“And he actually found someone to take care of it?”
“As a matter of fact, he found two someones. Twas the Colter brothers. It’s said they’ll do anything for money.”
“It seems they would, and they did,” said I.
“The Colter brothers wrapped the Duke in canvas, bound him at both ends, and tossed him in the Thames. Now, in preparing the body for burial they couldn’t help but notice that the fellow’s arms were a mite shorter than before, and his hands, which was so clever with the cards, were nowhere to be seen. They remarked upon this to their chums and fellow drinkers in Bedford Street, and you know how it is there, Jeremy — word just traveled like wildfire.”
“Did you arrest them? Did they confess?”
“You mean the Colters? Oh, I talked to them right stern about it, and they made out to be plain shocked that such horrible stories could be told of them. The two shared the same doxy over in Southwark, and she swore she entertained the both of them a whole night and the better part of a day before the body was pulled from the river. So all we’ve got against them is hearsay, and Sir John says that ain’t good enough.”
“And you think, don’t you, that this was done as a warning to you?”
“Oh I do, no question. But something more than a warning, Jeremy — more like a … well, a promise.”
“No doubt it was also a most effective means of torturing information out of Isaac Kidd,” said I, having given some thought to the matter.
“Just as you say,” said he in agreement. “Kidd refuses to tell him what he wants to know, so Burkett just up and whacks off the Duke’s arm. Then says Burkett: ‘If you want to keep the other one, you better answer up.’ So he gets all he wants from him, and he just chops off the other arm for cursedness.”
“You think that’s how it happened?”
“Well, your ideas are worth as much as mine on that partic’lar matter.”
We fell silent. There was probably much to discuss regarding what lay ahead, yet we had both seemed to lose the taste for it. Each of us turned to the window on his side of the coach and idly studied the countryside as we watched it reel by. Sussex was farm country and, to my eye, little different from Kent. Fields and trees that would bloom green in spring were now dun brown in this mild early winter. Yet perhaps winter had not been near so mild here as in London for here and there I saw patches of snow, while in London there had been none, at least so far as I had seen.
We seemed to be entering the town of Robertsbridge, for the coach had slowed. Soon I saw houses crammed close on either side of the road, and then a shop or two, and down a side street I spied a church with some sort of activity outside it. Was it — yes, it had to be — a funeral? I slapped Constable Perkins upon the shoulder and pointed
“Look, look,” said I excitedly, “the church! A funeral!”
He strained forward to look out of the window on my side of the coach. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of the church and the little crowd before it — but no more than that, for we were past it in a moment or two. He looked at me oddly.
“A church,” said he, “a funeral? What’s there to gawk at? See what … oh … oh yes, I do see.” The light of understanding had kindled in his eyes. “You think that Ned Ferguson might … ?”
“I think we must find out,” said I.
As soon as the coach pulled to a stop before the Robertsbridge Inn we jumped out, grabbed our bags, and ran back to find the side street wherein the church did stand. There was the undertaker’s coach in front of the church. Still, the mourners I had seen before the church were now inside. The service had begun. I could hear the organ and voices raised in a hymn.
As luck would have it, the driver of the funeral coach was there still, preparing to turn the coach and team round, now that their part in the ceremony was ended. We approached in a friendly manner, not wishing to cause offense.
“Beg pardon, sir, ” said I most respectfully, “but could you tell us the name of the party whose funeral just now is taking place? “
“I could,” said he. He wsis a tight-lipped, taciturn sort of man of about forty years of age. But he looked to be the sort who would not be above playing a trick or two on a recent arrival in town.
“Uh, would you then tell us the name?”
“I would.” And that, of course, was said with a smirk.
“Well sir,” said I, my patience at last wearing thin, ‘what ij the name?”
“Ferguson,” said he. “Edward Ferguson.”
Unbeknownst to me, whilst I conducted this maddening conversation, a man emerged from the church, listening intently. According to Mr. Perkins, who observed the man descending the church steps, “he looked sharp at us and quite suspicious.” Yet I remained unaware of his presence until I felt his hand upon my shoulder and heard his question to me.
“Why do you ask after Edward Ferguson?”
I turned round to find an elderly fellow whose eyes were magnified somewhat by a pair of thick spectacles, which were perched low upon the bridge of his nose. Viewed thusly, he seemed quite fierce. Nevertheless, I was determined not to be intimidated.
“And why do you wish to know?”
“Because, young sir,” said he, sending his jowls and wattles aquiver, “I am the magistrate of Robertsbridge and its environs up to Tunbridge Wells. As such, it is my place to ask such questions, and it is your place to answer them. ‘
“If you are the magistrate, then your name must be Peter Hol-laby. Is that correct, sir?”
He was taken somewhat aback. “Why yes, yes it is.”
“Then I have a letter for you.”
I reached into my voluminous coat pocket and produced the letter Sir John had dictated to me the night before. Then did I hand it to him.
“For me?”
He said it timidly, as if he did not often receive mail of the official sort, and Sir John’s seal upon it made it plain that this letter was indeed very official. He pushed his spectacles higher up on his nose and set about to read the communication.
Since I had taken it down, I knew its contents quite well. It was remarkably like the letter of introduction from the Lord Chief Justice, which began our troubles with George Burkett. It presented Constable Perkins and me to Mr. Hollaby, and asked that we be given aid and information to assist them in the capture of Edward Ferguson and George Burkett. It also asked his permission that we two be given the right to carry arms within his jurisdiction, and, if necessary, to discharge them. And so, having served as Sir John’s amanuensis, and knowing what had been said, I anticipated each blink and widening of the eyes by Mr. Hollaby, assured that the letter was having the desired effect. I believe he read it through twice.
He looked up at last. “Do you have arrest warrants?”
I nodded and pulled them from the same pocket from which I had produced the letter. He took them and examined each one, then returned them to me, appearing somewhat bewildered.
“Ned Ferguson was wanted for burglary?”
“That’s right,” said I. “His partner gave witness against him.”
“And this George Burkett?”
“A murderer twice o’er, ” said I, “once in London and now, I assume, again here in Robertsbridge.”
“You two are armed?”
His eyes went first to Mr. Perkins, who opened his coat to display two pistols, worn each on his right side, for it was the side of his good arm. Then did he look at me, and I showed him the brace of pistols, belted one on each hip.
“Since this is all being done proper, I’ll make out a paper that says you’ve got my permission to wear those things and shoot them off if need be.”
I had by this time noted that the driver of the undertaker’s coach had taken such a keen interest in our discussion that he had interposed himself between Constable Perkins and Mr. Hollaby, so that now we seemed to be a group of four, rather than three. I remember well, from my childhood, the curiosity of townsmen. Where little happens, all must be known about that li
ttle.
Catching Mr. Hollaby’s attention, I pointed to the intruder in our group.
He nodded his agreement. “We must talk about this some more,” said he. “I’ve an idea. Why don’t we go to the inn and have us an ale? You two must be dry from all that traveling. I’ve got questions for you, and I’m sure you’ll want to hear a few things that I have to tell.” Then said he to the driver: “Henry, you can tell the widow that I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for the rest of the funeral, but I got called away by something important. I’m sure you’ll agree that thui is important, won’t you?”
“Oh, I,certainly do, Mr. Hollaby. All the way from London, Bow Street Runners and all. I’m sure she’ll want to hear all about that. It’ll help ease her pain, I’m sure.”
The story told by the magistrate of Robertsbridge was of the sort I might well have expected to hear. Still, the magistrate was correct in his surmise that we might welcome a pint of ale or two after our journey. And upon learning that it would be near two hours before the next coach for London came through, we were well satisfied to spend the time sipping ale, listening to Peter Hollaby’s tale and telling our own.
The magistrate was much embarrassed to reveal that he had actually aided Burkett in finding Ferguson. The big man had stopped by Hollabys office in the evening three days past and asked his way to Ferguson’s farm. He presented himself as a friend from London come down to Robertsbridge at Ferguson’s invitation.
“He said to me, T know he’s just outside of town, but I don’t know which road to take.’ I pointed out the right one to him, and that just about wrote the end to Ned Ferguson.”
I asked how long the magistrate had known Ned Ferguson, and when it was he had first made his appearance in the town, and I was surprised to learn that it was a good ten months past.
He courted a local girl — called her his “lass,” as a Scotsman would, ‘cause that’s what he was — and was well liked in Robertsbridge. The parents of the girl thought him a good match for their daughter and offered a decent dowry. Though he was a bit tight-lipped about his business (he claimed to be a coffee merchant), which took him off to London with fair frequency, banns were posted in the church, and about a month and a half past Edward Ferguson and his lass were wed.
The magistrate of Robertsbridge was a bit vague about what had happened after that. It was known about town that the young bride was eager to go with her groom on his next trip to London, but following a visit from one of Ferguson’s business associates (Isaac Kidd, according to the description given by Peter Hollaby), he made no more trips to the city and stayed rather close to the house. A change had come over him, and she let it be known to her parents that Ned was acting in a rather disturbing manner.
Yet she was not near so disturbed then as she was early in the morn, two days past, when, finding her husband absent from their bed, she went looking for him about their place and found his body in the barn.
“What was the condition of the body?” asked Mr. Perkins, who had been unusually quiet all through the magistrate’s recitation.
“Well you might ask,” said Hollaby, nodding plainly at the constable’s empty sleeve. “But may I inquire of you, sir, did you have an encounter of your own with this fiendish fellow?”
“Not the kind of encounter you mean,” said Mr. Perkins. “Yet we have met, and ever after he has been trying to frighten me away by chopping off the arms of his victims.”
“But you, I take it, are not frightened?”
“Oh, I’m frightened, right enough, yet I try not to let it bother me.”
“And have you been successful in that?”
“In all truth, I cannot say that I have been.”
“Well, I hope I didn’t cause you any pain making inquiries where it ain’t my business to do so, but I have to tell you, sir, that ever since I was summoned to that barn I have been frightened. I’ve had bad dreams, I have. I wake up nights in a proper sweat. The constable who went out there with me quit the next day. And the young widow — she’s done naught but weep and carry on ever since that dreadful morning, and I can’t say that I blame her any. The place was all bloody, blood on the straw, blood on the walls, and the milk cow was goin’ crazy.”
“What was judged to be the cause of death?” I asked.
“Well, besides having both arms chopped off at the elbows as you two have certainly guessed by now, he had a gash in his throat of a kind so deep it damned near took his head off.”
“Yet he kept quiet through it all?” I asked.
“He was gagged, and Mrs. Ferguson was a sound sleeper. But that fellow — Burkett, was it? — he must have spent an hour or more with him, torturing him, trying to get him to tell something. There must be a lot of money involved in this.”
“No,” said Constable Perkins, “I think Burkett does it because he likes it. No other reason.” Then did he ask if there might be any possibility that Burkett were still in the area of Robertsbridge.
“I’m certain that there’s no chance of that. He was on horseback, and he left in the direction of London at a gallop. You could tell by the track he left.” At that point, he paused. Then he came back to us with a demand. “Now, ” said he, “you’ve heard my story. You must tell me now what this was all about. And don’t say that this man Burkett was a rival coffee trader. We may not have much experience of this kind of thing here in Robertsbridge, but we’re all pretty much agreed that this wasn’t about coffee. You say Ned Ferguson was a burglar … ? “
I had a difficult time offering him information enough to satisfy him, yet not so much that he would know the part played in it all by Lord Hillsborough and Lord Mansfield. In fact, I had decided that Mr. Hollaby should know as little as possible about the burglary and nothing at all about Benjamin Franklin, Tommy Skinner, and Arthur Lee. The result was a rather disconnected narrative, one hardly deserving at all to be called a narrative. The magistrate asked many questions, a few of which I could not answer. He looked skeptically at me a number of times and must have thought me a terrible dunce. Nevertheless, I managed to get through my so-called recital of the facts as Sir John would have preferred: divulging as little information as possible.
By contrast, however, Mr. Hollaby seemed to get on wonderfully well with Mr. Perkins. As time grew shorter before the departure of our London-bound coach, he seemed to direct more of his comments and questions to him.
Finally, as we two waited to board the coach, bags in hand, the magistrate turned to Mr. Perkins and asked if he were from Sussex.
“No,” the constable replied, “but you’re close. Just the next county over — in Kent.”
“I thought so. You’ve got a certain way of speaking common to people down here.”
“I grew up on a farm just outside Deal.”
“You see? I wasn’t far off at all.” He hesitated, then came out with what I judged to be the reason for his remarks. “If ever you get tired of London and want to come back south, you just let me know. I need a good constable, always do.”
Mr. Perkins chuckled at that. “You mean you’re hiring one-armed fellas like me? You must be desperate.”
“No, I reckon that if you’re good enough for Sir John Fielding, you’re good enough for me — one-armed, one-legged, or whatever.”
Again, Mr. Perkins laughed in embarrassment.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” said the magistrate, persisting. “Whatever he’s paying you in London, Mr. Perkins, I’ll match — and you’ll find your money will go a lot farther in Robertsbridge than it will in London.”
“Well, I-”
“No, don’t say a word. Just think about it, and look round you as you leave town. No place nicer than Robertsbridge.”
Having had his say, Peter Hollaby bade us farewell and sent us on our way. All the way to Tunbridge Wells, I teased Constable Perkins intermittently regarding the job offer. He simply laughed and allowed me to have my fun, yet I could tell that he took the matter more seriously than I. Why should he not? He ha
d an affinity for the south of England, for it was from here that he had come. Oddly, he had received the offer of a job in Deal but a few months past in much the same way as he had here. And again, why should he not? He was one of the most able — in my opinion, the best — of all the Bow Street Runners, worth more than any man with two arms, it seemed to me.
Passengers boarded the coach at Tunbridge Wells, and I ended my mischief. Mr. Perkins must have thought it high time that I should have done. He dozed then all the way to London.
We arrived in Bow Street after dark and made our report to Sir John in his chambers. Sir John was sobered by the news of Ned Ferguson’s death, and he wished to hear all the details whilst they were still fresh in our minds.
“You wish to know if his arms was intact?” said the constable. Sir John sighed. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I do.” “They were cut off at the elbows, just as it was with Isaac Kidd.” Without hesitating, he added: “I want to go out and look for Burkett.”
“No,” said Sir John quite firmly. “You were out last night doing your job. You traveled all day today. You’re tired and weak, and you must sleep the night.”
“But I have a good idea of where I might find him.”
“No. If I must threaten you to make it plain, I shall do so. Even if you find him, bring him in, and lock him up in the strong room, I shall discharge you forthwith. You will no longer be a constable. And you know me well enough to tell the difference between a mere threat and a promise. What I have just offered you is more promise than threat. Do you understand me?”
Evidently he did, for he nodded and took his leave. Sir John then rose and suggested we have our dinner.
“It awaits us above,” said he. “A special treat is to be served us this evening, I am told.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“Clarissa has cooked the entire meal herself, part of her culinary education. The girl seems quite determined to learn all that she can as quickly as she can.”
“Under Molly’s strict supervision, I assume.”
“I assume so, too. Oh, I know. You’re doubtful, are you not? Yet Kate assures me they know what they’re doing.”
An Experiment in Treason Page 27
