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The meal put before us was something better than I had expected. In order to serve so many, plain fare must be offered, and plain fare was what we got. It was not such as we were used to at home from Annie, whose ordinary stews were spiced to a delicious piquancy. Yet our plates were well heaped with good English beef, and beside was a good chunk of: pudding and atop all a sauce of beef drippings; there was bread on the table tor sopping. And so, while what we were offered may have been no feast, we were given plenty, and what we ate was good.

  As we dined we watched preparations proceed upon the stage for the concert. The musicians began to file out from a door in back to take their places. At last the clatter of hundreds of knives and forks upon plates began to subside, and a round and red-faced man came forward whom I presumed to be the master of the ceremonies. He held up his hands, asking for silence, and waited until the deep hum of conversation had subsided somewhat. We sat so near the stage that I was able to make out the veins that showed upon his swollen nose.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted out to the audience, “and especially ladies, as you no doubt know, the Ode for St. Cecilia j Day, by George Frederick Handel is on our program for this evening. But due to the inclement weather we have lately had this winter season, the soprano section of our choir has been some little depleted. In short, I appeal to you, the ladies of our audience, for volunteers to augment our soprano section. The choirmaster informs me that even if you have not previously participated in the singing of this great work, music will be supplied, and you will be drilled in your part before the performance. So … please? Are there some of you out there? Volunteers who wish to take part in this great occasion?”

  At first there seemed to be none. But then a woman, no longer young, rose from a table at the far side and marched resolutely up the stairs her side of the stage.

  Then did Lady Fielding lean forward and say most earnestly: “Oh, Annie dear, you go. You have such a lovely voice. Yours would help them immeasurably. “

  “Oh, ma’am, I can’t! I couldn’t!”

  Then, from the stage: “Are there no more? I’m told we need at least two more, and five in all would be best.”

  Another came forward from the rear of the ballroom.

  “Please, Annie, do it for us,” said Lady Fielding. And Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Goldsmith, who to my knowledge had never heard Annie sing, joined the importuning chorus.

  “But I don’t read music,” wailed Annie quite miserably. “I’ve never even heard the piece.”

  “We have one here!” called out Lady Fielding loudly. “We have a volunteer!”

  And so, with the reluctance of one condemned, Annie was forced to rise. Saying nothing more, she left our table and climbed the stairs our side of the stage as one might to the scaffold. In spite of repeated invitations, no further recruits could be pulled from the great crowd, so at last the three were trundled off through the door at which the musicians had entered.

  Then did the master of the ceremonies look about him, and making certain that the members of the orchestra were all in their places, he took a step forward and then he bellowed forth even louder than before: “To those of you who come regularly to these Sunday concerts, the man I am about to introduce needs no introduction. He is a great patron of the arts in general, to the art of music in particular, and to these concerts in specific. For two years now he has inspired and guided us with his interest and, not least, has supported us generously from his pocket whenever attendance flagged and it became necessary. We at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, and you who are supporters of the Academy of Ancient Music, owe him a great debt. Let us all give witness to that with a great sound of applause for our patron, Christopher Paltrow, Earl of Laningham. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lord Laningham.”

  The applause that followed this fulsome introduction seemed somewhat meager and merely polite. Nevertheless, the man for whom it was intended took no offense at that. He bounded up from his table at the far side of the stage and, bearing a ceremonial staff of some sort, hopped up the stairs with surprising agility. He was a man who had, I judged, entered his eighth decade, or so the deep lines in his face did suggest. His movements, while not those of a young man, were somewhat forced, as if he were one who wished to appear young and vigorous still.

  “I must apologize for him,” said Mr. Humber to the table, in a voice perhaps too loud. “He does make an awful fool of himself.”

  Lord Laningham would then speak his piece before the music could begin. Yet it was brief. “Dear friends of ancient music, we have a fine program for you this evening, we do, and all of it by our favorite, Mr. Handel, may the good Lord keep his soul. Well, there’s the Ode for St. Cecilia j Day, of course, but that’s a bit later.” He stopped a moment, hemmed and hawed, then turned and sought the aid of the musicians. “Ah yes, we begin with two of Mr. Handel’s grand concertos, the first two, I’m told, of… what is it now?” Again he turned to the orchestra. Then: “Of Opus three, I’m told. Mr. Concertmaster?”

  With that, Lord Laningham withdrew to a chair of honor placed before the orchestra and facing out toward the audience. He seated himself but kept in hand that staff with which he had ascended to the stage; it was gilt-painted and had at its upper end a round bulb of good size, such as would fill a man’s hand.

  The concertmaster, which is to say the violin player nearest us, stood, taking the attention of the musicians, and began them on the first piece of the program. Remarkable it was how all managed to start together under his direction; once they were playing, however, he seated himself and played as one of the many. Indeed there were many — thirty-three, as I counted them—divided between strings and horns of every sort, with stringed instruments somewhat in the majority. Remembering Annie’s objection to the loudness of the music, I admitted that while that was true, there was a certain grandeur in that greatness of sound. I liked the way it changed from loud to soft and back to loud again; thus also with the pace of the music, going for a stretch at a dignified, funereal gait, then unexpectedly breaking into the swift movement of some dance, a jig or an allemande.

  Lord Laningham himself had a great preference for these sprightly parts. When they came, he was moved to jump from his chair and begin beating his staff upon the stage floor in time to the music —though not, alas, in strict time. I noted that often the musicians would look up at him in annoyance as he banged and capered about. Yet he, it seemed, was having a grand time oi it; so completely did he give himself to his performance before the orchestra that in the space of two concerti grossi (which may have taken hall an hour to perform) he had quite exhausted himself. Beckoning a server to him, he gave quite detailed instructions to the fellow and then pointed back to the table whence he, Lord Laningham, had come. In a moment the server had returned with a newly opened bottle of wine and a glass. The lord did wave away the glass but took firm hold of the bottle and took a deep swig from it. With his thirst temporarily slaked, he sat and rested as the choir began to file in.

  There was a space often minutes, perhaps as many as fifteen, between the first and second parts of the program. (I later learned that there was a third part planned, selections from the Water Miuic, always a great favorite with attendants of the concerts.) During this time musicians left their chairs and milled about. A few left the stage altogether, perhaps answering calls of nature. The choirmaster conferred with members of the choir who had grouped around him. Annie, a bit shorter than most, was near invisible in the crowd. Through it all, Lord Laningham sat, fortifying himself from time to time with a swig from the bottle.

  As we waited, Mr. Alfred Humber regaled us with tales of the patron’s past foolishness: how he did, on one occasion, become so carried away with the pomp of the Royal Fireworks Music that he descended the stairs from the stage and led a parade through the audience; and on another, wishing to show his appreciation to the orchestra for what he judged a superlative performance of something or other (and lacking a hat), he doffed his wig to them, revealing a head quite bal
d except for a bit of fuzz at the ears.

  “He is such an embarrassment,” said Mr. Humber. “Some come just to laugh at him. I don’t know why the Academy puts up with the old fellow—-though I suppose they must. It’s all that wine he drinks, I suppose.”

  All the members of the orchestra had reassembled and were back in their chairs. The choir had taken its place on a platform to the left of the musicians, with the sopranos, Annie among them, at the far end.

  I half expected Lord Laningham to make some sort of announcement — but no, he remained seated. He seemed subdued somewhat, yet bothered, shifting frequently and, it seemed, somewhat uncomfortably in his chair of honor.

  Perhaps he was merely bestirring his old bones, limbering them up to perform, for sure enough, once choir and orchestra had begun he was up on his feet, no doubt inspired by the booming sound of the great kettledrums. Yet this time he did no more than beat his staff upon the floor. He wandered about a bit uncertainly; then he found his way over to the choir, where he did ogle the sopranos —pretty Annie, it seemed, in particular. The choirmaster was openly annoyed by this.

  I cannot, by the bye, say that I actually heard our Annie singing on that occasion. Certainly I heard the choir, and she was one of them. Her lips moved, and her mouth opened. I watched her closely until Lord Laningham drew near to her, at which time she put her music up before her and hid behind it.

  Still he wandered, yet with faltering step. The ceremonial staff he simply dragged after him, bringing it down only now and then upon the floor. He had paled. Sweat stood upon his face. A murmur of comment at his condition went through the crowd as he found his way back to his chair and collapsed into it. He dropped his staff, and it rolled a few feet from him across the stage. Then did he lean forward as if to retrieve it. Having so leaned, he could somehow not stop himself, and quite out of control, he toppled lengthwise upon the floor. His lower body quivered and jerked, knocking down the chair from which he had fallen and sending the half-consumed bottle of wine spinning across the floor, spilling its contents. Then, in what may have been his last willed act, he raised his head —but only to vomit. Beef, bits of pudding, and a good deal of nasty red liquid, which I took to be wine, spewed forth from his gaping mouth. It was a most unpleasant sight to behold.

  For a moment there was silence. The orchestra had halted, and so, too, the choir. Those in the audience were too stunned to do more than gawk. Yet only for a single eye-blink of a moment did that silence last, for in the next instant all onstage seemed to be converging upon the fallen figure. There were shouts and screams from them, as from the great crowd in the ballroom. Of a sudden all was chaos.

  “What a disgrace!” shouted Mr. Humber. “He’s fallen drunk and vomited out his guts before us. This certainly exceeds the limit.”

  There were others all around who joined him in similar cries of disgust.

  Mr. Donnelly, however, already on his feet, put a different interpretation upon those actions all had witnessed. “Dear God,” said he, “the man is ill. I must do what I can to help him.” And so saying, he left us at the table and ran to the steps nearby leading up to the stage. I saw him pressing through the crowd that suddenly surrounded Lord Laningham.

  There was shouting:

  “Give him room!”

  “Do not push so! You’ll crush my violin.”

  Then just as Mr. Donnelly reached the figure on the floor of the stage and knelt down to him, I felt a tug at my sleeve. It was Sir John, who had come round the table to seek me out special.

  “Jeremy,” said he to me in a hoarse whisper, “you’ve a good pair of eyes and mind enough to note peculiarities. Tell me quickly, boy, exactly what you saw from the time Lord Laningham appeared on the stage.”

  That I did in no more than a minute’s time. Sir John listened, concentrating carefully on what I had to say. He nodded when I finished.

  “And the last you saw of that bottle of wine, it was rolling around on the floor up there?”

  “That’s true, sir,” said I, “spilling its contents all round.”

  “Then take me up to the stage, for we must restore order somehow, clear the area, and find that bottle.”

  “Yes, Sir John. Grab hold my shoulder.”

  The crowd up on the stage seemed to have increased threefold by the time Sir John and I arrived. He tried shouting them down. Yet his considerable voice was lost in the tumult. Then had I an idea of what might be done. We stood in the midst of the orchestra, or where the orchestra had been minutes before. If I might but …

  “Here, Sir John,” said I, “let me help you up on a chair. If I can reduce them to something like silence, you may deliver one of your magnificent threats.”

  “Well and good,” said he. “Do what you can.”

  Taking my hand, he made it up to the seat of the chair. I then helped point him in the right direction and urged him not to move, lest he fall. Then did I go right swift to the orchestra’s loudest instrument, which stood untended.

  I picked up the mallets — covered in sheepskin they were —and I began beating upon the kettledrums as Tom O Bedlam might, making them boom forth like cannon, then rolling them out long and loud like thunder, then booming and banging again and again.

  When I looked up and saw all turned toward me, openmouthed in surprise, I knew that I must stop. Reluctantly, I did so. Then rang forth the stentorian voice of the great man himself.

  “I am Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court. I order you all to clear the stage at once. With the exception of Lord Laningham, members of his immediate family, and Gabriel Donnelly, the doctor in attendance, all must leave immediately. The Bow Street Runners have been sent for to enforce this order. All who remain in defiance of it may expect to spend the next month in Newgate Gaol.”

  What a rush there was! Musicians and chorus fled out the door at the rear of the stage. Those of the audience who had come up out of curiosity or concern left, as they had come, by the steps at either side. In less than three minutes, only Lord Laningham, Mr. Donnelly, and a grandly dressed woman whom I took to be Lady Laningham, remained there with us.

  But look as I might —and I spent the next ten minutes poking in every corner — no bottle of any sort was there to be found.

  TWO

  In Which I Play

  the Constable

  and Am Embarrassed

  The men of our table at the Crown and Anchor assembled once again in Sir John’s chambers back of the courtroom at Number 4 Bow Street. It had been over an hour since Lord Laningham had fallen so sudden ill upon the stage and died so ingloriously before hundreds of witnesses. While some had filed out immediately, aware that the musical entertainment was not likely to resume, which of course it did not, most remained, some no doubt out of concern for the aged noble, but the greater number simply to gawk at a man in the throes of death. At last death had come and taken him. Lady Laningham, who had knelt beside him through all, then gave the word and two servers of the Crown and Anchor hauled off the body between them to an embalmer nearby on Fleet Street.

  That done, Sir John had allowed back the musicians and members of the chorus to retrieve their instruments and music from the stage; then did he send me off to find the innkeeper and bring him hither. It did not surprise me that he who had acted as the master of the ceremonies proved to be the one I sought. He went most willingly to Sir John; I merely trailed after. Yet I was then sent off to find Annie and bring her to the table, so that I heard nothing of the question and answer that passed between them. Instead I lound her with the choirmaster, he giving her a stern talking-to, one complete with linger shaking and frown. Whatever she had done seemed to have displeased him greatly. Nevertheless I heard no details, for as I approached close enough to listen there was, of a sudden, nothing to be heard. He turned from her and stalked off, perhaps in search of some other poor soprano he might abuse. All this took place in the space behind the stage reached through that door through which both orchestra and choir
had passed. Asking simply if we were ready now to return to Bow Street, Annie came along, music in hand, accepting my response that it would be soon.

  And so it was. Sir John was at the table with the rest — his interview with the innkeeper could not have lasted long —and we all set off together, among the last to leave the scene of that unhappy event. He declined to discuss it, saying that he wished to give it some thought as we made our way home. “If, however,” he had said on the walkway before the Crown and Anchor, “you gentlemen wish to accompany us, I would be curious to hear your comments and observations on the matter. Perhaps we might do that at Number Four.”

  They had indeed wished to come along, and though they could not wait to talk of the death amongst themselves, Messrs. Donnelly, Goldsmith, and Humber trailed our party at such a distance that they could not have greatly disturbed Sir John. Upon our arrival at Bow Street, Lady Fielding and Annie had mounted the stairs to our quarters, and I, on Sir John’s orders, had gone ahead to light candles in his chambers and otherwise prepare it for his guests.

  Thus, when they entered, the place was well lit, and upon Sir John’s desk stood a bottle of good brandy (fetched from the bottom drawer of his desk) and four glasses, wiped clean and ready.

  “Ho!” crowed Mr. Goldsmith in celebration. “What have we there? Is it the Spanish fundador or the French cognac?”

  “I know not its country of origin,” said Sir John, “only that it has a pleasant taste and warms the stomach well.”

  “Well and good,” spoke Mr. Humber.

  I filled glasses for all but myself and handed them out. They took chairs scattered about the room and pulled them close. I, not being asked to leave, found one for myself, as well.

  “Sir John?”

  “Yes, Mr. Goldsmith?”

  “Your interest in this matter seems to indicate a suspicion that Lord Lan-ingham did not die of natural causes.”

  “Oh … not necessarily. As described by Jeremy, the scene upon the stage following Laningham’s collapse was one of great disorder. At the very least, I thought it wise to clear the stage that Mr. Donnelly might minister to the poor man. That, following Jeremy’s solo on the bass drum, I was able to do.”