A Maggot - John Fowles

by John Fowles

  'The Thespian, sir. I attend to meet your client, as requested.'

  At last the lawyer speaks. 'Be seated.'

  'Sir.'

  And the actor advances towards a chair on the opposite side of the table, with regained aplomb. Before he reaches and can sit on it, the sound of the door behind being firmly closed makes him turn. A tall and silent clerk, also in black, like a heron turned crow, stands with his back to the door, a leatherbound quarto book in one hand. His stare is as intent as his master's, though markedly more sardonic. Lacy looks back down at the diminutive lawyer, who repeats his previous phrase.

  'Be seated.'

  Lacy parts his coat-tails and sits. There is a silence, and still the lawyer will not leave the actor with his eyes. Ill at ease, the latter feels in his waistcoat pocket and produces a silver snuffbox. He opens, then extends it.

  'Do you partake, sir? It is best Devizes.' Ayscough shakes his head. 'Then by your leave.'

  Lacy places two pinches on the snuff cushion of his left hand and sniffs them in; then snaps close and replaces the box in his pocket; at the same time extracting a lace handkerchief, with which he dabs his nostrils.

  'Your client has a dramatic effusion upon which he seeks my advice?'

  'He does.'

  'He has chosen well, sir, though I say it with modesty. Few can rival my experience, even my critics do me the honour of granting that.' He waits for some polite agreement, but the cue is not taken. 'May I ask if his muse is laughing Thalia, or rather grave Melpomene?'

  'His muse is Terpsichore.'

  'Sir?'

  'Is she not the muse of dance?'

  'I am no dancing-master, sir. I fear you mistake. For the pantomime you must seek my friend, Mr Rich.'

  'No mistake.'

  Lacy draws himself up a little. 'I am an actor, sir. My talents are familiar to all the cognoscenti of this city.'

  The lawyer, who has not unfolded his arms, shows a humourless smile.

  'And shall soon be as familiar to the cognoscenti of Tyburn. My client has written a piece for you, my friend. It is called The Steps and the String, or Twang-dang-dillo-dee. In which you shall jig upon the scaffold, at the end of Jack Ketch's rope.'

  There is a moment's shock on Lacy's face, then he sits bolt upright, his cane held to one side.

  'Is this an impertinent jest, sir?'

  The little lawyer stands, his hands on the table, and leans a fraction towards his victim.

  'No jest ... Mr Brown. By Heavens, no jest, you impudent rogue.'

  The actor stares back at the fierce eyes, as if he cannot credit their sudden sternness, or his own ears.

  'My name is -'

  'Four months since in the county of Devon you passed as Brown. Do you dare to deny it?'

  The actor looks abruptly away.

  'You extravagate, sir. I take my leave.'

  He stands and turns to march towards the door. The clerk, who still waits there, and no longer has any smile, does not shift. He simply lifts the book he holds in front of him, against his breast, holding it there with both hands, and exhibiting the cross stamped on its leather cover. The lawyer's voice speaks sharply.

  'You are smoked out, sirrah!' Lacy glances back, and draws himself up. 'And do not try your hollow airs upon me. It is not so long since that your kind were publicly flogged for their pains. I advise you to put your buskins by. This is a chamber of the law. No playhouse, where you can strut in a tawdry crown and awe a crowd of gaping dolts with your rodomontadoes. Do I make myself plain?'

  Once again the actor looks away from those eyes, through the nearest window and at the green leaves, as if he wished himself among them. There is a small silence. At last his eyes turn back.

  'I would have your authority to address me thus.'

  The lawyer extends a small hand and, not leaving the actor's eyes, begins counting his authority on his fingers.

  'Item, I have inquired and you were not in London at the time in question. Item, I have been where you were, I have marched in your mendacious footsteps. Item, I have sworn affidavits as to your exact appearance, down to that very growth I perceive upon your right nostril. Item, my clerk behind you has spoken with one who called on some matter at your lodging at the said time and was told you was upon private business in the West Country. And by whom, pray? None other than your wife, forsooth. Would you have her so great a liar as yourself?'

  'I will not deny I chanced to be in Exeter.'

  'You lie.'

  'It may be proven no lie. Ask at the Ship, beside the Cathedral, where I lay.'

  'On what business?'

  'Upon promise of an engagement ... which came to nothing.'

  'I'll not discuss with you, Lacy. I have not done with other items. For servant you had one Farthing, a Welsh fellow not worth his name. You also carried with you one who passed as a maidservant, one Louise. Well may you cast your eyes down, sir. For there is worse yet. You had one other with you, a servant both deaf and dumb, to your supposed nephew, Mr Bartholomew. That servant is not disappeared, sir. But found dead, under great suspicion of further foul murder done by persons hitherto unknown - but now known, sir, and here before me!'

  At the word 'dead' the actor has looked up, and for the first time without semblance of artifice.

  'How ... dead?'

  The lawyer slowly sits back down in his chair. He is silent a moment, sizing his man. Then he poises his fingertips together and speaks in a less peremptory voice.

  'Well, sir. And what's that to you? Were you not in Exeter at the time - upon promise of an engagement?' The actor stands silent. 'Did you not play a main part in an impudent new satire, this last March and April, until the non-week? A piece called Pasquin by an arrant rogue, one Fielding, at the Haymarket little theatre?'

  'It is well known. All London saw it.'

  'You were Fustian, were you not - a large part?'

  'Yes.'

  'A great success, I am told, like everything else in these sacrilegious times that has the effrontery to mock the constitution. How long had it run, when the Easter week came - April 17th, was it not, that you stopped?'

  'Some thirty performances. I forget.'

  'No, sir. Thirty-five. The longest run since its equal in impertinence, The Beggar's Opera, was it not?'

  'It is possible.'

  'What, you don't know? Were you not also in that piece, these seven or eight years past?'

  'I took a small part, to please Mr Gay. We were friends, I had that honour.'

  'Honour, indeed! Is that honour, to take a part that made a footpad and felon of the most eminent commoner in this nation, its chief minister besides? Were you not that most wicked and scurrilous travesty of Sir Robert Walpole, named Robin of Bagshot? And your wife no better - was she not in that same piece Dolly Trull, a shameless trollop, that I doubt she found it trouble to impersonate?'

  'Sir, I most indignantly protest your last aspersion. My wife -'

  'A fig for your wife. I know you, sir, and far better than you suppose. As I know what happened when they return to resume with Pasquin on the 26th of April last. You are mysteriously not there, sir, your fine part is played by someone else, one Topham, is it not so? And I know the lying excuse you gave, sir, I have witnesses to it, for breaking your engagement. Am I to believe that you forsook the triumph of the season, in which you had a handsome share, to go to Exeter upon promise of an engagement? You were bought away, Lacy, and I know by whom.'

  The actor has stood at an oblique angle, listening to this, his head slightly down. Now he looks back at the lawyer, a simpler man, without pretence.

  'I have committed no crime, I know nothing of ... what you tell me. I will swear to that.'

  'You will not deny you were bought to accompany a person called Mr Bartholomew on his journey west, in the last week of this April past?'

  'I have a right to know what bears upon my answer to that.'

  The little lawyer is silent for a moment. 'I will tell you your right. Deny m
e still and I will have you straight from this room to Newgate, then in chains to Devon, for the next assize. Admit you are who I say, tell all under oath, and we may see. He for whom I proceed shall decide.' He raises a stern finger. 'But I warn you, I'll have all - not one tittle omitted. Or he and I will have you broken into as many shards as a china pot. He has but to nod, and you are dust. You shall curse the day that you were born.'

  The actor returns to his chair and sits heavily. He shakes his head, and looks to the floor.

  'Well, sir?'

  'I was deceived, sir, grossly deceived. I believed it a harmless subterfuge in pursuit of a worthy and pitiable end.' He looks up. 'You will not credit me, but you see an honest man before you. That I was guilty of credulity, foolishness in what happened, alas I cannot deny. But not of evil intent or action. I must pray you to believe that.'

  'Plea me no pleas, sir. I give no credit, except upon facts.'

  'To the estimable Mrs Lacy you are unjust. She had no part whatsoever in this.'

  'I shall determine that.'

  'You may ask of me, sir. I am well known in my profession. I knew Mr Gay well, his friend the Duchess of Queensberry too, and her most august husband. I had the honour of General Charles Churchill's friendship, I met him most often at Grosvenor Street, before Mrs Oldfield died. I know Mr Rich of Goodman's Fields. Mr Cibber the poet laureate, Mr Quin, the virtuous Mrs Bracegirdle. All will speak for me, that I am no Thomas Walker, no shame to my profession.' The lawyer says nothing, watching him. 'I have offended some great person?' Still the lawyer says nothing, his gaze intent. 'I feared it might be so. If I had known at the beginning what I came to know finally .. .' Again he is not answered. 'What am I to do?'

  'Make oath and tell, without omission. And from the beginning.'

  Historical Chronicle August 1736

  The Examination and Deposition of

  Francis Lacy

  the which doth attest upon his sworn

  oath, this three and twentieth day ,

  of August in the tenth year of the

  reign of our sovereign Lord George the

  second, by the grace of God King of Great

  Britain and of England, &c.

  * * *

  MY name is Francis Lacy. I dwell at Hart Street near the Garden, two houses above the Flying Angel. I am fifty-one years of age. I was born in London, in the parish of St Giles. I am an actor, grandson to John Lacy, whom King Charles favoured.

  * * *

  Q. Before all else you shall answer me this. Knew you Mr Bartholomew was under false name?

  A. I did.

  Q. Knew you who he truly was?

  A. I did not, and do not, to this day.

  Q. On what occasion did you last see him?

  A. The first of May last.

  Q. Do you know where he is now?

  A. I do not.

  Q. You are upon oath.

  A. So do I speak, sir.

  Q. You swear that since that first day of May you have neither seen, nor held communication with him, nor had news whatsoever of him through any other party?

  A. I most solemnly swear. Would to God that I did know.

  Q. Now I ask the same of your other two companions - your man and the maid. What of them?

  A. I know no more of them, since that same day. I beg you to believe, sir, the circumstances are so embroiled, if I might explain -

  Q. You shall explain. But in good time. For now, you also swear you do not know where these two may be found?

  A. I do, and also that until this day I knew nothing of the death of the servant. May I ask -

  Q. You may not. And Heaven help you if you lie.

  A. May Heaven strike me down upon the instant, sir, when I shall.

  Q. Very well. But I remind you that ignorance of consequence is no plea in court. You remain accessary to the crime. Now I will hear all, and from the beginning.

  A. It is a strange tale, sir. I must seem foolish in it. In my own defence I must tell as I took matters at the time. Not as I later learnt them to be.

  Q. On that we may agree. Commence.

  A. It was in the middle of April last. As you know, I played Fustian in young Mr Fielding's Pasquin, a part in which I flatter myself -

  Q. Never mind your flattery. To the point.

  A. I deem it to the point, sir, that the piece was most favourably received and my playing noticed. A day or two before it was to close for Easter, the man Dick came one forenoon to my house in Hart Street, with a letter for me from his master, who signed himself not by name, but as Philocomoedia. There was a packet within, containing five guineas. The letter asked me to accept them as a token of esteem for my performance, on which the writer paid me some more particular compliments.

  Q, You have this epistle still?

  A. At my house. I remember its terms. It is little germane.

  Q. Continue.

  A. The writer claimed he had seen the piece three times, solely for the pleasure of studying my talents, such as they are. Then that he would be greatly favoured if I would meet him, as he had a matter of mutual benefit to broach. A time and place were proposed, tho' he held himself ready to suit my convenience.

  Q. What time and place?

  A. Trevelyan's Coffee-house, the morrow morning.

  Q. And you said yes?

  A. I did, sir. I won't deny I found the present handsome.

  Q. And smelt more guineas to come.

  A. Honest guineas, sir. My profession is less richly rewarded than yours.

  Q. Were you not surprised? Are not the females in your calling the more customary recipients of such golden requests for assignations?

  A. I was not, sir. Not all have your poor opinion of the stage. Many gentlemen take pleasure in conversing upon the dramatic and histrionic arts, and by no means spurn our

  company. Others aspire themselves to the bays, and are not above seeking our advice and support in seeing their effusions mounted. I ventured to presume that this was one such. It

  would not have been the first I have had such commerce with, I may assure you. I have myself Englished from the French, and with success. My The Cit Grown Beau from Moliere was -

  Q. Yes, yes. Roscius sallied out to earn his fee. What next?

  A. His man, this mute fellow Dick, was at the door of Trevelyan's in wait for me. I was conducted to a private room. There I met Mr Bartholomew.

  Q. Under this name?

  A. Yes. He so presented himself.

  Q. Alone?

  A. Alone, sir. We sat, he renewed the compliments of his letter, he asked me of my self and other parts I had played.

  Q. Seemed he one of your cognoscenti?

  A. He made no pretence there, sir. Confessed himself a stranger in London and to the theatre till recently, and hitherto taken up with other interests.

  Q. Arrived from where?

  A. From the North, sir. He was not: more precise, but from his voice 1 judged him from the North-east. So do they speak from Yorkshire north.

  Q. And these other interests?

  A. The natural sciences. He claimed had much neglected the arts since leaving university.

  Q. And of his supposed family?

  A. I come to that. I made a polite inquiry there, having spoken overlong of my own history. Thereupon he said, with I thought a somewhat embarrassed face, that he was younger son of a baronet, but wished to disclose no more, for we now touched upon the more serious matter of our meeting. I must tell you that all that followed was proven false.

  Q. Tell as you were told.

  A. I would not waste your -

  Q. I will judge of my time. Tell.

  A. He began in hypothetick vein, sir. Which I came to discern was a frequent thing in all his conversation, as you shall hear. He asked me what I should say, were I suitably rewarded, to playing a part for him alone. I requested to know what kind of part. He replied, One I should give you. I thought we had come then to the nub of it, that he had written some piece he would hear m
e declaim for him, so said I was sure I should be pleased to serve him in such a thing. Very well, he says, but say it should not be here and now, Mr Lacy, neither for one performing, but for several days, perchance more; and I must ask it for this end of month, for I am desperate pressed; yet that may be to your advantage, for I know you are engaged at the Little Theatre, and I must make it worth your while to leave. So said he. I confess I was somewhat taken aback, and the more when he went on to ask how much I took for my part at the Haymarket. I explained our way of dividing receipts and put it at a mean for my share of five guineas the week. Very well, he says, let me put my part at five guineas the day, whatever the receipts, should you consider that worthy of your powers? I was the so dumbfounded at such prodigious handsomeness, I might hardly credit my ears, and thought him at first to jest. But he was not, very far from it. For as I hesitated, he further declared that since I must travel to play the part, and suffer other inconvenience, that might take a fortnight in all, he would happily offer another thirty guineas for my acceptance, thus making a round hundred for my service to him. Mr Ayscough, I am not so well circumstanced that I could lightly turn up my nose at such an untoward offer. Here was I offered to gain in a fortnight what

  I should not despise for a six-month of endeavour. I must tell you further I knew Pasquin was very nigh played out, as we say, for our receipt was falling, and the season likewise near its end. My friend Mr Topham had taken my part for two days earlier when I was indisposed, and not without some plaudit, though -

  Q Enough. Very well, sir, you were tempted. To the point.

  A. I thought in addition that I conceived what he would be at - some surprise, some entertainment he intended to gratify his neighbours and family with in his native province. I was soon undeceived, however. I prayed him to be more particular. I remember his reply verbatim, sir. I have need of one, Mr Lacy, he said, to go with me on a journey. A grave and creditable person, he said, as I perceive it would take you no trouble to act, since you are thus by nature. I thanked him for the compliment, but declared myself at a loss to guess why he should need such a companion. Once again lie appeared confused and would not answer. He stood and went to a window, as if cast deep in thought. There at last he turned upon me, as one obliged to take a new course, and asked me to forgive him, he was driven to subterfuge against his nature, and unused to not dealing frankly with all he met. Then he said, I have someone I must see, my life depends on it, and there are those who would prevent me, therefore I must make my journey under some colour of false circumstance. To which he added most vehemently that there was nothing of discredit or dishonour in what he wished. He said, I am a victim of unjust and unkind fate, which I would try to remedy. I give it you word by word, sir.