Jack, Knave and Fool Page 12

  “That was it, yes sir. She felt sure that you would honor the offer.”

  “Oh, I will, indeed I will. A man should not willingly make a liar of his wife.” Again he laughed; it seemed positively a giggle. He was much amused. “And you suspected, Jeremy, that he was present throughout the interview, hiding in the closet behind the curtain?”

  “That is correct, sir. Left to myself, I would have thrown back the curtain and confronted the fellow.”

  “Well, then it is just as well you were not left to yourself, for all the good reasons I explained to you yesterday. No, I think you did well to hasten back, rather, and explain the matter to me. Otherwise, our friend Roundtree might have preceded you here.”

  “You believe, then, that he will surrender himself? “

  “Oh, I do. Were I in his position, that is what I would do. It is, after all, a most generous offer. And I also admit, a practical way to handle a matter gone quite out of hand. I should have thought of it myself. Perhaps I ought to consult with Kate more often on court matters.”

  Then did he grow of a sudden more serious. He leaned forward, folding his hands before him, his jaw set and his lips pursed. Then did he speak: “Now, about the girl — Clarissa? is that her name?—that is quite another matter. I shall talk about her to — “

  A rather intrusive and noisy commotion commenced at that moment not far beyond the open door to Sir John’s chambers. The voice of a woman: “I will not be impeded, young man!” The voice of Mr. Marsden: “But it is only proper that you be announced.” “I need no announcement. I am who I am!” — and that said with great authority.

  “Jeremy,” said Sir John, raising his voice above theirs, “go and see what all that is about, will you?”

  I rose and went to the door, and there was I near bowled over by a figure in black, hatted and veiled, all in widow’s weeds. She bumped past me as she propelled herself forward with all the force of a cannonball and into the room. Stopping only when she had reached his desk, she took an aggressive stance, leaning over so that no more than two or three feet separated their faces.

  “Sir John Fielding!” said she with some urgency —and no more.

  “That is my name. And who, pray tell, are you, madam?”

  “Lady Laningham, widow of the late lord.”

  Then did Sir John rise as the occasion demanded. He bowed pro forma and murmured that it was ill to meet under such sad circumstances, and I went quietly to a chair near the door and seated myself, not washing to miss a moment of an interview that had begun so spectacularly. Sir John invited her to sit down, and she dropped heavily into the chair I had vacated.

  “In a sense,” she said, “we have already met —up there on the stage of the Crown and Anchor. I was most grateful to you for clearing that mob. All those people milling about and poor Chrissie in such terrible distress. I thought I would quite go mad until you sent them away.”

  “Yet,” said Sir John, resuming his seat behind the desk, ‘you did not come here to thank me —or I am mistaken.”

  “No, I did not.” She took a deep breath. “I have heard something about you that is quite distressing.”

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  She threw the veil up from her face and again leaned forward in a confrontational manner. “I have heard that you have been putting it about that my husband was poisoned.”

  “Putting it about, you say? Who told you such a thing?”

  “Mr. Oliver Goldsmith visited to pay his respects and offer words of consolation. Yet far from consoling me, his words quite inflamed me. I have come to you direct to demand from you some explanation for this … this opinion of yours.”

  “First of all, Lady Laningham,” said he, “let me declare that I have in no wise been ‘putting it about,’ as you said. I have discussed the matter only once, and that was on the evening of your husband’s death with Mr. Gabriel Donnelly, the doctor who attended your husband, Mr. Alfred Humber, and Mr. Goldsmith. That conversation took place in this very room. Now, did Mr. Goldsmith actually say that I had been putting it about?”

  At that she paused for thought. “No, in truth, he did not. What were his exact words? As near as I can remember, what he said was that you had questioned that Lord Laningham s death came by natural causes, that you thought there were reasons to consider the possibility of poison.”

  “Now, that is quite another matter, would you not say so? To question is one thing, and to spread it about to others is quite another. I had hoped my conversation with those gentlemen would be kept private.’

  “But why do you question?” she asked most earnestly. “What are your reasons for considering the possibility of poison?”

  Then, offering first a deep sigh, he did launch into a summary of those matters that had disquieted him so on the evening ol that Sunday past. He laid them before her in most orderly fashion, as if summarizing a case of law, which in a sense was what he was doing. She, an educated and intelligent woman, listened carefully nodding her understanding as he talked on for a period of no more than a lew minutes. When he had concluded with his summary, he put to her a question: “Tell me, Lady Laningham, had your husband ever before experienced extreme digestive distress — anything, that is, that might have begun to approach the severity of his attack that night?”

  “No … no, certainly not. Chrissie had the digestion of a bear. He could eat or drink anything at all, it seemed, without misfortune. I used to tease him about it.”

  “Well,” said Sir John, “there you have another reason to question death by natural causes. There was no forewarning, no earlier hint of any such difficulty. “

  “But for the most part,” said she, “it is this matter of the wine, as I understand you.”

  “That is correct. He showed no signs of illness, even of discomfort, until he drank from the bottle brought to him there on the stage, and it was not long after he drank from it that he collapsed. Add to that the fact that the said bottle was nowhere to be found once the crowd had been cleared from the stage, and, as I said, we have further reason to question. But now do I have another question for you. And it is this: Whence came the bottle of wine in question? The innkeeper of the Crown and Anchor gave it as his opinion that it had been brought up from your table, though he could not be certain, since he had not located the server who brought it. Do you recall that detail? Did the wine come from Lord Laningham’s private stock, as the innkeeper believed?”

  “Let me think,” said she, and think she did, taking near a minute to respond to Sir John’s interrogative. “Yes, I recall it perfectly. Lord Laningham has always kept a good cellar and always made it a point to bring with him bottles of his private stock to these affairs at the Crown and Anchor. The server came to our table, a young man, as most of them there are, and said that Chrissie had requested a bottle, and it was sent up with him.”

  “Jeremy Proctor, my young assistant, who I believe is sitting behind you now near the door” —how could he have been so exact? —“saw the bottle brought to Lord Laningham and noted that it was uncorked, but he thought it to have been full. Was it so?”

  Before answering, she turned about in her chair and regarded me briefly with a frown. Was it disapproval, or merely a shortsighted squint? The latter, I hoped. She was rather a formidable woman.

  Yet in a moment her attention had returned to Sir John. “As I recall,” she said, “it was nearly so.”

  “Nearly so? Would you explain, please?”

  “Gladly. It was the last unopened bottle on the table. I signaled to the server that he was to open it, and he did so. Yet then, just as he was about to leave with the bottle and Lord Laningham’s glass, he was stopped by Mr. Paltrow, who asked for a bit more before the bottle left. The server looked at me, and I nodded my assent. He took no more than half a glass, but I remember the incident well, for I thought it most presumptuous and unmannerly of him, and in that way quite characteristic.”

  “I see,” said Sir John. “And who, may I ask, is
Mr. Paltrow? A relative of your late husband, I take it.”

  “What? Oh yes. Arthur Paltrow was the late lord’s nephew and heir. As you may or may not know, Chrissie and I had no children, to our great sorrow —mine, I believe, most of all. He was near twenty years my senior, and I believed that marrying a younger woman would provide him with a considerable family of children. Yet that I could not give him.”

  “And so Arthur Paltrow was a guest at your table on that fateful evening?”

  “Yes, he, his wife, and their two adolescent daughters.”

  “He was on a visit to London with his family?”

  “No, they moved here some months ago. Until then they had dwelt upon his late father’s small estate near Laningham.”

  “I take it from your earlier remark,” said Sir John, “that you are not overly fond of Mr. Paltrow.”

  “No, I am not. I said that he lacked courtesy. I should say rather that he lacks ordinary human consideration. I give you an example. Mr. Paltrow is the Laningham heir. There is no question of that. Yet he has put me on notice that I am to move out of our town residence in St. James Square at my earliest opportunity after the reading of the will. It’s true, I have been well provided for, and the house does go to Mr. Paltrow as part of the estate. But to force me out to look for suitable quarters so soon after all this has happened — that I call damned inconsiderate.”

  “Oh, quite. I’m in accord with you on that. I, uh, take it that the reading of the will which names him as heir makes him officially Lord Laningham. You must forgive me, I know nothing of such matters.”

  “And I next to nothing. There is, I believe, a further matter, an invitation of some sort from the House of Lords —an ‘investiture,’ or some such thing.”

  “Ah, so.” He remained silent for a long moment, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. “I have a question or two for you, Lady Laningham, if you would not mind.”

  “Ask what you will.”

  “First of all, did you see Mr. Paltrow drink that half glass of wine he begged? That is to say, did he finish it? Did he gulp it down?”

  “No, certainly he did not gulp it, nor do I know that he finished it. I did, however, see him sip it once or twice. I remember he made some fatuous remark about its great quality. In truth, it was not all that grand. We saved our best for our dinner parties.”

  “So we leave it that he sipped it. Now, tell me if you will, did Mr. Paltrow go with you to the stage of the Crown and Anchor at the time of your husband’s collapse?”

  “Why yes, yes he did. It was the one bit of kindness that he showed me that evening. The crowd formed about Chrissie most immediately — the chorus and orchestra gathered round and others preceded us to the stage. Mr. Paltrow pushed his way through them and made a path for me. I doubt I could have made it to Chrissie on my own.”

  What followed was a long —oh, an interminably long —silence from Sir John. Lady Laningham was made uneasy by it. She shifted in her chair, then turned to look at me questioningly. There was naught I could do but nod reassuringly. At last Sir John spoke.

  “Lady Laningham,” said he, “what you have told me still leaves doubts in my mind. I believe poison cannot be ruled out as a possibility.”

  “Do you mean Mr. Paltrow could somehow have …”

  “I point a finger at no one direct. There is another possibility. The server himself might have slipped a potion in the bottle as he brought it to the stage. There are any number of possibilities, yet we cannot consider them until we know if Lord Laningham was poisoned, and there is only one way to be certain of that.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “By autopsy.”

  “Do you mean cutting him open and examining his inwards?”

  “That is just what I mean. A trained medical man like Donnelly would know from the condition of the organs how your husband died—that is, if his death did or did not come by natural means.”

  “Oh dear,” said she.

  “If you, as his widow, gave permission, the entire exercise could be handled overnight. It would not even be necessary to delay the funeral. When is it, by the bye?”

  “Saturday,” said she, and then nothing more until: “I’m afraid I should have to give some consideration to this —cutting poor Chrissie open. It seems such an insult to the body, so …” She hesitated, looking for the right word. “Well, unseemly is what it seems to me.”

  “Unseemly? Well, it could all be handled confidentially, in a single night, as I said.”

  “No,” she said, rising slowly, as if beneath a great burden, “I’m afraid I shall have to give a great deal of thought to this —of the private sort, that is. Thank you for your directness, Sir John. I must go now and think. Goodbye.”

  And with that, she made her way past me and out the door, perplexed, a bit overwhelmed. Her exit was in great contrast to her entrance.

  FIVE

  In Which Shocking

  News Is Brought from

  the Laningham Residence

  The delivery of the cape brought by Lady Fielding from the Magdalene Home took place next morning. It was a good warm piece of clothing, one which she was proud to donate to Clarissa Roundtree, in whom she had taken a keen interest. I carried it over my arm as I marched the distance to Half-Moon Passage. Once arrived, I trod the long hall a bit more carefully than on earlier visits, that I might not be bowled over by some whoremonger come flying out a door at me. None did. The knock I gave upon her door was also a bit less peremptory than before.

  “Who is there?” came the voice from beyond the door.

  “It is I, Jeremy Proctor from Bow Street.”

  “What do you want?” That, at least, was an improvement upon her previous invitations to leave.

  “I have with me the cape which Lady Fielding promised you.”

  She made no verbal response to that, but answered by pulling the peg from the staple and throwing back the hasp. All this I heard as I waited impatiently in the hall. The door came open, though it was not thrown wide to admit me; rather it was opened a distance of about two feet, which space she herself filled. She reached out an open hand.

  “Give it me then,” said she.

  Yet I held back the cape, fearful that she would slam the door soon as she had it.

  “Your father has not yet surrendered himself,” said I.

  “Oh? Well, I suppose he hasn’t.”

  “Have you seen him? Have you passed on to him the offer made by Lady Fielding?”

  “I … well …” She was flustered, having evidently prepared no reply to a question she should have known I would ask. Would she lie? Tell the truth?

  And how would I know one from the other? But she managed to regain herself: “No, I have not yet passed it on.”

  What she said rang as an untruth, but then I saw through her device: she had used the truth to tell a lie.

  “I strongly suspect,” said I, “that you have not told him because there was no need to. I strongly suspect that he was present during our visit, hidden away in the closet behind the curtain. Now tell me, am I not right? Did he not hear all?”

  “Oh, pooh!” said she. “If you suspected so much, why did you not capture him?”

  It would have taken too much to give a proper explanation, and at that moment I felt she deserved none. “Let us say, Miss Pooh, that Sir John prefers that he surrender himself.”

  She peered at me in a sullen manner. “Are you going to give me the cape, or are you not?”

  I had nearly forgotten it in my fit of ill temper. “Yes, of course I am. Here.” I shoved it at her through the narrow opening she had provided me. “Lady Fielding wishes you well and prays that you will wear it in good health.” That was what I had been told to say, and I had said it.

  She took it from me and, forcing a smile, said, “You may thank her for me. Tell her I thank her kindly. She’s a good woman, is she not?”

  “She is, right enough,” said I; then, as Clarissa Roundtree began to ease s
hut the door, I remembered something more. “But a moment. / have also brought something for you.”

  “You have brought something? And what might that be?”

  “A book.” I delved into the pocket of my coat and brought it forth. “It should provide a change from those romances you read—a history and geography of the American colonies with many true tales and anecdotes of adventure.” I recited from memory. It was a book I treasured.

  Then did she truly smile. She took the book from me most eagerly.

  “It is from my personal library,” said I. “It is a gift to you and not a loan.”

  “You have so many?”

  “I have a few.” Puffing a bit.

  “How could you know that we-” She halted abruptly, checking herself.

  “That you … ?”

  “Oh … nothing. It was but a childish fancy. My mother and I did oft read such books together. But I thank you, Jeremy Proctor. The gift of a book will ever be the best gift for me.”

  “Then I am satisfied,” said I. “Goodbye to you.”

  With a wave, I turned and started back up the hall. She called her goodbye to me. I looked back and saw her leaning out the door, still smiling, waving the book. All the way back to Bow Street, I turned in my mind what she had said —or no, it was rather what she had not said. Was it merely, as she had claimed, that she and her mother had read together such books as the one I had given her? Or was America the refuge chosen by her father in some grand plan of escape he had formed? The phrase she had blurted forth, “How could you know,” seemed somehow to suggest the latter possibility. But escape from what? Surely not a public drunkenness conviction. The means to settle that had been given him. What more could there be? That question would plague me for some days to come.

  Some time after I had returned, whilst I was yet engaged in the onerous task of cleaning out the kitchen fireplace, Annie came back from her morning lessons with Jimmie Bunkins in tow. He had come, he said, in hopes that we might together visit Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Only then did I recall his news that the human head we had viewed in St. Andrew’s Churchyard had been taken down and handed over to the medico that it might be preserved against further decomposition.