An Experiment in Treason (25 page)

I knew not quite what to say. I knew well that Gabriel Donnelly was given to philosophizing, but I had never got quite so much of it from him in a single dose. There was much there that I might disagree with, particularly that major conclusion of his (so I thought and still think). Yet I also felt that this was neither the time nor the place to do so. I would put but one more question to him.

“What happened afterward?”

“After what?”

“Why, after you had rescued Clarissa.”

“We went back, of course. There was no resuming our carefree mood after that, now
was
there?”

“I suppose not.”

“On our return, however, Tom rode beside me — not a word passed between us — and the ladies in the back of the wagon. I know not what was said between them, for I could not hear them, but the two of them buzzed and whispered all the way back to Bow Street.”

That was truly the end of his story, for he did leave them there at Number 4, and then did he drive off and return the wagon and team to the stable in Half Moon Passage.

“One last question before I go, sir.”

“Well, ask it quickly. I must be off to my dinner, Jeremy.”

“Oh yes, sir. Could you give me the address of our Mr. Lee?”

“Arthur Lee?”

“Yes, with whom we traveled to Portsmouth.”

“Hmmm, no, no I can’t. I know the house, but not the number. You know the house, too, of course. It’s that one just beyond my old surgery in Tavistock Street. I met him there — I forget quite how — and thought him an interesting fellow. And — well, you know it, I’m sure.”

“Tsvo stories, red brick with a flat roof? “

“That’s the one. He’s on the second floor.”

“Thank-you, sir. Enjoy yourself, and give Mr. Goldsmith my best.”

With that, I dashed down to the ground floor and out the door. My wish to make contact with Arthur Lee was an afterthought. Considering that, as I made my way back to Bow Street, I thought it perhaps odd that I had had afterthoughts of any sort after having heard Gabriel Donnelly’s account of the disastrous outing in Vauxhall Gardens. I could tell myself that if I had been along, things would never have come to such a pass — and no doubt I would be right in that. Still, no real harm had been done to Clarissa, for which I thanked God and all the saints. And I suspected that I had chosen right in remaining to hear Sir John’s interrogation of Dr. Franklin. All that had happened, in truth, was that Tom Durham had disgraced himself. And that he had done on at least two other occasions during this single stay. Had ever a visit gone so poorly?

Upon my return, I was given a bit of news that did not in the least surprise me.

“Tom will be leaving us, ” said Lady Fielding. “He’ll be returning to Portsmouth a day early. We should like you to give us a hand with his baggage, Jeremy.”

I had no choice but to agree. Considering that to be the case, I believe I acquiesced quite gracefully. I got from her his time of departure, and ascertained that he would be returning, as he had come, with naught but his sea chest.

“Then,” said I to her, “there should be no need for me to take the barrow.”

“That is entirely up to you, Jeremy.”

“As you say. Lady Fielding.”

Forcing a smile, she left me there in the kitchen and made for the parlor, where Tom no doubt awaited her. Then did I hasten to the little room on the floor above, which Sir John named his “study.” He often sat in the dark there, dark and light being as one to him, but on this occasion the room was well lit, for near as I could tell, the meeting had just been adjourned. There I found him, in any case, alone in the room, a glum expression upon his face.

“Who is there? Is it you, Jeremy?”

“It is, Sir John, and I have that report on Mr. Marsden’s condition which Mr. Donnelly prepared.”

“Then read it me, will you?”

That I did, and I found it more pessimistic than I would have supposed from my conversation with the good doctor. In it, he stated his fear that the “influenza” might penetrate Mr. Marsden’s lungs, leaving him with pneumonia. He promised to keep a close watch upon the clerk and inform Sir John regularly regarding his condition.

“Not a good report, eh?”

“I should not call it that, no sir.”

“You’ll not mind then carrying on as you are now?”

“Sir?”

“In Mr. Marsden’s place.”

“Oh no, Sir John, I rather like it.”

“Good lad.” He took a moment to rub his temple. That seemed to portend a headache; they did not often come to him, but when they did, they were most severe. “I suppose you heard an account of this matter to do with Tom from Mr. Donnelly.”

“Uh … yes sir, I have.”

“I’ve no doubt that the version you got was more accurate than the one I heard. What with Molly Sarton leveling accusations at Tom, and Kate defending him like the good mother she has tried to be, I’d no notion of just who I ought to believe — probably neither. Well, he’s going back a day early. That will take care of the immediate problem.”

“Yes,” said I, “I heard of his leaving from Lady Fielding.”

“Why did she tell you?” he asked sharply.

“She requested I accompany them to carry Tom’s sea chest.”

“Let him carry his own. He’s caused naught but trouble since he came. Why should we give him comfort?”

Because I could think of no good answer to that, I held my peace.

“Surely you can think of something better to do with your time in the morning,” said he.

“What I would like to do would involve you.”

“In what way? What is it you wish me to do?”

“I should like you to interrogate Arthur Lee.”

“Arthur Lee? Who … ? Ah yes, I remember now. He’s the fellow you suspect of complicity with Franklin.”

“I’m sure of it,” said I. “He is the link between Franklin and the burglars. ‘Twas he who brought the letters to Franklin.”

“All right, bring him in then. But mind you, Jeremy, this will in no wise excuse you from your duties as Mr. Marsden’s substitute.”

“Agreed,” said I.

Having met Mr. Perkins at the appointed hour, I set off with him for the Globe and Anchor hostelry at which George Burkett lodged. It was indeed one of the best in the city. Lord Hillsborough had not stinted in bringing this thief-taker extraordinaire to London.

As we made our way round Covent Garden and down Southampton Street to the Strand, Mr. Perkins questioned me intently regarding our visitor from America. It was, to say the least, most unusual for Sir John to have aid forced upon him by any member of the government, including the Lord Chief Justice. To my knowledge, it had never before happened so. It was plain to me, though not from any remark made by Sir John, that he was unhappy with this development. Yet Benjamin Franklin’s public admission of his role in passing the letters back to his compatriots in the Massachusetts legislature had put the magistrate at such a disadvantage that he felt he could not, in spite of his feelings, strenuously object. Eventually, however, I felt certain he would take up the matter with Lord Mansfield.

Constable Perkins had also asked among the Bow Street Runners if there were any precedent for this and found that there was none. This disturbed him no little, and he brought it up to me early in our journey to the Globe and Anchor. He did so by putting a question to me.

“Who’s been the longest in service of all the Runners? ” he asked me of a sudden, quite apropos of nothing at all.

“That would no doubt be Mr. Bailey, would it not?” I responded.

“So I thought, as well,” said he. “But it turns out ‘twas Mr. Baker. He goes back to the days of Sir John’s brother.”

“Henry Fielding?”

“Was that his name? I guess it must have been. Anyway, he wasn’t always the gaoler. He started out just like the rest of us, as a runner, but it was way back in ‘52. But when I found this out, I went to him, you see, and I asked him straight out if he ever heard of Sir John — or his brother, for that matter — accepting help from an independent thief-taker or any such. And Mr. Baker says to me, no, he never heard of it. He says it’s been years since Sir John would even let a thief-taker into his courtroom, no matter how many witnesses he might have with him to back him up.”

“That’s right, as far as I can tell,” said I.

“That’s right as far as anyone can tell. So just answer me this, Jeremy. Why is it now he’s started taking help from such as this fella Burkett? Has he changed his mind all of a sudden, or what? Have they cut the Bow Street budget so deep that he’s going to let some of the constables go and throw open the door to these independent thief-takers? I don’t mind telKng you that some of us are a bit worked up about this.”

I hastened to assure him that there was no reason to worry at all. No, the Bow Street budget had not been cut. No, Sir John had never expressed to me any desire to let thief-takers in the back door, as it were. He was, so far as I knew, opposed to these private operators and their practices, on both moral and legal grounds. He had only praise for the Bow Street Runners and had often said that he only wished he could hire more like those now in the force.

“In short,” said I to Mr. Perkins, “neither you nor any of the rest have anything to woriy about.”

“You’re sure of that, Jeremy?”

“Sure as I’m here walking beside you.”

“Then what’s this all about?”

With that, I began a hasty explanation of the matter of the Hutchinson letters, and their importance to the government; of the role played by Benjamin Franklin in it all; and the personal insult which their theft did constitute to Lord Hillsborough. I left out many important details, but I did manage to communicate to the constable the outline of the situation, and stress to him the awkward predicament in which Sir John now found himself.

“Ah well,” said the constable, “he should have told us.”

“No doubt he should, ” I said, “but he knows that he made a mistake with Franklin, and you know as well as I how he does hate to be caught in error.”

“Well, none of us likes that.”

Mr. Perkins fell silent then. We had thus reached the Strand. The Globe and Anchor lay just ahead by a street or two. Having walked with him oft through the city, I knew his pace, easy but steady; ‘twas the sort one might use to walk the whole night long — and that he often did. I liked him well — and indeed I should have, for I owed him much. As Sir John had provided my intellectual development. Constable Perkins had contributed much to my manhood. He, it was, who had shown me how I might walk these dark streets of London and fear no man.

“What’s he like?”

The constable asked it in a quiet voice, almost as if he feared he might be overheard. My mind was elsewhere. His question brought me back to the present.

“What’s who like?” I asked.

“This fellow — what’s his name? Burkett? The one who came all the way from America just to give us a hand.”

His irony was not lost on me.

“He’s big,” said I. “Just a shade below giant size.”

“Big, is he? In what way is he big? Is he seven feet in height? Is his chest thick as a fifty-gallon barrel? Does the ground tremble when he walks?”

“Well, he’s over six feet. I fear he’ll grow no taller than six and a half. His chest is more in the forty-gallon range. And whether or not he makes the ground tremble, I cannot say. But I did notice that he has a way of making people tremble wherever he goes.”

Mr. Perkins chuckled appreciatively and gave me a wink.

“And this is the fellow I’m to show round Bedford Street.”

“This is the fellow.”

“Well, seems to me,” said the constable, “that ‘stead of showing Bedford Street to him, we’ll be showing him to Bedford Street.”

That proved to be the case, for when we met him just inside the entrance to the Globe and Anchor, we found him dressed, (or perhaps better said, overdressed) in popinjay fashion of the kind some from the country might wear in imitation of the city blades. He was all gaudy and garish. Between his neck and feet, I counted no less than five contending colors, each brighter than the last. If his size alone were not sufficient to attract attention, his outlandish attire certainly would. Mr. Perkins caught my eye and offered a look of surprise. I wondered for a moment if it might not be up to me to urge that he return to his room and don a costume a little less … colorful. Yet there was to be no such suggestion, for immediately we arrived, George Burkett began, in the most blatant and least subtle manner, to take command of our little expedition.

Introductions were handled quickly and without ceremony. It mattered little, however, for neither man made much use of the other’s name. For his part. Constable Perkins addressed the man at his side direct, turning to him when he spoke that there might be no doubt for whom his words were intended. Mr. Burkett, on the few occasions he addressed me, called me naught but “lad.” For Mr. Perkins, he had another form of address.

“Soyou be a Bow Street Runner, eh?” said Burkett to him.

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Well, Mr. Bow Street Runner, how far we got to walk? If it’s more than a stroll, we can find us a hackney, for I’ve a pocket heavy with coin.”

“It’s not far, not far enough to ride the distance, an3rway.”

“One thing fair ‘mazes me about this town of London.”

“What’s that?” I called out from behind, hopping to keep up with the two of them.

“Well, lad, I am just taken by surprise how pushed together it all is. Bein’ from America, I am used to some space ‘tween things. Ain’t it terrible hard getting’ used to all this crowdin?”

And so on. His manner of addressing Mr. Perkins as “Mr. Boav Street Runner” was vaguely insulting, and it seemed that he intended it to be so. In any case, the constable took it as such, and our American visitor continued in that manner for the length of our walk.

“Tell me, Mr. Bow Street Runner, is it fair difficult to get to be one of your number? I’d always heard it was.”

“Well, you got to read and write and know how to tell time, and it helps if you got a good record in the Army or Navy and can handle firearms and such. Sir John, with his background in the Navy and all, he just about requires that.”