Blind Justice (2 page)

“I can, sir.”

“Then show me your heels and do it.”

I hesitated. “But the shilling, sir? Mr. Bledsoe said there would be a shilling for me.”

Slade laughed at that—a bit testily, I thought. “You’ll be paid at t’other end. Now, git hence with ye!”

Thinking myself stupid (for how else were they to ensure delivery?), I turned about and set out at full speed with the packet clasped firmly under my arm. Coming to the end of the lane, I turned left, as I had been told, and began making my way through the crowded street as fast as I was able, dodging a fishwife at one step and a ballad-seller at another, proceeding as quickly as the mob would allow. Then, of a sudden, my feet flew from under me, and I sprawled flat upon the dirt of the street. Coming to myself, I heard someone shouting, “Stop, thief, stop!” and wondered for whom the hue and cry had been raised. Looking about, I was aware of a group gathering around me that looked none too friendly, and in the forefront was none other than Mr. Bledsoe, who looked least friendly of all. At me, still on the ground, he brandished his staff, and the thought came to me then that he had used it to trip me up. But why should he do that? As I raised up to protest, he cocked the thing above his head and heaved it down hard upon me.

And that, reader, is all that I recall of my gulling.

As I regained consciousness, I was aware, primarily, of a prodigious pain in my head, and secondarily of a great hubbub around me. My eyes opened to a scene the like of which I had never before beheld: It brought fresh into mind the ideas of London roguery and wickedness which I conceived from my reading of The Lives of Convicts and other such pennybooks. There were whores and greasy blackguards assembled together. Had I been dumped into a convocation of drabs and cutpurses, or perhaps transported willy-nilly to Bedlam? The shrill babble and cackle from those about me set me to wonder..

I sought to raise me up for a better view of this curious assemblage and was thrust down instantly and rudely where I sat. Turning to my captor, I found him to be none other than that Bledsoe, who had involved me as victim of his malevolent charade. Beyond him sat Slade, his partner and conspirator. There was no chance for me to escape these two, for Bledsoe had his big hand wrapped around the back of my neck and with it held me in a tight grip. He bent toward me and, blowing his foul gin breath in my face, said, “There’s a good lad. Cause us no trouble, and you’ll not be knocked about.”

“But I—”

“Quiet!” He interrupted me with a brutal squeeze of my neck. “We’ve not long to wait.”

And indeed it was so. I sat miserably thus a few minutes more, aware at last that what little attention there was from the raucous crowd was focused toward the front of the large room upon two men who sat at graduated elevation, facing out above the rest. The man situated higher was then in earnest confabulation with a man who stood alone before him. Suddenly he broke off his parley and banged down hard with a mallet upon the high table at which he sat. The fellow with whom he had but a moment before been deep in talk was then led away by a burly pair who stepped forth from a side gathering of spectators. The other man, who was sitting below the first at a small desk, then rose and bellowed out: “Bledsoe, Thomas, independent thief-taker. Bring your prisoner forth.”

With that, I was jerked to my feet and hurried down the aisle, pushed forward at all speed from behind by that same Thomas Bledsoe, until at last I stood before the two men. The lesser of the two, who had summoned us but a moment before, looked upon me gravely and asked my name.

“Jeremy Proctor, sir.”

The man with the mallet leaned forward then with great interest in my direction. Perceived thus closely, he offered a rather fearsome visage. His corpulent face was set in a solemn expression. Yet it was not his features I found frightening but rather the fact that his eyes were completely hidden from me. As I gazed up at him, I saw that a band of black silk covered them. The customary tricorn which he wore had obscured this at the distance from which I first saw him. I realized that he was blind. At last he spoke: “How old are you. Proctor?”

“Just past thirteen, sir.”

Bledsoe shook me roughly by the scruff of the neck. “You calls him m’lord—and don’t forget it.”

There came a great outburst of comment and snickering from the throng behind, so that the blind man was forced once again to beat with his mallet upon the table until order was restored. “Let the boy speak as he sees fit,” said he. And then to me: “You are accused of larceny. How say you?”

“Sir?” Immediately I felt the grip tighten upon my neck. “I mean, m’lord?”

“Larceny—thieving. How say you? Guilty or not guilty?”

“Oh …” Suddenly realizing the magnitude of my predicament, I hesitated a moment, which I immediately feared might be taken as indecision on my part. And so I then nearly shouted my plea: “Not guilty!”

The blind man’s stern face then softened into a smile of amusement. “Very good,” said he. “Clerk, enter that Jeremy Proctor pleads not guilty to the charge.” Then, with a sigh: “And now, Bledsoe, tell your tale.”

A tale it was—and a tale of lies. According to his perjured testimony, Bledsoe merely happened to be strolling along Shoreditch when, of a sudden, he heard a great hue and cry of stop-thief and immediately noted a figure—“this lad here”—running at top speed out of Chick Lane with a man in pursuit. He then had no choice— or so said he—but to apprehend the malefactor by whatever means was available. He tripped him with his staff and then, when the lad made to resist and continue his flight, smote him sharply, knocking him senseless, and brought him direct here to Bow Street.

“You stand by that?”

“I do, m’lord.”

Though all that was in me cried out against what I had heard, I had the good sense to hold my peace. I waited, hopeful that this blind man would see through it all. He then called out loudly, “Are there any witnesses?”

“There is one, m’lord,” Bledsoe piped up. “And the very one he stole from, William Slade by name.”

“Let him speak.”

The man who had sent me from the Cock and Bull on that bootless mission now came forward and bore false witness against me. He alleged that he had just stepped forth from that establishment, purse in hand, when he was suddenly set upon “by this young rogue,” who wrenched the purse from his grasp and started away at great speed. He set out in pursuit, crying after him as he went, and turned onto Shoreditch just in time to see the young thief tripped up “by this heroic gentleman here”—Bledsoe—who recovered the purse and invited his company to the Bow Street Court in order to prosecute the miscreant before that paragon of the judiciary, Sir John Fielding.

That last bit clearly annoyed the blind man, whom I now knew to be Sir John. He scowled, sniffed, and said, “Spare us, please.”

“But, m’lord, I only—”

“You say the purse was recovered?”

“It was, and ain’t I glad, for it contained a goodly sum.”

“Hand it over to the clerk.”

Slade looked dubiously at Bledsoe, who answered with a sharp nod. Reluctantly, he did as he was bade. The clerk immediately set about ransacking its contents.

“And now, Master Proctor,” said Sir John, “you have heard the testimony offered against you. What can you say in your own behalf?”

“Only the truth, sir,” said I. And I then gave a simple and direct account of the events already described to you, my reader, only in somewhat abbreviated form.

When I finished. Sir John seemed well pleased by my recital. He nodded, said nothing for a moment, then leaned forward as though to see me better. “You are well spoken, boy, though not from these parts. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir—m’lord.”

” ‘Sir’ is an acceptable form of address. Where are you from then?”

“I was born in Lichfield.” I wished to make no mention of the town I had left.

“Lichfield? Close, close, but I would have put you somewhat nearer to us. Penkridge, say, or Stoke Poges?”

I was amazed. Could he fix me so precisely by my manner of speech? Yet fix me he had, and I saw nothing for it but to admit my dissimulation. Hanging my head, I said, “I was the last years in Stoke Poges.”

“Ah-hah!” he crowed loudly in delight, “done it again, have I not? There’s not a man in London can place a body by his speech as I can!” He roared out a great booming laugh of triumph. But he calmed suddenly and grew serious again. “Mark you,” said he, speaking in the direction of the clerk yet to the court at large, “the boy told no falsehood. I asked him where he was from, and he said he was born in Lichfield, which I’m sure is true. He thinks as a lawyer thinks, which is both a blessing and a curse. But it strikes me. Master Proctor, that you wished to conceal from the court that you had come to London from Stoke Poges. Why is that?”

“Well, I—”

“Have you run awav from home? Do you fear your father’s retribution?”

“My father is dead, sir. There was only him and me.”

“How came he to die?”

“He …” I hesitated, unable to speak of it. Yet fearing not to, I pressed on almost in a whisper: “He was pelted to death.”

A murmur came from the crowded court behind me. Yet Sir John sat silent a long moment before he spoke: “Pelted, you say? In the stocks?”

“Yes, sir.” I knew that tears at this moment would be quite inappropriate, and so I struggled to hold them back.

“And that was when you ran away?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Suddenly I felt Bledsoe’s furious grip once more at the back of my neck. He squeezed yet harder upon it than heretofore, and I was unable to suppress a cry of pain, as he whispered loudly in my ear, “M’lord! I told you to say m’lord.”

”Bledsoe!” shouted Sir John from the bench. “Do not harm that— Clerk? Mr. Marsden?”

“Aye, Sir John?”

“Is he touching the boy?”

“He got his hand about the boy’s neck.”

I felt it drop away.

“Remove it,” said Sir John to Bledsoe. “Distance yourself from him.” I watched my captor take an uncertain step away and had to endure his angry, threatening gaze until the blind magistrate resumed: “Mr… . Mr. Slade? Is that how you call yourself?”

“Oh, yes sir, m’lord.”

“I’m interested in that purse you said was stole from you. There was in it, you said, a goodly sum of money.”

“Well …” he temporized, “to a poor man like me …”

“Clerk, what was the amount?”

The small man seated at the desk nearby dipped into the woolen bag and brought up a few coins. After taking a moment to count them, he called out loudly, “Two shillings thrupence and a farthing.”

“Is that your goodly sum?” asked Sir John, miming his amazement broadly. “Nay, sir, I call that paltry. And for two shillings thrupence and a farthing you ask me to bind this thirteen-year-old boy for trial on a serious offense?”

Screwing his courage to the sticking point, Slade puffed up visibly and took a bold step toward the bench. “But, m’lord, it’s the principle of it, ain’t it? I mean to say, if this boy’s not made to pay, then where will it end? He’ll pursue his life of crime and set an evil example to his fellows.”

“And so you hold for the principle of justice? You insist on pressing charges?”

“I do indeed, m’lord.”

“Then let justice be applied evenhandedly. Clerk, what more does this man’s purse contain?”

Once again the small man dove into it, this time emptying its contents on the table. He picked through the mess before him for a moment, then called out, “A most fouled kerchief.” The crowd behind me exploded into raucous laughter. Even I had to smile, though it was perhaps unsuitable, considering my situation. The clerk waited until the outburst had subsided, then continued: “He also got a letter and some receipts for goods and an account book.”

“Excellent!” said Sir John. “Now, give us the name to which the letter is addressed and to which the receipts are made out—but no, wait! Let me guess. Could that name perchance be Will Sayer?”

“It could, and it is.”

The features beneath the black band of silk contracted for a moment in concentration. “Now, how do we explain the discrepancy between the name this man has given in court and the one borne on the documents he carries?”

“I was keeping them for a friend!” cried the man who had presented himself to me as Slade. His face betrayed his fear.

Sir John nodded agreeably. “That could certainly account for it. Yet we are left with another question. How came I to guess the name? Could it be that I have had previous acquaintance with this Will Sayer? Could it be that he appeared before this court not nine months past as a receiver of stolen goods? He was bound over, convicted, and sentenced, yet word has lately reached me that he bought his way from Newgate. Now comes William Slade bearing the documents of Will Sayer— and speaking with the selfsame voice as Sayer. Is this coincidence or deceit?” he thundered.

With that, there was a sudden hubbub in the court. Slade—or Sayer, as he was now revealed—looked about him wildly, as though thinking to escape. As if to answer that thought, a large man emerged from the crowd to one side and took a place beside the false complainant, where he displayed to him a club of intimidating size. Sir John hammered the court back to order, and leaning tor-ward, he addressed the man before him: “Think you, sir, that because I lack the power of sight I also lack the power of memory? To one such as myself the human voice is as sure and distinctive a means of identification as the human face is to the rest. Perchance surer. Mr. Marsden?”

“Aye, Sir John?”

“Do you recognize the man before us?”

The clerk studied Sayer and finally shook his head. “All I can say is he looks familiar. We gets so many here.”

“Indeed we do. But I put it to you, Mr. Slade-Sayer, you have perjured yourself as to your proper name, which to my mind impeaches your entire testimony. At the very least you have displayed your contempt for this court. Do you still wish to press charges against this boy?”

All eyes were upon the man, yet he had eyes for none. With his head hung low, he said quietly, “No, m’lord.”

“There remains the matter of Mr. Bledsoe, our independent thief-taker. Good sense suggests to me that Master Proctor’s account of the events leading to his appearance here is the true one. He might wish to press charges himself. Yet for want of a corroborating witness his case would be a weak one. Would you wish, Mr. Slade-Sayer, to serve as witness against Mr. Bledsoe?”