Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01]

by Alexander, Bruce

  Whereupon, the talkative Annie then tripped me up with a question for which I was quite unprepared. She wanted to know why, if I was so little taken with medicos, I had arrived with Mr. Donnelly.

  I hemmed and hawed a bit, then said quite truthfully, “Sir John sent me.”

  “To what purpose?”

  I hesitated.

  “Come on,” said she, “give out!” She giggled again.

  “To go through the library once again,” said 1, blessed at last with inspiration.

  “You ain’t in the library.”

  Then I looked around me, as if observing my surroundings for the first time. “Oh,” said I, all innocent, “so I am not!”

  This won laughter from my audience, as I hoped it would, and to my relief the subject was dropped. But here I had nearly consumed my mutton chop and had gained no information from them whatever. All the questioning had been of me.

  Yet the course of my visit took a new turn when four more of the staff arrived, smelling of the stable. Ebenezer was among them; I later sorted the other three out as coachman, postilion, and ostler. Ebenezer nodded and gave me what I took to be a greeting, not in the least surprised to see me dining there. The cook called for the two kitchen maids to give up their chairs, adding that it would probably be an hour before she’d need them for washing up. The silent, comely one disappeared immediately through an open door with just a solemn glance back in my direction. I was quite taken by her. Then saucy Annie hung back before the door and beckoned me to follow.

  I looked about. None seemed to mind or even take notice. And so, wiping my plate clean with the last bit of bread I had, I put it with others in a pile and trailed out of the kitchen behind Annie. The next was a common room nearly as large as the kitchen; off it and down a hall were small individual chambers wherein the members of the household staff were separately situated.

  Annie, buxom and bold, grabbed hold my hand and pulled me to a sofa which was slightly the worse for wear, whereon her kitchen colleague had already taken a place. The hall was furnished with just such pieces of grand odds and ends cast down from the rooms of the great house above. It was ill lit: A few candles tucked away in the corners served the entire room. Alas, in spite of touches made here and there to brighten it (there were pictures on the pale yellow walls), the place had a rather dreary aspect. Big though it may have been, it was nevertheless a cellar room.

  I was placed at one end of the sofa with Annie between me and her companion. I asked to be introduced. When Annie did not immediately respond, I leaned forward, stretching my hand across, and said my name to the girl with a friendly smile. She touched my hand timidly and nodded.

  “But what is your name?” I asked.

  There was no direct response. The girl looked away.

  “Her name is Meg,” said Annie.

  “Can’t she speak?” I whispered.

  “Sometimes.” Then, clearly wishing to change the subject, she said, “You get it from Lady Goodhope she means to close up the house in London?”

  “She hasn’t told me, certainly,” said L

  “No, but you bein’ Sir John Fielding’s helper and all, I thought you heard her, like, discussin’ her plans.”

  I thought a moment. “Well,” said I, “she did declare that her home is in that place in Lancashire. And she said it in such a way that meant she wished to return.”

  “That’s what we’re afraid of, all of us. This was Lord Dickie’s house. She wasn’t here but a few weeks a year. And God be my witness, what a difference it were the rest of the time.”

  go “What do you mean?” I asked, glad at last to be learning a little.

  “Well, the upstairs staff liked it then because there was parties sometimes three, four times a week with Lord Dickie, dinner parties and other parties. The footmen and Potter would line up in the hall to collect their vails. They’d make as much in a week at such affairs as us downstairs would get in a year.” She gave the girl next to her a powerful nudge. “But we had our ways, eh, Meggie?”

  With that sally directed at her, the girl known as Meg jumped up from the sofa and ran from the room. Whether she was weeping or not I could not say, for she was away and gone down the hall too swiftly. I was quite dumbfounded. All I could do was stare at the point where I had last seen her.

  “That was wicked of me,” said Annie. “In all truth I wanted to be rid of her, but my means was bad.”

  “Is she mute? Can she speak, truly?” I reflected that she seemed bright enough, but terribly timid, frightened.

  “Meg’s half-daft, maybe more.”

  “Has she always been this way?”

  “No,” said Annie with a sigh. “These other parties of Lord Dickie’s, they wasn’t no proper dinners where he’d have all the lords and ladies. There’s even been a few of those with Lady Goodhope about. Then didn’t we slave down in the kitchen! No, most of Dickie’s evenings was what he called his ‘impromptus,’ like. Fancy word that, ain’t it? Must mean something bawdy, for that’s what went on those nights. Dickie might go out to a theatre, or some such place, and come back with a great crowd of bucks and their bawds. He’d rout Cookie out and demand supper for the lot. Late work for us.

  “On’y sometimes they might be a bawd or two short for the night. Sometimes he’d send Potter out to pimp one off the street. But they come to the habit of pulling Meg and me up from the kitchen. It was our young years they preferred, y’see. Usually we got off laughin’ and dancin’ and carryin’ on, actin’ in their theatricals, but sometimes not. We was well paid, in any case. Wasn’t the footmen and the servers jealous of our vails!

  “Now, all this hugger-mugger between bucks and bawds, I can take it or I can leave it alone, y’see. But it begun to prey on Meg something fierce, the sin of it and all. So one night there comes a special rowdy crowd. Lord Dickie had his new one, that actress Lucy Kilbourne, with him, and after supper, sure enough, he sends down for me and Meg. On’y this time she refuses to go. I have to go up and tell the master. Now I should’ve said she was ill, but I didn’t; I said she wouldn’t. This put him in a right fury. He went down after her himself, dragged her up he did. And then a group of them took her to the bedchambers above and used her most shameful. I wasn’t witness to it myself, thank God, but I could hear her screamin’ and yellin’, and then all of a sudden she quit, and I thought for fair they’d taken her life. I don’t mind tellin’ you it put a damper on the party in the dining room.”

  Annie stopped talking then as if she’d ended her tale. I drew the likely conclusion: “And this has affected her speech?”

  “Oh, ain’t it, though! This happened near a month ago, and she ain’t talked yet. Except I caught her babblin’ on to herself once or twice. So it ain’t like she can’t talk; she just won’t.”

  I was thrown into profound confusion by the story. Remember, reader, I had but just turned thirteen. My upbringing by my father had sheltered me a good deal from such mysteries as were involved here. I had no specific notion of what went on between men and women, though I strongly suspected that this area of my ignorance was a large and important one. I had begun to look upon women as women and girls as girls. I sometimes stared. I sometimes spied. And in a general way, I had become most curious. But Annie’s account of Meg’s ordeal had put a dark shadow over matters that I had previously regarded as sly fun. I had no idea what could have been so hurtful to her. And though I was profoundly confused, I did not wish Annie to explain things to me in great detail. That would have been far too painfully embarrassing to me.

  “I think she fancies you,” said Annie. “That’s why she’s in such a dither.”

  How could I respond to that? Particularly in light of what I had just heard?

  “But then,” said she, “I fancy you, too—and that’s why I drove her away!”

  That said, she fell to tickling me most fiercely.

  I begged away from such sport as quickly as possible, giving as my excuse that I must do what I was sent to do
and continue my inspection of the library. Annie feigned hurt but grabbed me and kissed me on the cheek as I bade her goodbye: my first since the death of my mother. I colored red and near ran from the room.

  Moving through the kitchen, remembering at last to say a tardy thank-you to the cook, I noted new faces there and wondered how many could be employed at that single residence. (A dozen, it turned out, was the total number.) Then up to the library where at last my breathing slowed to a comfortable rate.

  I surveyed the place. It seemed little changed since my last visit. The door still stood open and askew. The log with which it had been beaten open, however, had at last been removed. I walked idly about, first noting that the desk was, as I had remembered, quite bare: specifically, there were no bottles, decanters, or flasks atop it, and I was sure that was as it had been. Then I went roaming, looking for places where strong drink might be stored. There were cabinets, two of them, to the left of the desk. One contained writing materials and a disordered pile of papers. The second cabinet contained liquor. There were three bottles and a decanter, and an assortment of glasses.

  “Ah, there you are, young Jeremvl”

  I turned and found Mr. Donnelly at the door to the librarv. He seemed in remarkably good fettle for one who had just delivered a corpus to a widow.

  ‘Tve found where the spirits are stored.” said I, making more of the discovery than need be.

  “Ah, well.” said he, ambling indifferently toward my end of the room, “let’s have a look.”

  He knelt down beside me. laving down his stick upon the floor, and reached into the cabinet: he pulled the bottles out one bv one.

  “What have we here? A bottle of port, a bottle of usquebaugh, and one of Spanish brandy. A good haul, eh?”

  Then he uncorked them and smelled each, with a careful shake of his head.

  “No,” said he. “none of these did him in, I fear.”

  “But,” said I. “how can you tell: unless they be submitted to a chemist, or actually tasted?”

  “You wish me to taste them? I shall be happv to oblige.”

  He then, as if on a dare, took a swig from each bottle, corking them, each one again, as he went.

  “There,” said he, “are you satisfied?” This came with a bit of a laugh. He was indeed in an exuberant, reckless mood.

  “Indeed I am,” said I. “but had you been wrong, you might be dead or dving this very moment.”

  “But, you see, Jeremy, I couldn’t be wrong. Two things militated against the possibility of poison in these bottles. First of all, the strength and nature of the gift would be such that it would give a strong and distinctive odor, even mixed with spirits: It makes me wonder how he managed to get it down without first becoming suspicious. But then there is the second matter, related to the first. The dosage was so powerful, so caustic, and would have worked so swiftly, that the victim would hardly have had time to replace the bottle in the cabinet. You see?”

  “I do, yes, but all the same it seems a risky trial.”

  “Ah, well,” said he again, “we must take such chances in life from time to time, don’t you think?”

  I could not suppose what had altered his mood so. He rose swiftly and indicated with his stick that I should return the bottles to their proper place, which I did and closed the door to the cabinet.

  “Well,” said he to me, “perhaps we’ve presumed too long on the hospitality of Lady Goodhope. Let’s be off, shall we?”

  And so he led the way out of the room and down the hall to the street door, twirling his stick as he went, the very picture of the happiest man in all of London. Potter was at the door to hand him his tricorn, give him a bow, and see us on our way.

  Once outside on St. James Street, Mr. Donnelly paused and turned to me. A broad smile animated his face.

  “I have only one complaint against the widow,” said he, “and that is that I was offered nothing to eat: nor dinner, nor supper. It seems she is fasting, good woman that she is, in penance for his sins. So I must confess to you, Jeremy, that I have now upon me a most prodigious hunger. Have you any idea where we might eat that might not cost too dear?”

  I gave it hardly a moment’s thought, for I knew only one place nearby.

  “Perhaps,” I suggested, “the Cheshire Cheese would do.”

  “The very place! It is off Fleet Street, is it not?”

  “I believe so, Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Then I know the way.”

  We set off at a swift pace. His legs, being longer than mine, demanded that I stretch to match his stride. Yet I managed to keep up as he regaled me with some of what he had found out during his time with Lady Goodhope. He was quite pleased with himself to have learned what Sir John had omitted: when Lord Goodhope had entered the library and his condition at the time.

  “It was about half an hour before the shot was heard,” said he. “Lady Goodhope did not witness this herself but had it from two sources: that fellow Potter, whom Sir John is no doubt right not to trust; but also from the housekeeper, who happened to see him from above as she descended the stairs. Both agree that he seemed to be in good spirits, not in the least as one who had just taken poison certainly.”

  “But isn’t that strange?” I responded. “Was he then poisoned and shot within the space of half an hour?”

  “It is most perplexing,” he agreed. Then, after we had walked a bit, he put to me a question to do with my conversations below the stairs.

  “Well,” said I, “they seem greatly fearful that the house here in London will be closed up and they be turned out to look for work where it may be found.”

  “And well they might fear,” said Donnelly. “Between us, Jeremy, Lady Goodhope has confided in me her extreme dislike of this city and her wish to return permanently to Lancashire.”

  “They will be much disappointed,” said L

  “No doubt,” said he rather absently. Then, reflecting his true thoughts, he added, “She confided much to me this visit.”

  Yet he said no more of that. He grew silent, pondering matters; though what he pondered, it seemed, was of a cheering nature. Picking up his pace a bit, he moved along in such sprightly fashion that I found it necessary to break into a trot to keep up. Then he, noticing my difficulty, begged pardon in good gentlemanly style and slowed to accommodate me. Not long afterward he began humming to himself. It was some Irish ditty, a jig or reel of a distinctly happy sound. Remembering his earlier urgency with Sir John, I found his change of mood most perplexing.

  I offer this in explanation for the fact that I withheld from him the weightier matters I had learned in my conversation with Annie. How could I repeat the awful story of Meg struck dumb to one so lighthearted? Would he even give it his full attention? I kept my silence.

  It was now well past dark. Hackneys, carriages, and coaches plied the streets. The street lamps winked off in the distance ahead like so many stars. As we proceeded down the broad Strand, making our way through the crowd which had seemed to swell in spite of the hour, a cold wind blew up at our back, giving me reason to wish I had brought my heavy coat when I left Bow Street that very afternoon. Perhaps the mild days of spring that had sustained me on my hike to London were now ended for a bit. Strange to think that all that had taken place was so near in time. Much in my life had changed since then and might soon change greatly more.

  When we reached the Cheshire Cheese and entered inside, we found it filled quite to the walls with drinkers and diners. As we wandered about the room heavy with tobacco smoke looking in vain for an empty table, I felt a sudden tug at my sleeve. I looked about and found to my consternation that it had been grasped by none other than the windy Mr. James Boswell. He had recognized me from last night’s visit and insisted we sit down at the table which he held alone. There was method to his kindness, as there always is with such men, for it soon developed that he was bursting to know on what mission Sir John had been called away the night before.

  “I recall,” said he to me, “th
at Sir John had hoped to see Dr. Johnson. A great pity: the eminent lexicographer arrived immediately you left. And you left in a great hurry … ?”

  Mr. Boswell was already at dinner. He paused, a good-sized bit of beef at the end of his fork, as he shifted his inquiring gaze from me to Mr. Donnelly.

  “It was a grave matter,” said Mr. Donnelly.

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt, Mr… . ? Mr… . ?”

  Alas, my social graces were those of a child. I had failed to introduce the two men when we sat down. Yet they managed this without me. Mr. Boswell took particular pride in presenting himself, going so far as to say, “You’ve probably heard of me of late, Mr. Donnelly … ?”

  My older companion seemed to shift uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced at me for aid I could not provide. At last, he managed to blurt, “I’ve not, no sir, but I’m only lately settled in this city.”

  “And I’ve only lately published my first book! Surely you’ve heard of it! An Account of Corsica} It is much discussed.”

  “Well, yes, now that I hear the title,” said Mr. Donnelly, “I do, of course, recall your name, Mr… . Boswell. I’m honored, sir.”

  “Tish-tosh,” said Boswell, playing falsely at modesty. “But you would do well to look at it, if I may say so. I can tell you are a man of affairs. Mine is the first account of the Corsican struggle for independence. I gathered my intelligence at firsthand in an extended visit to that troubled island where I became a friend and confidant to the leader of that struggle. General Pasquale Paoli.”

  “I had no idea,” said Mr. Donnelly. “Then of course you are a true literary man.”

  “An amateur only,” said Mr. Boswell, at last popping that bite of beef into his mouth (after having waved it about for more than a minute).

  Just then a server appeared and Mr. Donnelly ordered a chunk of beef like Boswell’s and insisted, over my objections, that I have one, as well. Inwardly, I sighed, unsure that I could do it justice, having already dined well on a chop of mutton.