Watery Grave (2 page)

For the most part he treated me as an adopted son. The first Lady Fielding had expressed the hope from her deathbed that I would be a good son to him. Kate Durham, whom I had known and loved as a friend before her marriage to Sir John, was less maternal to me. But as the second Lady Fielding, she gave me good counsel, friendship, and had a continuing interest in my welfare. She it was who suggested that it might be proper to send me off to school. In his opinion, there was no need for it, so long as I kept reading as voraciously as I had done hitherto. Yet she took charge of my reading, directing it, questioning me on the contents of each book I finished, requiring me to write essays upon diverse subjects. I daresay she was as exacting as any schoolmaster or tutor.

As for my duties about the house, it seemed only right that I should help Mrs. Gredge, for in the past year she had grown more infirm — and more crotchety, as well. And I found it a joy to do whatever Sir John required of me in his official capacity. There were errands to run, letters to take and deliver, and a myriad of other tasks too varied to mention. I was, as he had once dubbed me, in a jocular mood, his “man Friday.” Having read Defoe’s Robuuion Criuoe more than once even at that young age, I took that gratefully, for I knew Friday to be a willing and resourceful worker.

So there I was, something less than a son, something more than a servant. The order given me by Tom Durham and his mother’s quick response had served to remind me of my ill-defined state. I did not wait for Lady Fielding to make it right with me, as he had asked her, but with a smile picked up the case, which was neither heavy nor bulky, and set off down the wharf toward Tower Hill.

“I shall sort it out with Tom, ” Lady Fielding called after me.

I turned, again smiling, and waved in response. And as I did so, it occurred to me to hope that when she had sorted it out with her son she might also make it all clear to me.

The Magistrate of the Bow Street Court had had a most eventful twelvemonth past. Not only had he sprung a trap on the perpetrators of the “great massacre in Grub Street, ” as it was known in the broadsheets and gazettes, he had also wedded the widow Durham at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. Their lives together in the ensuing months had been peaceful and quiet, marred neither by rancor nor by discord. They smiled often, and always to one another, and were given to long evening talks in Sir John’s darkened study. Not many came to visit; those who did not were not missed.

The only difficulties that had arisen were caused by Mrs. Gredge, the cook. I have said she had grown more infirm and crotchety. Tetchy might be the better word. She would sulk for long periods of time, then give vent to an outburst of anger —usually directed at me, which caused no hurt, for I was accustomed to her ways. But twice or thrice she lashed out at Lady Fielding; on these occasions there was little that could be done to mollify her. She seemed to resent any changes that were made in the conduct of the household, even when they were made to benefit her. Sir John was perplexed by her and confided in me that he believed she harbored some hostility toward the second Lady Fielding out of loyalty to the first. It seemed to me that there was very little could be done about that.

Yet Mrs. Gredge was barely mentioned when, as was my wont, I visited him that day of Tom’s arrival in his chambers after his court session. In answer to my knock he called me to enter. I found him as he was usually at such times, waistcoat unbuttoned, wig off and placed upon the table before him, and both feet up on a chair nearby.

“Well, Jeremy,” said he, “is it you who come, looking for tasks?”

“It is, sir, and I am.”

“You are quit with Mrs. Gredge for the day?”

“Oh, indeed,” said I.” She chased me from the kitchen, so taken up is she with preparations for dinner.”

“So soon? We’ll not eat, surely, for three or four hours.”

“It seems she has much baking to do before she even thinks of cooking the meal. Or so she said before she pushed me out.”

“Ah,” said Sir John, “the mjsteries of the kitchen. And what of mother and son? Their reunion goes well?”

“Oh, yes, they are deep in discussion in the sitting room.”

“And things went well at Tower Wharf?”

“Oh, yes sir. A band played, and a speech of welcome was made by one who must have been an admiral, at very least. Oh, a grand ceremony it was, in truth.”

“And what was this admiral’s name, Jeremy?”

“That I could not say, sir. He did not give it.”

Sir John laughed at that.” No, I suppose he did not. But tell me, boy, did he have anything to say that struck you as odd or unusual?”

How could he have known that?

“Well… yes, or it struck me as odd at the time. There was something that was known to him and to the crew —but not to the rest of us. He spoke of dissension in the upper ranks and a violent attack. He asked any who had information on this to step forward. When none did, he told them that his office would be open to them and … and that anything said to him in private would be kept in confidence.”

“Until the court-martial, of course.” He said it as if to himself.

“How was that, Sir John?”

“Oh … nothing.” Sitting in silence for a moment, he turned neither right nor left but lifted down his feet and seemed to lean slightly to the front, where I stood before him. Then: “You used a certain phrase a moment or two ago that struck me as having some particular meaning. You said that Kate and her son were ‘deep in discussion.’ Have you anv idea as to the nature of that discussion?”

“But Sir John, the sitting room door was closed. I would not eavesdrop.”

“Of course not. I would not havejou do so. But was anything said, let us say, prior to the time the door was closed, said openly in your presence, that might give indication of what was discussed?”

“Well…”

I was made a bit uncomfortable by this. It seemed like spying to me — or the thing next to it.

“What you tell me in private will be held in confidence,” said he.

“Until the court-martial?” I asked, perhaps somewhat impudently.

At that he laughed again.” Oh ho! You did hear what I muttered, did you? Well, I assure you, Jeremy, there will be no court-martial. I have good and sufficient reason to ask. It is not base curiosity that prompts me in this.”

I accepted what he said, of course. And so, not unwillingly but without much enthusiasm, I told him of a conversation that had taken place in the hackney coach during our return to Bow Street: of Lady Fielding’s offer to buy Tom a proper suit of clothes and his firm negative response. I quoted Tom —“A seaman is what I am and proud to be ” — and told Sir John that Lady Fielding had ended things by telling her son that they would talk about it later.

Sir John took all this as he might have in court, with no noticeable change in expression and with a moment of reflection after I had ended. Then he slammed down the palm of his hand on the table with such force that his periwig was made to jump.

“Hah!” he crowed.” Just as I thought! I told Kate, told her again and again, that once the lad had had a taste of salt water he would never willingly return to life on shore. But being his mother, she would see it onK-her way, talked of the advantages he would have here, supposed he might return to Westminster like a proper little schoolboy. Nonsense! The lad’s sixteen years old, near a man —more a man, by God, than any clerk or secretary in the City. What do you think of him, Jeremy?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“What do you think of Tom Durham? What sort is he? ‘

“Oh . . , well, a good sort.”

“Is he manly?”

“He’s good-sized.’

“Well, yes, of course, he would be at that age, but what about his manner? His voice? His bearing?”

“He’s deep-voiced, sir.” Of that I was painfully aware, for mine was at that time still a bit unreliable; I was never quite certain which octave would sound when I opened my mouth to speak.

“Has he an attitude of command? ‘

I thought of the ease with which he ordered me to take his things to the waiting hackney.” Yes sir,” said I, “I would say he does.” Then, hesitating: “And … indeed he has the speech of a young gentleman in which is mixed all manner of seaman’s terms. He talks rough, but as a gentleman might.”

“Ah,” said Sir John, “excellent, excellent.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking hard upon some matter which obviously concerned Tom Durham, his face quite animated. Had it not been for the black silk band that covered his eyes, I fancied I would have seen them shining with excitement. Clearly, he had a plan.

“You’ll be going to meet him soon? ” I asked.

“Not for some time, no. I think it proper that I let them have their talk and bring it to a close. Then perhaps Kate will be willing to listen to my plan.” Feeling about the tabletop, he found a bulky letter —sealed and ready for delivery.” What I have here is for the Lord Chief Justice. You know the way to Bloomsbury Square, of course.”

I took the letter from him. Indeed I did know the way. I made the trip to the Earl of Mansfield’s impressive Bloomsbury residence once or twice a week.” Will an answer be required?” I asked.

“No, none.” And at that point he delved into the voluminous pocket of his coat, brought up some coins, and felt them to assess their worth. He offered me the whole handful.” Take these,” said he, “and take the rest of the afternoon for yourself. Go to Grub Street and buy a book or two. Do whatever you like, Jeremy.”

He urged them toward me, and I took them.” Thankyou. Sir John,” said I.” I believe I’ll do just so.”

“We simply must get you onto some regular system of payment. Remind me, please.”

“Oh, I shall. Sir John.”

“Go now, but be back early for dinner.”

So it was that I returned not much after Five and found Mrs. Gredge quite in a state. She was running about the kitchen aimlessly, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, Jeremy, where was you, boy? I needed you so!”

“But you told me to leave! Pushed me out, you did.”

She sighed. “Oh, I may have,’ said she. “Yet when I need you, I need you.”

“What is it that you want, Mrs. Gredge?”

“You must put the roast in the oven for me,” said she.” I built the fire up hot. It’s all ready to go, but I’m fearful I may not have the strength for it.”

“Just open the oven doors, Mrs. Gredge, and I shall do what needs be done.”

She scurried to the oven and, using a good, thick rag, did as I asked. The oven fire was indeed hot —I hoped not too hot to cook the roast proper. As for the roast itself, I knew it was not near so heavy as she had made it out to be. I had bought it from Mr. Tolliver myself and carried it home. I knew well she could lift it, iron pan, potatoes, and all; I had lately seen her lift heavier loads. I wondered at her game.

Yet I did not challenge her. I simply asked why she had not sought the help of Tom Durham in my absence.

Her answer struck me as queer: “Oh, I would not do that. Is the dinner tonight not in the young gentleman’s honor?”

And so, reasoning that what I had put in the oven I should also be called upon to take out, I took a place in the kitchen, opened the book I had bought at Boyer’s in Grub Street, and settled down to read. Mrs. Gredge continued to fly about in a most distracting manner, doing the many other tasks that needed to be done. Sir John came at last from below, where he had been in a long conference with Mr. Marsden, the court clerk. Offering perfunctory greetings, he made his way through the dining room to the sitting room.

The book I had got was Lord Anson’s A Voyage Roiinc) the W”orl( — a.n old edition, got at a good price. Lady Fielding had urged me to learn more of the world’s geography. Sir John seemed eager that I learn more of the sea. And the book dealt at some length with China, so perhaps it would give me something to discuss with Tom Durham; I hoped so, tor indeed we seemed to have precious little in common. I had but read through the introduction by the true author of the book, one Richard Walter, the chaplain of the Centurion, the vessel on which the voyage had been accomplished, when, much to my astonishment, Mrs. Gredge suddenly grasped the table where I sat, cried out with something like a moan, and quite collapsed into the chair next mine, breathing with difficulty in great gasps.

Was she unconscious? Was this an attack of apoplexy? I had no idea. What was I to do? Having no better thought, I brought her a cup of water. Surely that would help. I asked her to drink a bit of it. She obliged me and moaned out her desire to talk with Sir John. Having heard that, I ran on through to the sitting room. There I banged rather peremptorily on the door, threw it open, and announced that Mrs. Gredge had collapsed.

There was a great rush to follow me back to the kitchen.

“Has she fainted?”

“Did she fall to the floor?”

Then, beholding her, her head lolled over the back of the chair and her hands knotted uselessly in her lap, Lady Fielding flew to her side, exclaiming, “You poor, dear woman, what is it has failed you?”

“My strength,” said Mrs. Gredge, in a voice which proved her weakness.” Sir John?”

“I am here, Mrs. Gredge.”

“I think I should go to my bed. Could Jeremy help me up the stairs?”

“Certainly,” said he.” Jeremy and Tom will carry you up.”

We struggled up with her to the floor above and returned hurriedly to the kitchen.

There I was met by two stern, unsmiling faces.

“Jeremy,” said Sir John, “had you no earlier sign Mrs. Gredge was so near collapse?”

“None, sir,” said I.” She was fluttering and flying about the kitchen till the moment she slumped down in the chair.”

“And where were you at the time?”

“Right there at the table.”

“Doing what, if I may ask?”

“I was reading, I … thought to be nearby if she asked for further help.”

“Further help? Explain yourself, please,” said Sir John, most solemnly. It was his court voice. There was no holding out against it.

I took a deep breath and told the truth: “She had asked me to put the roast in the oven for her. She said she feared she had not the strength.”