An Experiment in Treason (24 page)

“Such as?”

“Oh, such as conspiracy to commit treason, or outright treason. I recall telling you at our earlier meeting that Lord Mansfield was eager to conduct a treason trial. Jeremy here was present when it was discussed. He will confirm it, I think.”

“Not necessary,” said Dr. Franklin before I could frame the sort of response that Sir John had called for. “You were quite right to assume that I would not wish to be tried in felony court. But is there no other magistrate in London who could try it?”

“There is Saunders Welch, of course. He could, I suppose, but I’m not sure that he would, if you follow me.”

“Why is that? Why shouldn’t he be willing?”

“He might fear that if he were to find in your favor — though in the case of Mr. Welch that seems unlikely — I might, in some way, seek to get back at him. And it has long been bandied about London that not all his practices could stand close scrutiny. No, I believe you would do better taking your chance with me. After all, you can speak for yourself in my court, and you know from our earlier discussion that there is naught I like better than hearing a good argument. You may have my word, sir, that if you can present justification for your behavior, I will discharge you without a moment’s hesitation.”

“And if my argument does not convince you?”

“Well, then it’s off to Newgate with you.”

“For three months?”

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty there. It may prove to be that I have some choice in sentencing — perhaps only sixty days then. That is not a great piece from a lifetime, you know — and it would be an altogether new experience, finding yourself surrounded by such as Falker and Tinker. Might be interesting, eh? Something to tell your grandchildren.”

“Interesting! ” Dr. Franklin shuddered. “But look,” said he, “what if I could convince you that I was justified in taking the action I did?”

“Do you mean right here and now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you may try to convince me. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

That Benjamin Franklin attempted to do. He contended that relations with the North American colonies had gotten into such a bad state because the personalities involved had become so set in their positions that they could not, or would no longer seek to compromise. Among these “personalities ” he numbered Thomas Hutchinson, Andrew Oliver, and Thomas Whately, who were the three correspondents in the letters under discussion. And to these three he added Lord Hillsborough, until recently the secretary of state for the colonies.

“Yet at the time the letters were written,” said Sir John, “Hutchinson was not governor of Massachusetts, nor was Oliver lieutenant governor.”

“How do you think they got their royal appointments? ” countered Dr. Franklin.

“You’re suggesting then that these Tory sentiments were part of a campaign to win their present positions?”

“I could not say that in court, for I have no proof of it, but that is my belief — yes.”

“Continue,” said Sir John.

Franklin declared that when the packet of letters was brought to him, he saw them as an instrument by which Hutchinson and Oliver might be revealed for what they are.

“And what do you say they are?” asked Sir John.

“Why, they are betrayers of the very people they have been appointed to govern. After all, ‘There must be an abridgment of what are called English liberties,’” said Franklin, quoting from one of the letters written by Governor Hutchinson. “What would you do, sir, if the prime minister spoke such words in Parliament?”

“I should do all I could to get him out of office.”

“So, too, have certain members of the Massachusetts legislature.”

“But I would do so by democratic means,” protested Sir John.

“So, too, would the members of that representative body. A petition was being prepared requesting the king to remove Governor Hutchinson from his office. It was never my intention to discredit the writers of those letters publicly.”

“What then?”

“I wished to give those preparing the petition what they needed to get the majority of the Massachusetts House to vote for it. Therefore I sent the letters in question to the House Speaker, Thomas Gushing, with a strong request that the letters not be widely circulated or printed, but be shown individually to ‘men of worth.’ I asked for the letters to be returned after a few months. I intended, in other words, to see that they got back to their former possessor.”

“Yet in spite of your cautions and your best intentions — “

“The letters were read out in the House by Samuel Adams. They were printed in a newspaper, the Massachusetts Spy, and were made available in a pamphlet to anyone with a few pence to buy it.”

Dr. Franklin hung his head and slumped forward, the very picture of disconsolate dismay.

“Benjamin Franklin,” said the magistrate, “if you will forgive me for saying so, I believe you to be a rather foolish and naive individual — that is, if you did truly believe that given such material as you gave them, those ‘sons of liberty’ as they style themselves, would ever have exhibited any degree of restraint. Sam Adams, and the rest of his ilk, will have independence and accept nothing less.”

“I know that now.”

“Is that what you also want?”

He was silent for quite some time before responding. At last, he raised his head and spoke.

“No, in all truth,” said he, “I would keep the relation between the mother country and her colonies as it is, except that I should like to see Parliament, the prime minister, and, may God grant him wisdom, the king, demonstrate greater intelligence in dealing with the colonies. We are all Englishmen, after all. It is just that some of us are also Americans.”

“Dr. Franklin, for what it is worth, I believe you. I believe your intentions were as you present them, and I believe, too, that your feelings about mother country and colonies are also as you would have me believe. But good God, man, how can you expect me to treat this as some sort of misunderstanding when a burglary has been done, in the course of which a murder has been committed? You must tell me who brought the letters to you, and whatever else you may know about these felonies.”

“But … but I cannot do that.”

“And why not?”

“Because,” said Franklin, “I gave my word to him who put the letters in my hands. I can tell you this, however. According to the man in question, he was approached by the burglars after the burglary had taken place. He did not seek them out. At the time he purchased the letters from them, he did not know that there had been a killing done.”

“Or so he said to you,” said Sir John, pronouncing each word with derisive sarcasm. (Overacting a bit, I fear.)

“Having said all that I have said to you, have I at least convinced you. Sir John, that I was justified in my actions?”

“I understand that you feel that you were, and I accept that you have told me the truth, as much of it as you judge necessary to explain yourself. But understand this, Franklin. I care naught for the politics of all this. I care only that a man was murdered in the course of a burglary. When you are prepared to give me the name of him who supplied you with those infamous letters, I will put away for good all thought of charging you with giving a false report.”

“Until then,” said Franklin, “it will hang over my head as a threat?” ,

“No, not merely that. I must consider the matter further. That will be all, sir. You may go now.”

Without a word more, Benjamin Franklin rose, hat and stick in hand, and left the room. He did not look at me, nor would he have seen me if he had, for his eyes brimmed to overflowing with tears. The humiliation that he felt was plain upon his face. I, who had urged his interrogation so insistently, could not help but feel pity for the man. I wondered what Sir John felt for him. I started to ask him just that, but he silenced me with a finger to his lips and a softly whispered, “Shhh.” We listened to Franklin’s footsteps fade as he drew closer to the end of the hall and the door out to Bow Street. Sir John signaled for me to go and take a look. That I did, moving quietly on tiptoe to the hall just in time to see Dr. Franklin disappear through the door, which he closed quietly behind him.

“He’s gone,” said I.

“And good riddance,” said Sir John.

“Why? Do you feel you were lied to? From where I sat, he seemed greatly moved and eager to convince you, yet not disposed to lie. There were tears in his eyes when you ordered him out. He seemed fearful. Sir John.”

“Going soft on him, eh?”

“Not at all, but he did seem to be telling the truth.”

“As much as he told us, I suppose.”

“Do you truly intend to charge him with giving a false report to a magistrate? In all the years I have attended you here at Bow Street, I have never known you to charge any in such a manner.”

Sir John scowled mightily. “Of course I do not intend to charge him so! What do you take me for? The reason you’ve not heard me charge any thus is not because none lie to me, but rather that ail lie to me. It would be impossible to find a truth-teller amongst all those pickpockets, sneak thieves, killers, and robbers. They know that they must have a story ready to tell when they appear at the Old Bailey. When it is told to me, it is given its first trial. They polish it as they wait for trial, and a few have actually gotten off before certain judges in felony court when they had a good tale to tell, or when it was told in a specially entertaining style.”

Just as I was about to ask if Lord Mansfield had been one of those judges, we heard the door to Bow Street open once again. We listened, saying nothing, as a single set of footsteps approached. Had Benjamin Franklin returned? No, the footsteps were of a man much larger. Was it Mr. Fuller coming back from Newgate? No, it was too early; the papers to be filled out for seventeen men would keep him there for another hour, at least.

“See who that is, will you, Jeremy?” I jumped at his order.

The man coming down the long hall was at first barely visible. Not the time of the day, but the time of the year, made dusk come quite early; and if it was not quite so dark as that, ‘twas well on its way by midafternoon. Still there were patches of light through which he must travel before reaching Sir John’s chambers. At the first of them, I was able to get my first true look at the man. He was one of considerable size and weight. There was something vaguely (or perhaps more than vaguely) threatening about him. Instinctively, my left hand went to the pistol on my hip and my right hand to the cosh in the pocket of my coat.

“I am George Burkett,” he bellowed forth in a voice big enough to fit his huge body. “I am come to make the acquaintance of Sir John Fielding, the Blind Beak of Bow Street.”

“Come ahead,” said Sir John.

Said I: “Give me but a moment, and I shall light a few candles.”

“Not on my account,” called George Burkett. “I likes the dark.”

Close at hand he looked no different than I had first supposed — except larger and even more threatening.

Ignoring me, he stepped through the doorway and went straight to Sir John. He grasped his hand and gave it a punishing squeeze. Yet if he had inflicted pain, Sir John gave no sign of it.

“Now you have me, Mr. Burkett, what is the purpose of your mission?”

“I like a man what gets right to the point,” said Burkett, “so I shall put it to you straight. I am hired by Lord Hillsborough to assist in finding them who burglarized his house and murdered his manservant.”

From an interior pocket of his coat he fetched out a letter and placed it in Sir John’s hand.

“I have delivered to you a letter of introduction from Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice. In it, he asks that you give unto me all aid which I may need in finding and capturing these villains. Now, what say you to that, sir?”

Something was amiss. That much was certain. There was quiet at the dinner table; Sir John and Lady Fielding exchanged low mutterings; Molly looked left and right, first at one and then at the other; Tom Durham kept his eyes upon the plate of food in front of him. Clarissa was, as Lady Fielding said, “indisposed” and was not even present at table. I estimated no more than a dozen words were spoken during the meal. What was most annoying was that everybody but me seemed to know what this great unmentionable was.

Perhaps if I had returned earlier for dinner I would not have felt excluded. Sir John had sent me off with George Burkett for a tour of the Covent Garden area. As we went round these points of interest, so familiar to me, I learned a little about him — but only a little. Mr. Burkett came, he said, from the province of Georgia in the North American colonies (which accounted, perhaps, for his odd manner of speech, so different from Dr. Franklin’s). He had been brought here to London by Lord Hillsborough expressly to help in pursuit of the perpetrators of the evil deeds. I thought that a bit strange. Was Mr. Burkett so well known as a thief-taker that Lord Hillsborough had sought him out specially? I recall asking him how he had come to know Hillsborough, and he responded, “Him and me, we got a mutual friend.” Which told me nothing at all, or at most, very little.

He was most taken by Bedford Street with its taverns, dives, and alehouses, particularly when I gave it as my opinion that the entire burglary plot had been hatched right there in Bedford Street at the King’s Pleasure.

“This very spot, eh?” said Burkett. “Now ain’t that interestin’. I must spend a bit of time there.”

“It would best be done later.”

“So be it then.”

I accompanied him to the Strand wherein his hostelry stood, and left him there at the entrance. We agreed to meet at that very spot at ten that night.

“One of the Bow Street Runners shall accompany us. They know these precincts far better than I.”

All this had I communicated to Mr. Perkins, who seemed to know Bedford Street and its denizens far better than the rest of the Runners. He was willing to accompany us but wanted to know more about the fellow. I could tell him little, for I knew little myself.

“Don’t we even know what it was he did back in — where was it? Georgia?”

“That’s the place,” said I. “He seems to have been some sort of thief-taker, as I understand it.”

“Well, he must have been God’s own gift to thief-taking if he was worth bringing over from America.”

There I had to agree. “All I can say in his behalf is that he came bearing a letter from the Lord Chief Justice, instructing Sir John to give him any help that he may need.”

“You saw the letter?”

“Indeed I did. It was in Lord Mansfield’s own hand, signed by him, just as it should have been. I read it out loud to Sir John myself.”

“All right,” said Mr. Perkins. “Maybe we can get more out of him over a glass of ale.”

And so we left it, agreeing to make the walk together from Bow Street to Burkett s hostelry in the Strand.

Having done so, I made my way up the stairs to the kitchen. I knew that was a bit late, and hearing naught of talk or laughter at table, I assumed that dinner was done. Thus was I somewhat taken aback when I opened the door and found all but Clarissa present at table. All looked up as I made my entrance, but not a word of greeting was spoken. True, Sir John nodded and spoke my name, and Molly hastened to the pot on the fire and dipped out a generous helping of mutton stew for me, but, otherwise, they took no notice of my arrival. I sat down at my place and tasted the stew.

“Ah, up to your usual high standard, Molly,” said I. (Actually a lie: It wanted more time on the fire and was indifferently spiced.)

She mumbled her thanks and resumed eating.

“Where’s Clarissa?” I asked innocently enough. “Not ill, I hope.”

Lady Fielding looked at me sharply. What had I said?

“No, not sick,” said she. “Clarissa is indisposed.”

What could she mean by that? But I knew enough not to ask; rather, I would wait till the pall of silence had lifted, and people were once again acting sensible. How long, I wondered, would that take?

With naught to impede them, they sped through dinner like starvelings given their first meal in a month. When he had done. Sir John suggested all go upstairs and talk a bit more. What was it could be discussed there could not be talked of here?

With that, all at the table rose, including myself. ‘Twas then that Lady Fielding turned to me, frowning, and said, “Not you, Jeremy. Do the washing up, as you usually do.”

“And afterward,” said Sir John, “I should like you to go on to Mr. Donnelly. He has prepared a letter for me.”

All four did then depart, leaving me alone with the dinner dishes to be washed, the pots and pans to be cleaned. Time was not a problem: ‘Twas near two hours before I was to meet Mr. Perkins that we might take George Burkett on his evening tour. And so I pitched in, and made all ready in the shortest time ever. Once I had done rattling pottery plates and eating utensils in the wash water, I listened at the bottom of the stairs. I thought I might overhear something, yet all I caught was the murmur of voices — no words at all. So was it. I sought out my cloak, which hung upon a hook on the door. Donning it, I wondered if perhaps Mr. Donnelly might not be able to explain to me just why the members of this household were acting so peculiarly.

Gabriel Donnelly came in immediate response to my knock upon his door. It was as if he had been waiting nearby, expecting me to come at any moment.

“Ah, Jeremy, come in, will you? I was hoping you would come by soon. I’m off again to another of their damned dinners.”

“Whose damned dinners? “

“Who indeed? Oh, the beau monde’s, I suppose. The better I become acquainted with them, the better I understand that no matter how I may have wished otherwise, I am indeed no more than a Dubliner, the son of a draper, nothing more nor less, and proud of it. It’s why I’ve come to value Molly so highly.”

“But she won’t be there. Why are you going to this particular dinner?”

“Because Mr. Goldsmith will be there — dear old Nolly. I feel I must be on hand for each and every appearance he makes in society, lest he be struck down at table.”

“Is he so ill? What ails him?”

“What does not? A heart stoppage could hit him at any moment of distress. I have seen him pant so for air that he is as some great bull charging cross the field. Apoplexy is also a likelihood. In argument, his face often turns a rosy hue, and one of the veins in his forehead throbs dangerously. I always ask to sit next to him and keep a bottle of vinegar and hartshorn handy that I may revive him, should he collapse.”

“You had said he was ill. I’d no idea of how serious his illness.”

“I wish it were not so — but it is.” He fumbled into his coat pocket and produced a letter. “This, I believe, is what you came for,” said he.

“I suppose it must be. Sir John said you had a letter I was to bring him.”

“Yes, it concerns the illness of Mr. Marsden. I visited him just this morning.”

“He has that new thing, influenza, hasn’t he? How is he?”

“He is a very sick man.”

“Truly? But I had heard that in its symptoms it was quite like a catarrh.”

“Well, that is in some sense correct. But there are important differences. For one thing, it is highly contagious. For another, while the symptoms are tike a catarrh, they are very much stronger. Influenza can kill.”

“Oh my, I’d no idea,” said I.

“Indeed, ” said he. “I wore a kerchief mask over my face and advised the woman caring for him to take the same precaution. I can do little for him, except to make sure that he takes plenty of water. He sweats so that he is in danger of drying out completely. I gave him a bit of cinchona bark to control the sweating. ” He sighed. “We shall see.”

“Indeed, I shall hope for the best.”

I tucked the letter away and made ready to go, but then a thought occurred to me, and I stopped.

“Mr. Donnelly, I’ve a question for you. When I returned from a task Sir John put me to, dinner had begun, and everyone at table was acting most peculiar. None spoke all through the meal, and it seemed that everyone there knew something I did not. Do you have any notion what that was all about?”

“Hmmm … well … yes, I suppose I do.” He seemed reluctant to discuss it, made uncomfortable by the matter.

“Oh, and one more thing,” said I. “Clarissa was not even there at dinner. I asked after her, and Lady Fielding told me that Clarissa was ‘indisposed.’ An odd sort of expression, don’t you think — ‘indisposed,’”

“Indeed, it’s one that women often use to prevent further inquiries.”

“What sort of inquiries?”

“The kind you re making of me right now.” He frowned angrily. “Oh, bloody hell,” said he, “why shouldn’t you hear about it? Why should you be kept in the dark? And I daresay you’d be more likely to get an accurate version of what happened from me than from anyone else.”

“What
did
happen? What
is
this all about?”

He heaved a sigh and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to think where he might best begin.

“Well,” said he. “When Clarissa came out of Number 4 without you, I sensed that there might be trouble, though I’ve no idea why I should have had that feeling. Everyone was quite well-behaved on the way to Vauxhall Gardens.”

“And afterward?”

“Well, yes, up to a point. Molly had brought a basket of dainties and cakes, which she had cooked that morning, and I contributed a bottle of claret. We had a grand time of it, eating and drinking in the fresh air beneath the trees, some of which had yet half their leaves. And right pretty they were, too — all particolored, brown and red, and in some corners there were remnants of the fall flowers, blooming still.. There were not many besides us there in the gardens, and so we may not have carried on as we did in other circumstances …”

“You mean eating, drinking, and making merry? “

“Well … no … you see, Molly and I became carried away by the happy occasion, and fell to kissing and fondling. Not indecently, you understand, but I must say, a bit passionately. And I fear we offered Clarissa and Tom rather a bad example. You must understand, Jeremy, that the Irish lack the reserve of the English, and — “

“Do sir, please, get on with your story,” said I, interrupting.

“What? Oh yes, sorry. Well, what then happened was that Clarissa and Tom went off to walk amongst the trees. That, in any case, is what she called to us as they left; I believe that she was somewhat embarrassed by our carrying-on, and wished to leave us to our amorous play. As for Tom Durham, it seems to me he must have had base motives in mind right from the start. Or perhaps Clarissa’s intentions were not the highest either, for in truth she had been flirting rather shamelessly with Tom from the moment we left Number 4 Bow Street. So in that sense, you might say that she brought it upon herself.” Mr. Donnelly let forth a great, deep sigh. Then, with a shake of his head, he added, “There you have it.”

“There I have what? You have not told me what the it is that I now have. What happened, sir?”

He was driving me quite to distraction, circling round and round, and shying from any sort of direct statement. I believe I preferred the silence of the dinner table to this.

“In truth, Jeremy, I’m not quite sure what it was,” said he. “All I can tell you is that some minutes after they had left our sight, we heard a cry for help. Molly identified the voice as that of Clarissa. We went running out to find them, and we did not need to go far before we did. They were just off the path, secluded somewhat in the grove of trees — though not actually hidden.” And having said thus much, he stopped.

“Well, go on, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. I’ve just taken a moment to find the right words. It is important, as you well know, to describe only what you have seen in such situations. What did I see, precisely? I saw Tom atop Clarissa, and she bellowing for all she was worth. I assure you that when I pulled him off her, he had not exposed himself, nor were his clothes in disarray. Yet clearly, his intentions were not honorable — or at least that was how Clarissa interpreted them. Hence, her cry for help. I believe it would be accurate to say that Tom Durham had made an improper advance.”

“I daresay,” said I. “At least that.”

“No, no more than that, I can assure you. Tell me, Jeremy, how old is Tom?”

“No more than nineteen. He is but a year older than I.”

“During my time in the Navy,” said Mr. Donnelly, “I knew many such as he. Boys they were, and little more than that. In matters of maturity you are years older than he. You know how to conduct yourself in the great world. You have met men of importance which Tom will only hear of during his lifetime. More important, however, you have learned, partly by observation and partly — I should think — through Clarissa, just how to get along with women. Whereas, a fellow such as Tom, because he spends most of his life aboard ship and in the company of men, will no doubt ever be awkward with females. Because he suffers the same storms of passion that all boys do, he will be the prey of prostitutes and courtesans who will flatter him and cozen him till his head spins. Only much later, should he be lucky enough to advance in the Navy, as he probably will, and reap the rewards of command, he will find a wife who will bring with her a considerable dowry and very little else. He will, in other words, likely go through life, from beginning to end, never once guessing the great secret that all wise men must learn: that in most of the ways that matter, women are not much different from men.”