Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

  “Back off, Jeremy,” he shouted. “If you don’t, we’ll have a riot on our hands. There be but four of us —and that ain’t enough.”

  TEN

  In Which I Succeed

  in My Interrogation

  of Roundtree

  Bunkins told me that the business in the yard behind the pawnshop had gone queer right from the start. “First of all,” he explained, “I led the team too deep into the yard, which was goodsized. Mrs. B. and Jackie Carver and the tall, skinny one came out fast, like they’d been up and waitin’ on me. Only just the blowen come forward to deal with me. The two joes stood back by the house. So we did our haggle, Mrs. B. and me, and we settled on a good price, quarter-value it was, and I made to start untyin’ the ropes and called for some help. Only thing was, first of all, I thought she settled too quick, and she starts crowdin’ in on me to see right off what I got in the wagon, while the others continue to hang back. I began to think they had in mind to rob me of the goods, the horses and wagon and all, maybe murder me and cut me up into pieces, like they done to old Bradbury. I was damn happy it was constables in the wagon and not eatin’ silver, gold plates, and paintings, and such.

  “Anyways, I got the ropes undone on one side at the end and started to work on t’other when Mrs. B. walks over bold as brass, pulls up the sailcloth to look inside, and comes face-to-face with Constable Bailey. She lets out a scream, and Mr. Bailey rises up, pistol in hand, and jumps clear of the wagon. But instead of going after the two joes, which he probably didn’t know where they were and maybe couldn’t see them ‘cause they was in the shadows of the house, he starts chasin’ her around the yard. Then I got the other rope untied, which set the sailcloth free on Constable Perkins’s side. He riz up and saw the situation immediate, saw the joes shovin’ their trunks on out of there. And so what did he do? He fires his pistol — not at either one of them but up in the air, so’s to let you know they was comin’. And I guess you know the rest.”

  We walked together, leading the team back to the livery stable. It was such a short distance that there seemed no point to mounting to the wagon box once we were through the passage. They followed most compliantly, for they seemed to know that they were returning home. Having heard Bunkins’s tale of what had transpired behind the pawnshop, I was secretly somewhat relieved to know that all had not gone well on their side. In spite of Mr. Perkins’s words of encouragement —“Don’t worry, lad, for if you got him a good one behind the knee, he’ll not go far on a queer leg” — I felt as if I had let the rest down, Sir John most of all. I could not muster much of a comment in response to Bunkins, nothing more than a muttered, “I know only too well.”

  “Ah, you’re feelin’ queer because Jackie Carver got away, ain’t you? Well, you shouldn’t. He ran from you, didn’t he? You put the fear of that club Mr. Perkins gave you deep into him.”

  “Well, I suppose so,” said I.

  We trudged on. The stable was now in sight, well lit in front by two lamps. The horses pressed on eagerly. It was all we could do to keep up with them.

  “One thing, though,” said Bunkins. “If I was you with Jackie Carver on the loose, I’d watch my back, specially at night. And it’d be wiser to carry that club with you even in the daytime.”

  On that happy note we arrived. For certain sure the horses knew the way. They had made the turn into the stable before we were quite ready. Yet we managed well enough and found waiting for us the ostler, a talkative fellow of no grand proportions, who immediately went about unhitching the team from the wagon.

  “Well,” said he, “that didn’t take long. Tell me true, did you catch the villains you was after?”

  “We caught a couple,” said Bunkins, who was far more willing to talk about the matter than I was.

  “Right smart hidin’ the constables under the canvas like that.”

  Bunkins let that pass without comment. But he had a complaint: “The horses balked, wouldn’t go forward, had to lead them down a passage.”

  “Was it dark?”

  “Indeed it was, but — “

  “Well, that explains it, you see. When you led them you carried the lamp with you, I’ll warrant.”

  “I did, yes, but — “

  “It’s just that this one” —he cuffed the horse on the left gently on the head —“is afeared of the dark. And this one” —he cuffed the other on the neck —“won’t do anything unless t’other tells him to. If you hadn’t had that lamp in your hand, you’d still be waitin’ for them to move.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “You never asked.”

  “Ain’t it proper to tell your customers the peculiarities of your animals?”

  “Ah, well, that’s another thing entirely. Each one’s got so many. Why, they’re like people that same way. Why, I could tell you of one that …”

  Bunkins allowed him to talk on, but I, wearying of their wrangle, went wandering among the stalls of the stable, surveying the sleeping horses, marveling at how they kept their feet as they slept, their handsome heads bowed. All seemed to look in finer fettle than the two old nags we had been given less than an hour before. One of them was indeed a grand animal. It stood taller than the rest —or would have, had all been erect. I stood for a moment admiring it— a beautiful horse, all white it was …

  I turned and hurried back to the ostler, who bladdered on still, and interrupted him in a manner most excited.

  “Here, you, sir,” said I, “that horse down the way, the white one, is it a mare?”

  “You are buttin’ in on a most interestin’ story which I am tellin’ to your mate here,” he scolded.

  “Never mind that,” said I. “Answer me, and answer me quick.”

  “Now, ain’t you the rude young fella! Well, as any fool should know, since last time I looked she had her hindquarters pointin’ out, she’s a mare. If she’s now turned about, I honor your question as a reasonable one, for she’s a mare big as some stallions.”

  “To whom does she belong?”

  “Why, to the owner of this stable, young sir, if it’s any of your affair. He bought her about a week or more ago, he did.”

  “From whom? Whom did he buy her from?”

  “I’m sure he never told me. All he said was he expects to hire her out for a handsome price when spring comes and the young blades start ridin’ in the park.”

  “Jimmie B.,” said I to him, “I must be back to Bow Street to tell Sir John this bit of information. I’ll see you in court tomorrow.” Then to the ostler: “Forgive the interruption, sir. Go on with your story.”

  Then did I quite run from the stable. Though in a great rush to reach my destination, I chose the longer route, wishing to avoid Bedford Street and any remnants of the grogshop crowd. I traveled down Maiden Lane, past the synagogue, then onto Tavistock Street, where Mr. Donnelly’s surgery had formerly been located. And all the while I kept along the middle of the street, taking most seriously Bunkins’s warning regarding Jackie Carver. At that time of night, there was little in the way of horse traffic, and that I dodged quite easily.

  Thus I came to Number 4 Bow Street. Once inside, I sought Sir John, but he was nowhere to be seen —no doubt in his chambers questioning Mrs. Bradbury or Roundtree. But no, they were in the strong room, whispering together in a corner behind the bars; I was not seen by them. Then I met Mr. Baker, the night man, gaoler, armorer, and the Runners’ man in reserve. He was in earnest conversation with young Mr. Cowley, who had just returned to duty following his stabbing of a week or more before. As I approached him he pulled away.

  “I’ll attend to it just as you say, Mr. Baker,” said he. Then, with a passing nod to me, “Jeremy,” I watched him go; he limped a bit.

  “I’m surprised to see him back so soon,” said I.

  “Oh, he’s a good two weeks from going back to full duty. It was Sir John’s thought he might be of use to me here —though I doubted it. I just sent him off to Shakespeare’s Head to fetch dinner for th
e two of us. He’s good for that, at least.”

  Mr. Cowley was not held in high favor by the rest of the Runners.

  “I was looking about for Sir John. Is he in his chambers?”

  “No, he bade me a good night and went upstairs about a quarter of an hour past. He seemed disappointed when Bailey and Perkins brought in but two prisoners. Seems he was expecting three.”

  At that my spirits, which had risen with the discovery of the white mare, plummeted like a stone tossed down a well.

  “Oh,” said I, “then I may as well go up there, too.” There was a chance, after all, that he might still be up and about.

  “Good night to you then.”

  A good night indeed. With a heavy heart I said my farewell and began my journey to my narrow pallet before the fireplace. Yet as I passed the strong room, I could not miss Roundtree; he leaned against the bars and beckoned earnestly to me. I went to him. I had no wish to speak with him, still, I could not deny the poor fellow.

  “How is she?” he whispered. I had no need to ask to whom he referred.

  “Very much better,” said I, whispering. “She was up for the first time today. I brewed a cup of tea for her at midday, and she seemed on her way to recovery. That’s the last I saw of her, however, for I’ve been running about ever since.”

  “Arrangin’ my downfall, wereya?”

  “Mr. Roundtree, whatever was done by me in this deceit which led to your arrest was done at Sir John’s direction. Perhaps you forget that for over a week you’ve been a fugitive, that you refused a very good offer made for your surrender. No sir, I did not arrange your downfall, nor did Sir John. You yourself, and no other, are responsible for your present situation. Think about it, and I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  Then did I leave him, and as I did I noted that Mrs. Bradbury had risen from her corner of the strong room and was moving over to talk to Roundtree, no doubt to ask the content of our whispered conversation. I wondered if she knew that Roundtree’s daughter lay up in my bed. I wagered with myself that she did not.

  Up the stairs, then, and into the kitchen. The fire blazed bright. An extra blanket had been laid upon my makeshift bed. I found a bit of bread and cold beef Annie had laid out for me. Having had no dinner, I was as hungry as I was tired. I ate by firelight, then climbed wearily under the blankets, doffing no more than hat, coat, and shoes. I slept warm, and I slept sound.

  Next morning being Sunday, the household stirred to life a bit later than was the usual, and glad I was for the extra hour or more beneath the blankets which had been granted me. I woke slowly, aware in a vague way of activity about me. The fire had not gone out quite, and so Annie had been able to feed it, rather than wake me to start it anew. She’d got the kettle on the fire, as well, so that it was only when she nudged me with her foot and invited me to a cup of tea that I came fully awake.

  To wake to a fresh, hot cup of tea—that indeed is to live the life of a nobleman. I had heard that some such breakfasted each day in the big bed in which they had slept, enjoying the privileges of the sick without themselves being sick. Ah, for such privileges, ah for such a life!

  “How is our patient?” I asked Annie.

  “Not quite as well as she claims to be, but well enough.”

  “She got out of bed yesterday and came down to the kitchen,” said I. “I brewed a pot of tea so she might have a cup, then had to leave before ever I had a cup of my own.”

  “Well, she finished the whole pot, then got me to brew another when I came back from my lessons. We finished that one up together. We had a grand time, we did.”

  “Why, she promised me she would go back up to bed soon as she finished that one cup. That girl’s not to be trusted!”

  “P’rhaps not, but I don’t think it hurt her any. It was warm and snug here through the afternoon, and she told me many stories from her days in the workhouse. Some of them were quite terrible, of course, just what you’d expect—but others Ave re downright funny. Oh, I laughed and laughed, I did. And she just kept working away, and all the while telling stories. But then Lady Fielding came home and shoved her right off to bed.”

  “Working? You said she was working—working at what?”

  “Well, at the-”

  Then did we hear the unmistakable tread, sure and certain, of Lady Fielding upon the stairs. Annie put her forefinger to her lips instructing me to be silent, and punctuated her command with a wink. When she appeared, our mistress was arrayed in one of her finest frocks, a locket at her throat which hung from a gold chain, a gift from Sir John on the occasion of their last anniversary. Over her arm was her cape. Clearly, she was on her way out, though not, it seemed certain, to the Magdalene Home.

  “Oh, m’lady, you look lovely,” cried Annie.

  “Thank you, dear girl. I’m off to church this morning.”

  “Church?” We echoed her together rather hollowly. Attendance at holy services was not a routine occurrence in the lives of any of us four who lived above the Bow Street Court.

  “Yes,” said she with a certain determination, “I’ve some praying to do on a certain matter, and I think it only right to do it in the proper setting.”

  “Won’t you have a cup of tea at least before you go?”

  “No, Annie, I have only minutes to get across Covent Garden to St. Paul’s before the service begins.”

  She threw on her cape and tied it.

  “Oh, by the bye, Jeremy, I must congratulate you on getting all the rest of those plaguy begging letters copied out.”

  “All the rest …” I looked at Annie. “Is that what she …”

  Annie nodded.

  I sighed. “Much as I should like to take credit, mum, I made only five copies yesterday before Sir John called upon me for an errand — and one did follow another all day long. I never got back to the task you gave me. It could only be Clarissa finished the rest.”

  Lady Fielding smiled slyly. “I thought your hand had greatly improved after the first few,” said she. “It became more cursive and flowing, less angular—in short, more feminine and less masculine. Altogether an improvement. You may pass the congratulations I gave you on to her. Has anyone looked in on her yet? Please do.” Then, pulling her hat down upon her head: “Well, goodbye all. I must be off.”

  And indeed off she went. We heard her steps descending the stairs at a perilous rate. She seemed always to hurry down them in just such a way, but had yet to make a misstep.

  I carried a pan of live coals and wood chips up to the top of the stairs to feed the brazier, which had quite gone dead during the night. Clarissa slept as I opened the window wide and emptied the ashes onto the yard below. Whether I had wakened her loading the coals in the brazier, or if she had, as she claimed, been wakened by the smell of bacon cooking, I know not. In any case, she was wide-eyed and smiling by the time I reached the door. I passed on to her Lady Fielding’s thanks and praise, which she took as her due. Yet I would not let her off quite so lightly.

  “You promised me you would return to bed when you finished that cup of tea I gave you. Do you remember?”

  “I remember,” said she, then turned away in a sulk.

  “Are your promises worth so little?”

  “Oh, pooh,” said she, as was her wont. “It was in a good cause, was it not?”

  “That I cannot contest. But a promise is a promise.”

  “You’re being tiresome. Now, please go, so that I may make use of the chamber pot.”

  I turned and stalked from the room.

  “Shut the door, please —and tell Annie that I shall be along instanter to help her with breakfast.”

  “You’re supposed to stay in bed. Will you not understand that?”

  “Mr. Donnelly said that that is a matter of my choice, so long as I keep warm — so there!”

  I leaned back and slammed the door shut and then descended the stairs.

  Sir John sat, fully dressed, at the table. He was sipping at a cup of tea as Annie put before him a bre
akfast plate of hen’s eggs and two thick rashers of bacon.

  “What have we here?” said Sir John, inhaling deeply. “Bacon and eggs? What is it we celebrate with such a morning feast?”

  “Well, sir,” said Annie, “you and Jeremy were both up late on court matters, and ‘twas you who always said if a man don’t get his sleep, he must eat well, for he must get his energy from somewhere.”

  “So I did, so I did.”

  “Jeremy’s will soon be coming.”

  As Annie turned back to her work, I sat down at the table and pulled my chair close to Sir John’s.

  “Sir, I have something to tell you,” said I in a low voice.

  “About last night at Bradbury’s? Well, fret not,” said he. “These plans of mine sometimes do not go perfectly.” He chewed a bit and swallowed, then took another bite, dripping a bit of yolk upon his waistcoat.

  “No, Sir John, it’s about — “

  But he continued: “Mr. Perkins told me how the younger fellow had run through the crowd, and how the crowd had then closed up against him — against Mr. Perkins, that is —and made pursuit impossible. To have leveled a pistol at any of them would have been a mistake. To have fired a pistol would likely have meant a riot. He handled the situation properly.”

  I paused to think through what Sir John had just told. It took a moment until I understood that Constable Perkins had taken the blame for my loss of Jackie Carver. Should I tell the straight of it? Perhaps later. The important thing at the moment was telling my tale of the white mare.

  “No sir,” said I, “what I have to tell you has naught to do with what happened last night at the pawnshop. It was what I saw when Bunkins and I returned the wagon and team to the stable.”

  “Ah … so … what was it you saw there?”

  “A white horse —a mare, big as some stallions, I was told.” Then did I tell the tale complete, as Sir John listened, eating, nodding at each detail. In particular he was taken with the matter of time.