And indeed it did. Lord Lamford had inserted his boots into the dangling stirrups. He now shifted his great weight in the saddle and called out something to Mr. Deuteronomy.
It is rather difficult to describe the appearance of the nobleman upon that horse, for he certainly did not appear noble upon it. The way that he overflowed the small racing saddle made him look quite like a huge bear perched tentatively upon a small pony. Yet, still, the horse held his ground, his four hooves planted solidly beneath him.
Deuteronomy came over, no doubt in response to Lord Lamford’s call. An order was given. Deuteronomy collected the stepladder and backed away quite some distance. And then, as I was wondering why he had gone so far, the answer came in a series of powerful leaps-four in all. On the second of them, Lord Lamford lost his hold upon the stirrups. The third unseated him and landed him flat upon his back. The fourth leap seemed to be executed simply for the grand sport of it. For his part, Lord Lamford found no pleasure whatever in his grotesque position. He struggled to right himself and regain his feet. Shouting for help, he demanded a hand up.
All this we heard easily from our place at the window. Yet I hoped for the sake of the stable boys that they could not be heard by Lord Lamford, for they were laughing quite rudely at the plight of their master. Another shout was added to the cacophony in and outside the stable. Having tossed the stepladder aside, Mr. Deuteronomy came forward, calling the horse by name, attempting (I assumed) to calm him. Pegasus seemed quite calm. He studied Deuteronomy as he backed off a bit. Then did Deuteronomy shout the horse’s name for a second time and a third, and clapped his hands together, just as Pegasus cantered forward, as if still at play. As he reached the flailing form of Lord Lamford, the horse reared and, a moment later, brought his front hooves crashing down upon Lamford.
A howl of pain was heard. The boys, who had at last stopped laughing, ran to the door and then outside. Yet, for the time being, I kept my place at the window and saw the entire exercise repeated: Pegasus ran back a bit, then cantered forward to rise once again and come down most brutally with his hooves upon the body. Lamford no longer moved. If there were cries for help, I heard them not. I went to the door just in time to hear the horse’s hooves beat down once again upon him. And then, a fourth time-the most frightening of all, for I was that much nearer and could see the damage wreaked by Pegasus upon that disgusting man. Oh, he was dead right enough. His broken limbs were thrown about in astonishing angles. Joints were added. Worst of all was the head, which had been quite flattened, and the worst of the worst was the face-a hideous pulp of flesh, brain, and blood.
“That may be quite the oddest story I have ever heard,” said Sir John with a sigh. “Forgive me for asking-and I mean it as no sign of doubt-but did it all happen just as you said?”
“It did, sir, just as I told it to you.”
“And Deuteronomy Plummer simply jumped into Pegasus’s saddle and rode away?”
“Well, not quite so casually as all that, perhaps. He asked me to return the wagon and the team to the stable-Burnaby’s in Market Street-and to Sir Joshua Reynolds he gave assurances that he was simply taking the horse away to shoot him. It seemed to satisfy Sir Joshua, though he was so eager to get away that I believe he would have been satisfied by whatever he was told.”
“I must speak to him about this,” said Sir John. “Oh, and the stable boys-you said he’d made certain promises to them.”
“Well, implied certain things, anyway. Just before he mounted up, he took them aside and seemed to be giving them instructions of some sort. I believe they have a meeting arranged.”
“But you didn’t hear where it was to be, or when?”
“No sir, I did not.”
He let forth another deep sigh. “You know, Jeremy, I put no credence in tales of the great understanding of some animals.”
“Of horses, for example?”
“Right to the point, yes. If Pegasus had perhaps been a dog, a trained wolf, something of that sort, I do believe I might be able to accept the facts that you have given me. I might be able to take them as you do.”
“And how do you believe I take them?”
“Gullibly, in a word. You seem to accept it that Deuteronomy instructed Pegasus to kill Lord Lamford, and is therefore responsible for his death.”
“Well, I have already quoted to you what I heard from Deuteronomy in Newmarket: that Pegasus is the smartest horse he ever knew. That was his claim, and so he proved in winning the King’s Plate in Newmarket.”
“Oh? Did he?” said Sir John in his argumentative fashion. “I thought what he proved was that he was the fastest horse on the track that day.”
“But sir, I saw Deuteronomy barking out orders to him, and Pegasus followed those orders in a manner most exact.”
“Do you think he was the only jockey that day barking out orders-as you put it? ‘Faster, faster!’ They must all have said that one time or another.”
“No doubt, but-”
“And did you not hear from both Mr. Bennett and this very morning from the stable boys that Pegasus never allowed any other but Deuteronomy climb upon his back?”
“Yes, but still, if you had only seen the two of them- Deuteronomy and Pegasus-in the stable together, you would have sworn that they were planning something.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized my faux pas.
“Unfortunately,” he responded coolly, “I was denied that on two counts. First of all, I was not there. Secondly, even if I had been there, I could not have seen any such thing for reasons you know only too well. But further, Jeremy, even if I had been there and been able to watch the human and the equine conspirators at work, I would nevertheless have denied them responsibility for what followed. Why? Simply because a man cannot communicate to a horse in the manner you have described-not with any reasonable expectation that his instructions would be followed. Because it is not reasonable, simply that-and nothing more. Do you not understand that?”
Thus our conversation on this matter paused where it usually ended. This, as it happened, was the third time we had had the discussion. The first followed my visit to Mr. Donnelly to drop off the body of Mr. Bennett. (Over his protests, of course, for he was to leave with his bride-to-be for Ireland the next day.) I ran into Number 4 Bow Street and blurted out to Sir John that Lord Lamford had been killed-and little more.
“Murdered?” he had asked.
“Perhaps,” said I. “I shall give you all the details soon as ever I return.”
And that I did less than an hour later, seated in his chambers, telling a much longer version of the same story, including many details. At that point, he seemed satisfied. Finally, after dinner that evening, he requested my presence in his “study” to talk a bit more of the case of Lord Lamford: “Some information has come in from Mr. Donnelly that fills out the picture a bit more completely.” The “new information” of which he spoke was that in the opinion of Mr. Donnelly, which he had freely expressed in his report, Mr. Bennett had almost certainly been murdered. The wound was in the back of his head, which made a suicide physically possible but highly unlikely. Then did he ask me to go through the entire story once again, for he had caught some hint earlier that I actually believed Deuteronomy Plummer to be in some sense responsible for the death of Lord Lamford. And so have I included here the lively talk we then had on these matters of the culpability of humans who act through the agency of animals. Yet there was, as I recall, a bit more to the matter; for having talked through it thus far, he added a sort of coda, as I sat puzzling through what already had been said.
“Jeremy, let me ask you something. What is the purpose of the statements that you have made supporting the notion that Pegasus killed Lord Lamford on the instructions of Mr. Deuteronomy? What result do you seek? Do you wish me to bind him for trial at Old Bailey? The charge: murder. The weapon: a three-year-old stallion.”
Even to speak of such a thing did chill me. “Oh no, sir. I would not wish that at all.”
“I mention it in this way because your intention is still to be a barrister, is it not?”
“Oh yes sir, most emphatically so.”
“You must remember then that the job of pleading is by and large a game of wits. You must win over the judge and the jury, which is hard enough in itself, but to give the prosecution something to work with-that would surely be quite mad, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
“Why, a good lawyer for the prosecution could work wonders with a jury if he had something like your theory to go on. Intellectual speculation in its proper place is one thing, yet its proper place is not the courtroom, nor is it a good subject for discussion with a magistrate, such as myself. Lucky for you I put no faith in such theories of communication between humans and animals. Why, I would sooner credit Divine Intervention in this case. Yes, Divine Intervention might work very well indeed. Such a pity that such a fine animal as Pegasus must be destroyed.”
“Must he be?”
“So says the law.”
I let that stand without comment. Thinking that he had said about all he wished to say, I made ready to take my leave of him. Yet before I did, a thought did occur to me.
“I wonder, Sir John,” said I, “if there have been any further developments in the matter of Elizabeth Hooker.”
“Ah, yes, indeed there have been,” said he. “If Saunders Welch is given a push by the Lord Chief Justice, there is no magistrate can match him for swift justice.”
“Why? What has he done?”
“Mr. Bailey informed me when he came in that he had just heard that Welch had called a special session of his court, had his constables bring in Mother Jeffers, and based solely upon the testimony offered by Elizabeth Hooker, had bound Jeffers for trial in Felony Court.”
“On what charge?”
“The only one possible-wrongful imprisonment.”
“Can she be convicted?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. I will say, however, that in his haste to please Lord Mansfield, Mr. Welch has put a burden upon the prosecution much greater than usual. Whoever it is appears for the Crown must build his case from scratch-and he will have little time to do it.”
“Why so little time, Sir John?”
“Because the trial has been set for Monday next,” said he.
“Monday next? Why, that is but four days hence!”
“So it is.”
“But why such dispatch? This is no matter of state. No insult has been thrown at the King. What is the great engine that drives this with such urgency?”
“Ah, you have it right, Jeremy. This indeed is no matter of state. And certainly no insult of any sort has been offered. What then is the great engine? It is known quite prosaically as Public Opinion.”
Well have I learned the power lodged in those two words. Though the public’s opinion may be right or wrong, it is seldom that much can be said against it once it is formed. How then is it formed? Why, most often by those who write pamphlets on such subjects as fall before the public’s view. The purpose of these pamphlets, in fact, is to form the opinion of the public. That is why those who write them take on such airs, and why it is said up and down Grub Street by such as these that they are the true rulers of England.
True enough, there are occasions, and many of them, when the writers of pamphlets have done good works, supporting this or that cause that needed and deserved support. In other instances, the pamphlets had attacked that which richly deserved it and brought the light of opinion upon that which many would have liked to keep hid. These are, in this way, battles of the pamphlets, wherein pamphleteers on either side of a question will rage and contradict each the other through their pamphlets, fighting to form public opinion.
Nevertheless, the weakness of the pamphlet as a means of public discussion lies precisely in that. A pamphlet presents only one side of a question, argues only for innocence or for guilt. I have seldom (not to say never) read one which presented a balanced, detailed picture of any situation, or admitted that there was something to be said for both sides. Pamphlets tend, by their very nature, to be splenetic, rather than intellectual.
The only place one may expect to find both sides of a question presented with a degree of fairness is in a court of law. That is what first attracted me to the law, and what, in spite of occasional disappointments, has kept me at it for a good many years. It would, however, be altogether vain to pretend that the law is uninfluenced by public opinion. On the contrary, it is indeed often a factor in ways that Sir John suggested. Public opinion will often bring a matter to trial with unseemly haste-that is, before one side or the other, or indeed both sides, are ready for the trial. And beyond that, public opinion may put undue pressure upon members of a jury, making those who must ultimately decide a case fearful of voting yea or nay in contradiction to the popular cause.
Pamphleteers had first discovered Elizabeth Hooker when she disappeared. They brought her a sort of fame. They declared her the most beautiful and clever, the sweetest-natured, and above all, the most innocent of all maidens. How could such a one be stolen bodily from the streets of London? Was ours then a city so unsafe, populated by criminals, kidnappers, and the like? Et cetera. And then, when Elizabeth returned, telling her tale of abduction and imprisonment, word came to the writers of pamphlets, and they flocked to her, interviewing her (some did not even bother to do that), accepting her every word as truth and fabricating those she did not supply. Her captor, Mother Jeffers, looked every bit the wicked witch. Her imprisonment was like that of Rapunzel. Her escape from her tower was like unto that of a princess in some fairy tale set in the dim long-ago.
In all, some six or seven pamphlets appeared before and during the trial. Each of them extolled the innocence of Elizabeth Hooker and denounced the guilt of Mother Jeffers. Had the pamphlets any great effect? They certainly did much to form public opinion in the matter. There was a great crowd that assembled in Covent Garden in her behalf the very evening of her return. And, on the eve of the trial, there was a torchlight parade from the Garden to Old Bailey in which the marchers carried signs bearing legends such as “Punish the old whore!” and “God bless the innocence of our dear Liz.” It was an altogether impressive showing and some eloquent speeches were made. But did all this influence the outcome of the trial? You must read the next chapter if you wish to discover that.
TWELVE
In which a death is discovered and an end is brought to all
We thought it odd when Mr. Marsden failed to appear next morn-odd, that is, because he sent no word by the landlord’s lad, whose responsibility it was to carry word to us when Sir John’s clerk felt unable to put in his usual day of work.
Mr. Marsden’s malady was a puzzle to us all. We had been assured that his was not a case of consumption. Still, his dry cough, which could, all of a sudden, explode into a racking, rasping spasm, was sometimes quite frightening and little different to us who heard it from that of the nasty illness that had half the population of London spitting blood upon the street.
Once I had asked him how he felt on those days when he was too ill to report for work. He answered me straightaway.
“Jeremy,” said he, “it’s the awfullest feeling you could ever imagine.”
“Oh?” said I, “can you describe it?”
“It’s like I can’t get enough air into my lungs, like they just won’t fill up, and I’m chokin’ to death right there in my room. A man can’t work when he feels himself in such a state, I’m sure you’d agree.”
“Certainly he cannot.”
He remained silent for a moment, reflecting. And then: “As jobs go, you know, this is a pretty easy one,” said he.
“But an important one,” I responded.
“Oh, I’ll grant you that-specially with Sir John being blind and all. But you’re used to writing letters for him and all kinds of other things. You’ll be able to do this job of mine better than I ever could.”
What an
odd thing for him to say! Was he thinking ahead to retirement-or. . what? Yet I did not immediately ask him to explain, and he never gave me a later opportunity.
All this I rolled over again in my mind as I made my way to Mr. Marsden’s dwelling place in Long Acre. What I learned there saddened me no end.
When Mr. Marsden failed to respond to the landlord’s knock upon the door, the latter had let himself in with his key and found the clerk dead in his bed. His body was cold to the touch; there was no sign of breathing, nor of a heartbeat. Nevertheless, out of respect for one who had been a longtime resident, he sent for a doctor who lived nearby. The medico was still present and was filling out the papers that declared Marsden officially dead. I introduced myself and asked what he was listing as the cause of death.
“A stoppage of the heart,” said he.
“Indeed?” said I. “He had for some time been troubled by a difficulty of some sort in the lungs and had been under a physician’s care.”
“Which physician is that?”
“Mr. Donnelly.”
“Mr. Donnelly, is it? Then he is but a surgeon.”
“Not so,” said I. “He is a graduate of the University of Vienna.”
He shrugged. “You may have him come and look at him, if you like.”
“Impossible, I fear. This very morning he and his bride-to-be departed for Ireland.”
“Then be satisfied with what I have put down here, for if this Marsden fellow’s heart had not stopped, he would, I assure you, be with us still today.”
When I returned to Bow Street, having made arrangements with the embalmer in Long Acre, I passed the sad news on to Sir John. He said I had done right in selecting a plain, board coffin to bury him in. (“Little would it matter to him if we were to put his remains in some grander box,” said Sir John.) Mr. Marsden would be buried out of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, in the same churchyard where Margaret Mary Plummer, Deuteronomy’s niece, had been laid to rest. A collection would be taken among the Bow Street Runners, all of whom knew him, to defray the costs of burial.
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