An Experiment in Treason (10 page)

“And do you not also suppose that Mr. Bilbo, too, would wish to talk with you?”

“I had that feeling, yes.”

“Well, dear Jeremy, it is my certain conviction that we have been summoned that they may say their good-byes.”

“Yes, certainly Marie-Helene wishes to say her good-bye to you — perhaps to me, as well, I suppose — for she will be gone some three years or more. But Mr. Bilbo? Bunkins?”

“Have you not the sense that God gave you? Do you not see that they are planning on escape?”

The word, which she had actually whispered, seemed to sound like a shout in the close quarters of the coach. I heard it, and heard it well, yet I refused to acknowledge it. I simply stared at her.

“Let me make it plain,” said she, continuing. “If the woman you loved were about to be sent away to serve a term in prison, perhaps even to be condemned to death — and you had the means to take her any place in the world, would you not steal her away and take her out of danger? Jeremy, he has riding at anchor out there in the river a fine seagoing vessel. You told me yourself that when last you saw him, Mr. Bilbo was counting his cash, and there were so many banknotes and sovereigns that you could not see the top of the desk. We know that he has sold his gaming den — for cash — and he has probably sold that grand house in St. James’s Street, as well. He has great wealth that can be spent anywhere. If you cannot see where all this is pointing, then you are not near as clever as I think you are.”

She, who was but sixteen, appeared much older as she expounded upon my blindness to the obvious. Her eyes shone steady and sharp. There could be no doubt of the intensity of her feeling as she made her argument. It seemed altogether impossible that this was the girl who had but a short time before rested her head upon my shoulder. She seemed to contain within her some several females of various ages. Which must I now address?

‘ Listen to me please, if you will,” said I, “and don’t interrupt. I have not heard what you have said, and for that matter, we have not had this conversation. If I had heard, and if this conversation had taken place, then I should have to go to Sir John and give it as our suspicion that Mr. Bilbo was preparing to aid and abet the escape of Marie-Helene, Lady Grenville. Naturally,” said I (a bit sarcastically), “I would give you credit and declare that you had convinced me. Now if — “

“But why?’ she demanded, interrupting in spite of my request. “Why would you have to bring this to Sir John?”

“Because I hope to be an officer of the court someday not so far in the future, and I want no stain upon my record. And if you are still as talkative as you have been in the past, you would not be able to resist spreading your thoughts and observations about and boasting you had convinced me. In other words, that I knew in advance of their plans.”

“I would not!” she declared. “I would do no such thing! ‘

“Perhaps indeed you would not. Perhaps you would get past that temptation and all would be well. Nevertheless there is this matter I should like to clear up between us. I should like to tell you, Clarissa, that I am as clever as you think I am. By the time I left Mr. Bilbo’s residence yesterday, I thought that there was much amiss, yet I would not allow myself to pursue such thoughts and draw the sort of conclusions that you have drawn, for the reasons I have just stated. I would have to be a dunce to thus overlook the obvious. And if you want suspicions, here is one of mine you may not have considered: I believe that Sir John himself is fearful that Black Jack and his lady will try something of the sort you’ve suggested. Do you recall how he came home from Bilbo’s the other night? So angry and out-of-sorts? I believe he sensed it then taking shape. He sent me with that dreaded message, because he did not want to know more about it, for if he did, he would have to prevent it — perhaps report it himself to the Lord Chief Justice.”

There I stopped, panting and quite out of breath. It seemed we were both left with nothing more to say, for we were silent for a considerable while.

“And so,” said Clarissa, “what shall we do?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, I should think.”

“But it’s all so plain,” she protested. “Do we cover our eyes and stuff our ears with cotton wool?”

“If we must, I suppose. Yet I do not think it will pose a problem. Black Jack is much too canny a fellow to ignore the limitations put upon us all. He will have explained to the others, I’m sure.”

As with so many things in life, the problems were greater in anticipation than they proved to be in actuality. It was a surprisingly happy occasion. Surmising correctly that we would have had our evening meal, Mr. Bilbo served us dessert rather than dinner — or, indeed, it was Marie-Helene who had proven so dangerous to Clarissa when last we had imbibed. The dessert was a tart in the French style — a variety of berries and other fruits in a base of Sweet custard, and all of it baked in a pie of the finest, flakiest crust. I had had no such treat since our days in Deal. It was, in fact, so like what we had eaten during our first days there that I began to wonder.

“Tell me,” said I, “was this delectable dessert baked by the famed Jacques?”

“It was,” said Marie-Helene. “And do you remember him so well?”

“In truth, I never met the man. Yet I believe I would know him an3rwhere by his works, which are quite the finest of their kind.”

“Put like a true gallant! ” said she, punctuating her declaration with a bit of impromptu applause.

“Might I meet him?”

At my question, Marie-Helene and Mr. Bilbo exchanged glances; hers was of an inquiring sort, and his response came back in the negative.

“Ah, but no, Jeremy. That is not possible. He has begun his journey back to France, and left this tart which we eat as his final gift to us.”

And Jimmie Bunkins merely smiled.

So it went through the evening as we recalled old times and other occasions.

Clarissa reminded Mr. Bilbo of our chance meeting with him in Bath, where he had come of a purpose to lose his money. I asked Marie-Helene if she knew how Black Jack and Bunkins had met; then did I tell her the whole story before she could say yea or nay. Then did Bunkins stand and toast our host declaring that he was “the best cove a lad could want and to be equaled only by one who ain’t with us at the moment.”

It was thus a true valedictory moment with toasts raised and drunk; there was laughter, yet through it all a sense of underlying seriousness, as well. More stories were told, another bottle of wine opened, and then at last we divided; I went with Bunkins at his suggestion to the front of the great house, as Mr. Bilbo excused himself and said that there were matters which begged his attention in his study. Thus were Clarissa and Marie-Helene left alone to talk, as the latter had requested.

Bunkins and I walked down the long hall to the street door, which he threw open in an invitation to step outside. He followed me and left the door ajar.

“Let’s sit right here on the steps,” said he. “It ain’t too cold for you here, is it?”

I assured him that it was not.

“I like to sit out here and do my thinking sometimes, and I decided, maybe I’d tell you what I been thinking about. I mean, if you don’t mind listening.”

“Go ahead,” said I. “We’ve not talked so in quite some time.”

“You was remembering for the lady how it was that me and the cove got together. Jeremy, do you remember how it was you and me met?”

“Well, I remember you took me to the Raker’s to show me the body of the old barrow-woman.”

“That’s right, Moll Caulfield. We did that, but that ain’t how we met. You remember? We fell to tussling one day right there in the middle of Berry Lane. And when the Blind Beak hisself come out to pull us apart, I knew him right off and took off running, fast as ever I could.”

“Which was pretty fast back then.”

“Still is.” He laughed. “Anyways, that’s how we came to know each other — by rolling around in the dust in Berry Lane. And I been thinking about that, so I have. And you know what I been thinking? That all the good things that came to me since then — meeting Mr. Bilbo, getting the little bit of learning I do have, all of it, came from meeting you and that fight we had some years back. You changed things for me. Never had much luck till I met you, and since then, it’s all been good luck, and I want to thank you for that.”

We talked on together for many minutes more, perhaps an hour in all. Yet what was said further was in no wise so seriously said as that eulogy that Bunkins had offered me. We ceased only when the coach was brought round. Then was it quite obviously time to think about leaving. Bunkins returned me to the dining room where all awaited us, and he did announce that the coach was out there in St. James’s Street. Once again then at the door to the street Clarissa and I stood awkwardly wondering what was now to be said.

“Au revoir,” Marie-Helene offered. “That means, ‘till I see you again.’ It is a promise that we will.”

“Au revoir, ” said we all.

In the coach, Clarissa and I found we had tears to be wiped. I passed to her my clean kerchief, clearing my throat quite earnestly yet still sensing a certain huskiness in my voice as I attempted to speak.

“What did you think?” I asked Clarissa.

“Oh, many things,” said she, “but let’s not talk about it just now.”

I took her hand and held it — loosely, so that she might take it back from me whenever she wished. Yet she did not withdraw it. “You may put your head on my shoulder, if you like.”

That she did, and we rode thus half the distance to Bow Street. But then, without moving her head from its station on my shoulder, she spoke in a quiet voice.

“I can tell you one of the things that I think.”

“And what is that?”

“Molly Sarton is wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“About Marie-Helene seeking to trap Black Jack into saving her. She, in all truth, loves the man dearly.”

“You’re sure of that?”

Only then did she move her head from my shoulder and look me square in the face.

“Aren’tyou?” she asked.

I thought hard upon it for a long moment. “Yes,” said I, “I’m just as sure as you are.”

She put her head back on my shoulder.

“I heard no good-byes and no talk of escape,” said I to her. “Let us not say a word of what was or was not said this evening. Let us speak only of The Merchant of Venice.”

“What? The Mer — oh yes, yes indeed. Not a word … only … only, dear God, I hope I see them all again.”

Having uttered that distressed cry, she did once again return her head to the spot where it had previously rested. I was content with that, in truth, I liked it very well indeed. I thought, as thus we kept our silence, of the many conversations we two had had over the past few years — conversations which more often than not had ended in debate. I had enjoyed such play, for play was what it was. Nevertheless, this silence between us was something new, something more serious, something vaguely profound. I rather liked it.

“Tell me a little about your doctor friend, Jeremy.”

It was Molly Sarton’s first inquiry as we set off for our great buying trip to Covent Garden for the Franklin dinner. I was sure that there would be more questions to follow.

“You mean Mr. Donnelly, of course,” said I. “What do you wish to know?”

“Well, there’s something right there. You say he’s a doctor, but you call him plain old mister. Now, how does that happen?”

I explained to her that Mr. Donnelly, the son of a prosperous Dublin draper, had been sent to the University of Vienna for his medical education.

“Ah, Vienna is it?” said she to me. “He must be properly educated then.”

“And indeed he is,” I agreed. “The medical faculty there has on it skilled surgeons — and none of them graduates of barbering school — so that a graduate in medicine of the University of Vienna may be skilled both in medicine and surgery, as Mr. Donnelly is. And a good thing, too, for when he graduated, the only place open to him was as a ship’s surgeon in the Royal Navy.”

“Which made him a plain mister, him being Irish and all.”

“Just so.”

“He and Sir John are good friends, are they?”

“Oh yes.”

“They work together?”

“In a way they do,” said I. “Sir John secured a position for him as medical examiner for the City of Westminster.”

“Is that near London?”

“It’s part of London. We’re in Westminster now, as it happens.”

“Well, pardon my ignorance, I’ve only just arrived, ” said she with a hearty laugh. “But what’s medical examining got to do with judging?”

“Ah well,” said I, “in matters of murder much is often revealed by the condition of the body — all sorts of details, perhaps even who committed it.”

That did indeed impress her. “And he does that? Why, it’s more than you could even suppose.”

“And he does it all in addition to his regular practice.”

“His patients are mostly women, as I understand?” She allowed that to hang in the air, as a question.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that.”

She looked at me curiously, as if she didn’t know quite how to take what I had just said. In fact, I knew little about his patients. The few times I had been in his waiting room during his surgery hours, those sitting in attendance seemed about equally divided between male and female. Who would put such an idea into her head? Clarissa? I thought not. No, more likely that suggestion had come from Lady Fielding herself.

We were now in Russell Street, and the great crowd-filled expanse of Covent Garden lay just ahead. What must Molly think of all this — the huge, pressing throng of this great city? I remember when I first arrived in London some four years before, I could not, for the life of me, believe that there could be so many people in a single place.

“And what’s this I hear about him following some noble widow out to Lancashire, hoping to win her hand? I suppose she was Lancashire Catholic … ?”

“Again you’re asking me about something that I know nothing of.” (Reader, I confess that in so saying I told a lie. Indeed I did know a good deal of that sad episode, for I heard if from his own lips. I recall sitting with Sir John and Lady Fielding and Annie as Mr. Donnelly had told his disastrous tales — no, Clarissa had not yet joined us then. This meant that Lady Fielding was again the source of her information.)

“Well, he Lf Catholic, isn’t he?”

“So far as I know.”

“Well, I’m sure he is. He’s Irish and from Dublin, and he even lookj Catholic.”

What an odd thing to say! “What does a Catholic look like?” I asked her, all in confusion.

“Like me, for a sample. I’m Catholic — or would be if there d been any priests in the part of Kent where I grew up. But that’s what my mother said, and that’s how she raised me. She even took me up to London and found a priest to baptize me.”

I could not but laugh at what she had just declared. “If you look Catholic,” said I, “then you must be wrong about Mr. Donnelly, for he doesn’t look a bit like you. You’re much prettier.”

“Nice of you to say so,” said she, “but for an Irishman he’s not too bad, that one, not bad at all.”

Ah, these complicated matters of human attraction. How good it was at least that each seemed drawn to the other. What sadness might result if only one felt attracted to the other! Poor Clarissa.

But it seemed to me that Molly and I had come to Covent Garden for a purpose, had we not? Was it my place to tell her that? Reluctantly, I began to frame my reminder as she spoke up again.

“I know you’ve a bit of influence with Lady F — ” said she.

“I have?” I must have sounded astonished, for indeed I was.

“Any fool could see it, ” said she. “But that’s neither here nor there. I was just buttering you up to ask a favor of you. Would you see what you could do to get me and the doctor seated together? It’s not the place of the cook to dictate seating to the hostess, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, I do. Most emphatically.”

“All right, that’s enough of that. We came here to buy the makings of a grand dinner, did we not? “

“We did — but where to first? The greengrocer or the butcher?”

“To the butcher, by all means,” said she. “Buy your cut of meat, then build the rest of the meal round it. That’s how it’s done.”

“As you say, Molly. Let’s get through this mob then. Stay close behind me, and I’ll lead the way.”

As the day passed. Lady Fielding became more excited and flustered as she prepared for her role in staging dinner. At one point, according to Clarissa, she threw her hands into the air and shouted in a desperate manner, as one crying out to be saved from drowning.

“Dear God, help me! I have nothing to wear this evening.”

Clarissa assured her that was not so, and took her up to the big bedroom shared by the Fieldings; from out of the wardrobe she began pulling gowns and laying them upon the bed, until there was not bed to be spied beneath them. Then did it become a matter of choosing rather than finding, and Lady Fielding discovered that to be nearly as difficult. Yet somehow they brought it down to a choice of three, and then was it a matter of trying them on, for Lady F. had put on a bit of weight, and what appeared well when held up by Clarissa might be altogether unsuitable when worn. By this wearying process a gown was chosen, one which was a favorite of one and all, certainly of Clarissa’s and mine, and we had always supposed it to be a favorite of our mistress, as well, for she seemed to wear it at every opportunity.

Next came bathing, the fixing of the hair just so, dressing, perfuming, et cetera — all of which had Clarissa running about, back and forth through the bedroom door. Thus, at last relieved from such duties and requests, she was mightily surprised when Lady Fielding asked her to attend, as well, to the details of seating.

“I haven’t given a thought to it,” said Lady F, “and I’m much too tired to give any thought to it now, so Clarissa, will you please, please do it for me now? I do need some time to relax before dinner.”

It was then, reader, that I happened along. I had caught Clarissa taking a moment’s rest in a corner of the kitchen. She, near to tears from the effort she had already expended, confessed to me that she had no idea how to go about such a task as charting the arrangements of seating. Who was most important? Where should he sit in relation to Sir John?

Then did I do the decent thing and offer to attend to the matter An Experiment in Treason “J “J

for her. She gladly consented, kissed me on the cheek, and gave to me the place cards, each of which bore upon it the name of one who would sit at the table. Thanking me once again, she went off to attend to her own preparations — only to run back with a request.

“I wish to sit next to you,” said she, “yet only if you, too, want it so.”

With a sigh, I agreed. “I’ll see if I can arrange it,” said I, knowing that now that I had the place cards, such was well within my powers.

It was not truly what one could call a promise, yet giving some consideration to the matter, I decided it would be easy to honor it. After all, it worked out best that way. On Sir John’s right would sit Benjamin Franklin, and down the table, Molly Sarton and Mr. Donnelly (as both had requested). On Sir John’s left would be Samuel Johnson, Clarissa, and myself.

Lady Fielding would, of course, sit at the foot. It was thus easily done.

When I returned to Sir John’s chambers below, I found, to my surprise, that Mr. Gabriel Donnelly had dropped in on the magistrate. I heard his voice and entered the room quietly, giving a wave of greeting to him. His visit, as I soon understood, had to do with an addendum to his postmortem report upon the corpus of the footman who had been murdered in the course of the burglary of Lord Hillsborough’s residence. Mr. Donnelly had not preceded me by much. He had evidently only begun to explain to Sir John why he had come when I returned to ask the magistrate what more he might require.

“And how did you manage to miss something — or perhaps I should say anything — m. your report?” asked Sir John. “You are usually so very thorough.”

“But not faultless,” put in Mr. Donnelly.

“None of us is, sir,” said Sir John.

“But you ask how it was I happened to miss the obvious. In truth, sir, it was because I became so fascinated with the wound and what it revealed of the human brain that I gave insufficient thought to the sort of instrument that might have caused it.”

“Why, I assumed it was a club of some sort.”

“If by a club you mean one of wood, then I would have to say that no such club could have caused the wound that I saw. What, I began to ask myself, could so thoroughly smash through skin, the bone of the skull, and so damage the brain stem that all involuntary action — heartbeat, breathing, et cetera — would then stop?”

“And what answer did you give yourself? “

“None at first, for I had allowed the body to be taken a-way for burial. I fretted over it no end, wondering if it were a matter of sufficient import to merit exhumation. But then I thought that I had some bits of the body that might tell me all that I needed to know.”

“Bits of the body?” said Sir John, clearly puzzled. “What bits were they? “

“The pieces of skull which I had picked from round and inside the wound. I did assemble them and noted two things. First, that there were too many bits, too many pieces, to form a wound of the proper size and shape. And second, the surplus pieces were, it seemed, of a different composition and, oddest of all, they seemed to be crumbling.”

“What were they?”

“I could only be sure when I took down my microscope, for indeed the microscope cannot lie. Looked at so, these bits and pieces were revealed as naught but … cement.”

“Cement?” echoed Sir John, “the stuff that binds building stone together?”

“Just so. The pieces — hardly more than crumbs were they — were the right color, yet of the wrong consistency.”

“Well, I be damned! And you could tell this by looking at them under the microscope, could you? True enough, this is a great age of science, is it not?” Then did Sir John fall silent of a sudden, ruminating with a great, long hmmm. At last did he speak: “Yet now we are left with a problem: Leaving aside the possibility that the poor fellow who was killed in the course of that burglary was hit with the side of a house, what weapon could possibly have been used to cause such destruction to his skull and brain and leave behind little crumbs of cement?”

Again, silence did reign. I waited a proper interval as they gave consideration to the matter. Only then did I speak up.

“If I may. Sir John, Mr. Donnelly?”

“By all means, Jeremy,” said Sir John, “if you have any answer to this puzzle, let us hear it now.”

“I second that absolutely,” said Mr. Donnelly.

“It was not terribly long ago,” said I, “perhaps a six-month past that I happened to be talking to Mr. Baker of an evening, and he said to me, ‘Jeremy, you’d not believe what lately I’ve been taking off prisoners before I lock them up in the strong room.’ Then did he proceed to show me, pulling out a particular drawer among the files and reaching far to the back of it. It was an impressive array of weaponry — everything from a pistol which shot nails, to a long sort of pin which Mr. Baker said was the most deadly weapon of all in the hands of a desperate woman, and in among them was just such a one as you’ve described. It was of leather, short and blunt, less than a foot long. The bottom half was all handle, while the upper part, which was flexible, was about three inches round, heavier than you can imagine, and hard as a rock. I asked Mr. Baker, in fact, if there were a rock inside, and he said no, that it was filled with cement. Then did I ask what they called such a thing, and he said, ‘They call it a cosh, and it will smash a skull as easy as you or I might break an egg for breakfast.’”

“But how then did those bits of the stuff leak out?” asked Mr. Donnelly.

“Well, they would, of course, because the leather round that chunk of cement had been stitched closed. And what is stitched can come unstitched, and what is unstitched could leak its contents.”