Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01] Read online

  Satisfied, the spectators also stood and began milling toward the doors. Still I held my place. The drabs departed, bidding me farewell and good fortune. I watched the clerk hand over the three-and-six to Isaiah Horton, greengrocer, and award Moll Caulfield, street vendor, her farthing; then he beckoned me over.

  “Sir John wishes to see you in his chambers,” said he to me, then turned and pointed. “Through that door, young sir, and across the hall.”

  I thanked him and made straightaway for it. Knocking, I was bade to enter and did so. Truth to tell, it was quite a plain room. A few law books were crammed into a case. The walls were bare of pictures or further ornamentation. Sir John I found much altered in appearance. He had doffed both tricorn and periwig and sat fuzzy-headed close by a table, his stockinged feet propped up on a chair before him. On the table stood no more than a bottle of strong, dark beer. The first sound he emitted in greeting was a considerable belch. Yet it was immediately followed by this salutation: “Ah, Master Proctor, is it? Come, come, sit down here.”

  He gave the chair a gentle kick and dropped his feet to the floor. I took the place he had made for me and sought to express my gratitude for his generous disposition of my case. But he halted me halfway through my little speech with a wave of his hand.

  “Quite unnecessary, quite unnecessary,” said he. “Our man Bledsoe was the prime mover in this affair. I’m put on my guard whenever he appears before me. Mark my words, I’ll have him in gaol soon.”

  “Yes, Sir John.”

  “But he is no longer your worry. You must give some thought to your future.” He paused a moment to consider, and as an aid to his cogitation, availed himself of a mouthful of beer from the bottle. “What are we to do with you, young man?”

  “Sir?”

  “With your father dead, you’ve no kin, I take it.”

  “None that I know of.”

  “I’m sure you’ve no wish to return to Stoke Poges.”

  “Oh, none, sir,” said I, earnestly. “Why, the very thought that I might—”

  Again, he silenced me. “You’ve no worry there, believe me, boy. But you simply cannot remain alone and on your own here in London. It is a dangerous city. Master Proctor. You have appeared before me today in all innocence accused of thievery. Left on your own here, you might appear here again in six months time, yet not so innocent as before.”

  In my ignorance, I was shocked at what I judged to be his low opinion of me. Thus I sought to convince him: “Sir John, I should never stoop to thievery. I’d indeed rather starve first!”

  “Ah, Jeremy Proctor, let me offer to you some advice. If you remember it well and carefully examine its implications, you may find yourself well on the way to wisdom. My advice is simply this: Never say never. You cannot possibly know the circumstances in which fortune may thrust you, nor can you be certain of how you will react to any given set of circumstances.” In the course of this peroration, he leaned forward earnestly so that his face was only inches from mine. In spite of the band of black silk covering his face from the bridge of his nose to his eyebrows, I had the distinct feeling, as I often did on occasions afterward, that he was staring directly into my eyes. But then he pushed back suddenly and grabbed up the bottle, treating himself to yet another deep draught. Having drunk his fill, he raised the bottle in my direction and admonished me once more with it: “Mark my words,” said he. “Never say never.”

  I liked not the notion that my fate was so much in another’s hands, yet had it to be so, there was none I could imagine whose hands I would trust better than Sir John’s.

  By and by, his considerable head, which had sunk slightly with the weight of thought, elevated itself, and he spoke to me as though inspired by a fancy: “Have you ever wished to go to sea?”

  “Why… why, no,” I stammered out my reply.

  He sighed audibly. “I thought not. When I was your age I thought and dreamed of nothing more. And indeed I went to sea in time, and … Ah, but that is another story—and a very old one at that.”

  I thought that passing strange. He seemed so complete in what he was—a magistrate, a blind man—that I could not conceive of him being otherwise.

  “I have sent boys in your predicament to sea,” he continued. “Though some, I allow, were older than you and were keen for the life. I have no wish to send a boy where he has no wish to go.”

  “Perhaps I would custom myself to it,” I offered.

  “Perhaps.”

  I hesitated then, not knowing the propriety of what I wished to suggest. But finally: “Is there some way I could be of use to you? I’m good with sums. I can read, sir, and write a good hand. And I even know some French.”

  “Ho! French, is it?”

  “And I can set type.”

  That gave him pause. “There we may be on to something. Of course, your father, the unfortunate printer, would have taught you, would he not?”

  “He did, sir.”

  “Well, Jeremy, in all truth, I pride myself that I need no special help from anyone—man or boy—to get me through my daily round. In short, I must decline the generous offer of your personal service—though not, I confess, without some hesitation. No, I sincerely believe work as apprentice to a printer would fit your talents and background better.”

  I felt it only right to inform Sir John that even as I had my unfortunate meeting with Bledsoe, I was seeking a print shop in order to inquire after employment. “My father told me I was as fast with a stick as some journeymen. He … he taught me well.”

  Sir John reached out toward me and, groping slightly, found my arm, to which he gave a gentle touch. “I’ve no doubt of it, boy.” Then, abruptly, he was all business: “There is a man I know. He is less than a friend and more than an acquaintance. But he has great influence in the printing trade. A word from him would establish you with any one of several printers. I dislike asking a favor of him, but pride must be put aside on such occasions. So, Jeremy Proctor, there will be time enough for such matters on the morrow. It will be Tuesday, and Mr. Saunders Welch sits in his court. The chief magistrate of the Bow Street Court has an entire day to himself, part of which he shall devote to your cause. You have his word on that. In the meantime I have a spare bed in my garret, and you will be most welcome as my guest.”

  Thus it was settled. Sir John summoned Benjamin Bailey and sent me off for a tour in his care. I found, when we two emerged in the street, that the day had all but passed. Nevertheless I looked with interest at all around me and gave particular attention to Covent Garden as we passed it on our way. I had no notion to find such country greenery displayed here in this great city. And I asked Mr. Bailey if there were many such places about.

  “None but this,” said he, “and a good thing, too.”

  “Why is that, sir?” I asked.

  “Well, m’lad, the truth of it is this. Full many a blackguard can hide himself among the stalls and stands come nightfall. And the lanes what lead into the square are many so narrow that it makes this a most difficult precinct to maintain.”

  “Maintain?”

  “Patrol. Keep clear of the lower element. And the fact that there’s gentlefolk lives here and the court so near, well, it’s sometimes an embarrassment is what it is.”

  I had no doubt of Mr. Bailey’s ability to handle what he called the lower element. Obviously a man of intelligence, he was most notable, however, for his size and strength. He stood well over six feet and must have weighed twelve stone or better, and in his best days (which were then not long past), he could have given the great Daniel Mendoza himself a considerable tussle. Yet with me he was then, as ever afterward, extremely gentle.

  As night fell, the flow of people in the streets seemed much diminished. I noted that some passersby gave us a wide berth, though others who knew Bailey by sight and name were quick to give him a cheerful greeting. They seemed to take heart in his presence—as, I confess, I did myself.

  “Is his house nearby?” I asked after we had co
vered some distance.

  “Whose house would that be, m’lad?” Mr. Bailey seemed preoccupied with all on the street about him. He glanced watchfully to the right and left as we moved on.

  “I meant Sir John’s.”

  “Oh, well, yes. Sir John. He lives back where we started from, above the court. I thought to give you some notion of the surroundings. Seen enough, have you?”

  We circled back to Bow Street, I marveling at the vast structures fixing the limits of the Garden, wondering what they housed. “Has he always lived here? Sir John, I mean.”

  I caught Mr. Bailey’s quick smile down at me. “Well, now,” he said, “that I can’t rightly say. Perhaps previous on the Strand for a time. Here in the city, before he married, he lived with his brother, who was the previous magistrate of the Bow Street Court until he took ill and died. It was they who put together the Runners.”

  “The Runners?”

  “Aye, the Bow Street Runners, constables, as fine a band of thief-takers as ever sent a ruffian to heel. We rule the streets of London, m’lad. Or rather, Sir John rules them through us. It’s our pride we’ve made them safe to walk after dark—most of them, anyway.”

  Mr. Bailey stopped beneath a street lamp and grinned down at me. “1 can see we wasn’t well met, we two. Allow me to introduce meself to you proper. Master… Master Proctor, is it?”

  I nodded, somewhat abashed.

  “Then I present meself to you. Master Proctor. I am Benjamin Bailey and am no less than captain of the Bow Street Runners, and I am at your service, sirT With that, he snapped a smart salute that bespoke his military background. I hen he ended his performance with a great, grand wink.

  I was much delighted—so much indeed, that I attempted to return his salute in my own unpracticed way. But there and then Mr. Bailey set about to correct it, raising my elbow, flattening my hand, until he was satisfied. “There,” said he, “we’ll make a Runner of ye yet.”

  Wishing to believe it might be so, my heart leapt. “How old must I be?”

  He perceived the eagerness in my eyes, for he immediately set about to put me to rights. “Oh, well, a bit older, I fear, and a bit bigger. But ye’ll be there quick enough. Take it from Benjamin Bailey.”

  My arm drooped down as did my spirits. But Mr. Bailey would have none of that. He clapped me firmly on the shoulder and set us walking again. “Ah, young Master Proctor, I was young as you meself once. And I well remember that like yourself I couldn’t wait to get on with things. Now I know I was wrong.”

  “Wrong? How so, Mr. Bailey?”

  “I could have waited.”

  We were well back on Bow Street. We walked along in silence for a short space until Mr. Bailey offered, “I hear tell he was in the Navy for a time.”

  My mind was elsewhere. “Who is that?”

  “Why, Sir John, m’lad. It was him we was speaking of, was it not?” He winked down at me, but then he continued in a more serious manner: “It was there he lost his sight. There are many stories told of it, but I know not the true one.”

  He led me back through Number 4 Bow Street. I noted upon our reentry a gathering of men down the hall, some as stout and imposing as Mr. Bailey himself. They spoke together in low tones with an air of preparation. Mr. Bailey led the way up two flights of back stairs. “Does Sir John’s wife await him?” I asked.

  “Lady Fielding is ill. You’ll not see much of her,” said Mr. Bailey rather strangely. “But there is Mrs. Gredge. You’ll see a good deal of her—more than you wish, I vow.”

  I knew not what to expect from this as we presented ourselves at the door at the head of the stairs. Mr. Bailey knocked stoutly upon it. A moment passed, and of a sudden there was a sound of screeching inside of such volume and duration that I wondered that there might be a pet corbie inside. But the noise grew louder and was at last heard in words and phrases of alarm from a spot just beyond the door: “Who is there? Who, I say? I’ll not open this door to a stranger! Make yourself known or wait for morning!”

  ” ‘Tis I, Benjamin Bailey,” he shouted loudly, “and I have a young charge for you sent by Sir John.”

  A stout lock was thrown, and the door came open slowly no more than a foot. A grizzled female head appeared, regarding first Mr. Bailey and then myself in a most skeptical manner. Then to him: “Oh, it’s you, is it? The night watchman.” Truly she did screech. Her voice, even as I recall it today, was something between a corbie’s and a parrot’s. Good woman that she was in many ways, her style of speech and desire to command would have put off the best of men, of whom I would certainly number my companion there on the doorstep.

  ”Not the night watchman,” he corrected her, “but Bailey of the Bow Street Runners.” I could tell from the glint of anger in his eye that he wished to say more.

  “As you wish, as you wish,” she said in a manner of dismissal. And then, directing a finger at me, “Who is he?”

  “His name is Jeremy Proctor, and a fine lad he is,” said Bailey directly. “Sir John directs you to prepare a bed for him, for he will be your guest this night.”

  She opened the door a bit wider, though not in welcome. Her purpose was to get a better look at me. It was evident she liked not what she saw. Her lips pursed and her nose wrinkled as she regarded me. “He’s dirty,” she said at last.

  “Be it as it might, madam,” said Mr. Bailey with great finality, “he is your guest for the night.” With one last clasp to my shoulder, he smiled down at me, turned, and briskly descended the stairs.

  She watched him for a moment, then finally turned her eyes back to me. “Well …” she said at last, “come in.” Never, it seemed, was entry granted more reluctantly.

  Once inside, she slammed the door after me and marched me down the short hall to a point where a candelabrum burned brightly. There she made a closer inspection. She removed my hat and rubbed through my hair. Iwisting my head this way and that, she looked sharply at my ears and neck, then tugged at my collar to view what lay beneath. At last the ordeal of buffeting and pulling was ended. She stepped back, frowning, and said, “You’ve slept in those clothes.”

  It was true. I had. “Yes, Mrs… .”

  “The name is Mrs. Gredge. You may call me ma’am.” Then she added sharply, “And only that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Take them off.”

  “Take them off, ma’am? My clothes?”

  “Yes, Jeremy. I’ll warm water for a bath. I’ll not have you crawling between clean sheets as filthy as you are. Now do as I say.”

  “But—”

  “No but’s. Get on with it. I’ll not see anything I’ve not seen before. I raised three boys of my own.” She looked at me crossly and then at last relented. “Oh, all right, I’ll hang a blanket out for you in the kitchen if it is of such moment. Though mark you, I’ll be in to see you get yourself clean. Your ears and neck are filthy. Indeed I shudder to think what the rest of you looks like.” Indeed I had no wish to show her.

  There was no choice but to do as she directed. After eating some cold mutton and a few crusts of bread, I undressed in the pantry while she filled the tub. I handed out my clothes, which she accepted, making no effort to hide her distaste. Then, waiting until she had vacated the kitchen, I plunged into the tub.

  My father had not been overly concerned with cleanliness. His shop he kept neat as a pin, and our living quarters were tolerably well swept, yet he did not bathe often and saw no need for me to. And so, though not as well practiced as I might have been, I gave myself to the job at hand with great zeal. I must have made good work of it, too, for when I presented myself to Mrs. Gredge, the blanket clutched about my middle, she passed me with reluctance.

  “Well,” she said, “you’ll do. Sir John does not often send home stray cats such as yourself, and when I set eyes upon you, I wondered at his wisdom this time. Yet now I see you clean, I suppose you’ll do. Come along.”

  She led the way up two more flights of stairs, a candle in her hand and a
finger to her lips. We went to the very top of the house, past the fourth floor and then up a narrow way that led to a small eyrie that was barely visible from the street below. The height of the room was such that it permitted both myself and Mrs. Gredge, who was nearly my size then, to stand erect. Yet a man the stature of Mr. Bailey would have been forced to bend double. It held a bed and a table, a few odds and ends of broken-backed furniture pushed into a corner, an old chest, and against one wall a great pile of books. The presence of these last seemed curious to me. “Are they Sir John’s?” I asked, and wondered that a blind man would have so many books about.

  “They belonged to his late brother. He had more books than Dictionary Johnson himself—more than was good for him, you may be certain. For if the man had not spent all his time away from the law in reading and writing and had attended to healthier pursuits, he might be alive today.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She lit a candle on the table by the bed. “1 doubt you’ll need another blanket tonight,” she said, “but if you do, take the one you’re wearing.” Speaking not another word, she turned and left me standing alone there. I heard her steps descending.

  Without a moment’s hesitation I went to the books. Although a bit dusty, they were in good condition with no trace of mildew or rot. I ran my hands over their spines, twisting my head to and fro to read their titles. They were of all sorts—histories, geographies, personal narratives of distant voyages, romances, books of verse and all manner of science. It might have suggested to me then, had I but known the identity and fame of Sir John’s late brother, the extent and interest of his wide-ranging intelligence. A man can be known by his library better than by his house or dress.

  Choosing one at random, an account of life in the American colonies; I took it with me to the bed and settled in between the muslin sheets, a luxury I had all but forgotten since my mother’s demise; and warm beneath the blanket, I began to read. I was interested in what the book had to offer, yet nearly a week of hard traveling and a day so full I could scarce contain it in my mind, had left me wearier than I knew. I had gone but a few pages in the text when I fell fast asleep.