bottle. Most unfortunate. But –’ I paused and shook my forefinger ‘– the only way to protect the innocent is to punish the guilty.’

  ‘If he escaped from the roundhouse at St Clement’s, might he also escape from Newgate?’ the guest asked.

  ‘No man has ever escaped Newgate. Let alone the condemned cell. I will see to it that his ankles and wrists are permanently manacled. That the doors are double-locked. That a sentry be placed around the clock. I have inspected the cell and can see no way a man could escape it. He will be trialled at the assizes within two weeks and executed within two more.’

  There was a flow of waiters into the dining hall, each carrying individual dishes of custard cream drizzled with honey. The Baronetess watched the procession carefully, nodding with each placement.

  ‘Fa yuuu, mah bonny girl,’ said the Baronet to Isobel.

  ‘Her favourite,’ explained Astley.

  Isobel rubbed her hands.

  ‘And I hear,’ began the guest with the eyeglasses, ‘there is an engagement in the making?’

  ‘Hee hee,’ offered Lady Lemon.

  Isobel’s eyes flickered to me briefly, then back down to her crystal dish. Colour began rising from her neck.

  ‘We are waiting,’ explained Astley in his most bored voice, ‘for the Thief-Taker to be knighted.’

  ‘I see,’ said the guest. ‘Much to celebrate then, if you’re certain of it?’

  ‘An associate of mine, Medlycott, do you know him?’ asked Aylesbury. ‘He says –’

  ‘Speak up!’ shouted Marmaduke.

  The Baronet giggled. ‘Ach.’

  ‘– what will behove our House – and Medlycott would know – is a method to …’

  Isobel skimmed the gelatinous surface of the custard into fine slivers that wobbled on her teaspoon. Prolonging her relish, she raised each slowly, inspecting. A candle fizzled between us.

  ‘Do you like the custard cream, Mr Wild?’ asked Isobel as she withdrew the spoon from her wet lips.