An Experiment in Treason Read online

  “Yet consider,” said he, “what we have just learned from that man, Carruthers. It could mean that the burglary was accomplished with the help of a confederate inside the house — that this ally had prepared the door in the manner described by the.butler, in effect, leaving it unlocked for the burglars to enter whenever they might choose.”

  “But you do not think that, do you, Sir John?” “I think it may be so, and it may well be worth explaining, but if it is not true, there remains the likelihood that the burglars themselves did this, either for a reason we do not yet understand, or as a sort of signature. I shall try to find if that signature has been left elsewhere on other occasions. And if we know that, we may know who they are. Now, let us make haste to Bow Street, for when we arrive, I have an onerous task to assign you. I dislike putting it upon you, but it is far too much for me.”

  He would say no more than that then, no matter how I plagued him to tell.

  There were lesser tasks to perform before I came round to Sir John.

  And when I did, he was in the company of his clerk, Mr. Mars-den, going over the docket in preparation for the noon session of his Bo-w Street Court. I waited till he was done.

  “You said you had a task for me, sir.”

  “Indeed I do. Take me to a quiet corner.”

  I did as he bade me, guiding him to a place secluded from the noise and unruly behavior of the prisoners in the strong room.

  “Yes, this is much better, thank-you, Jeremy,” said he. “I should like you to go cross the town to St. James’s Street and deliver the news we received from the Lord Chief Justice this morn. You recall it, of course.”

  “Oh yes, certainly. Marie-Helene is to be tried upon Friday in Old Bailey, which means she must appear before you on Thursday.”

  “That is correct,” said he. “But do not, I caution you, deliver this news in a manner so — well … so offhand.”

  “Oh no, indeed no, sir.”

  “And while you are about it, offer my apologies and my regrets that I was unable to deliver the information myself. Tell him … oh, tell him that I received the word from Lord Mansfield only this morning, that I had to attend at my court session, and so I sent you that he might have the news without delay. Do you have that, Jeremy?”

  I assured him that I did.

  “Well then, on your way — Oh, but there is this, too. Deliver the message only to Mr. Bilbo — not to your friend Bunkins, and certainly not to Marie-Helene.”

  “But only to Black Jack,” said I.

  “Only to him.”

  I bade him good-bye and slipped out of the door as a great many from the street poured past me and through the opposite door into Sir John’s courtroom.

  Reader, if I have left you somewhat in the dark with this discussion of smuggling, Marie-Helene, Black Jack Bilbo, and Sir John, then let me take a moment to explain.

  It all dates back to a time a couple of months earlier that same year of 1773. Sir John had been dispatched by the Lord Chief Justice to the coastal town of Deal to look into sensitive matters of the magistracy, but he had soon become involved there in action against the local smugglers. Digging a bit, he had discovered that our host in Deal, Sir Simon Grenville, was himself deeply involved in the trade in contraband. Sir Simon had made an alliance with a family on the French side with a long tradition of what was known in Deal as the “owling trade.” The alliance with Sir Simon was sealed by them with the marriage of Marie-Helene to Sir Simon.

  Now, there can be no doubt that Marie-Helene, the Lady Grenville, participated most willingly in her husband’s smuggling enterprise. After all, her father had been a smuggler, as had her grandfather and great-grandfather before him, all the way back to Roman times, no doubt. And, significantly, her four brothers were also in the trade. She, a tomboy from the time she escaped the cradle, took enthusiastically to their instruction. By the time she was offered to Sir Simon in marriage, she could handle a cutter, or a brig, or a sloop, as well as any of her brothers; she could heave a cutlass better than most; all she lacked was the size and strength of a full-grown man in the best physical condition.

  All this came to a climax that night at Goodwin Sands, where Sir John trapped Sir Simon and his gang as they began to unload the brig which Marie-Helene had sailed over, filled with goods from France. She joined in the battle that ensued, ordering the brig’s small-bore cannon fired in support of the smugglers on the beach. But then Black Jack Bilbo’s armed sloop appeared, outgunning her two to one. The crew of the sloop boarded the brig. Only Marie-Helene offered any resistance, but she was soon overcome by Mr. Bilbo. On the voyage back to Lxjndon, he fell in love as he had never before — according to my old chum, Jimmie Bunkins; and notwithstanding Molly Sarton’s opinion to the contrary, Marie-Helene was quite as enamored of our friend Black Jack.

  To spare her the horrors of Newgate Gaol, Black Jack persuaded Sir John to put Marie-Helene in his charge, giving his notice. The crew of her brig was returned to France, where the investigating judge dismissed one and all for “lack of evidence.” Sir Simon Grenville was tried on a charge of smuggling and sentenced to three years in prison.

  Now, time had come for Marie-Helene’s trial. Since there was little doubt that she, no less than her husband, had engaged in contraband trade, she was sure to draw a term of no less than three years. Yet she had also ordered the discharge of cannon at English targets on English soil with lethal intent. There was no telling what punishment might be meted out for such an offense.

  Thus did I consider all this and more in the course of my journey to Mr. Bilbo’s residence in St. James Street. As I neared it, I found myself fair trudging along under the burden of my thoughts. I arrived and ascended the three low steps to the door, and I raised my hand to knock upon the door. But then, of a sudden, was I unable to follow through. My hand hung in the air as if struck by palsy. Did I really wish to deliver such a message? Those inside were my friends, no less than Sir John’s. Yet a few days’ notice had been promised them, and if I failed to tell them, they would be deprived opportunity to prepare for the ordeal, however one might manage that. No, indeed I had to tell them.

  No sooner had I come to that decision, when the door opened wide, revealing my chum, Jimmie Bunkins. He looked at me queerly.

  “What you doin’ with your daddle up in the air like so?” Embarrassed, I lowered my hand. “I was about to knock upon the door,” said I.

  “How long does it take you to decide? When I first spotted you through the windowyou was Uke that.”

  “Well, I’ve got a message from the Beak to your cove. I’m not sure I want to deliver it, but I’ve no choice.”

  “Oh,” said he most glum, “I think I knows what it is, but I s’pose it must be delivered, no matter what. Come on in, and we can talk about it.”

  With a sigh, I stepped over the threshold and into the great hall. Bunkins eased the door to St. James Street shut behind him. He gave me a long look. It seemed that he, who was always quite loquacious, knew not what to say.

  “I can’t talk,” said I. “I must deliver the message to Mr. Bilbo, and to no other. Is he here?”

  “He’s here, right enough, and I’ll take you to him, but just say how many days we got. Or don’t even tell me. Just hold up your crooks, and I’ll count em.”

  I considered his request. That would not be telling, would it? As, for instance, if Sir John were to ask me, had I told anyone but Mr. Bilbo, I could honestly say, no, I hadn’t.

  “You won’t tell anyone? “

  He shook his head in a negative response.

  I held up four fingers.

  He gave a long, low whistle. “Only that?”

  I nodded. “Keep your dubber mum’d,” said I.

  “Well, come along,” said he. “I’ll take you to the cove.”

  We walked together down the long hall. The house seemed strangely empty. It was the ordinary thing to hear voices from upstairs or down, doors opening or closing, all the little, insignificant
noises that make a home of a house. I thought that strange, but stranger still was it to find Bunkins idle at this time of day. He should be at his studies with his tutor.

  “Where’s Mr. Burnham?” I asked.

  “Ah, well, he’s movin’ on. That’s as he puts it.”

  “Oh? He’s pronounced you ‘educated,’ has he?”

  Bunkins chuckled at that. “No, that ain’t his way, as you well know. He says you can always learn more, and he trusts I will keep right on a-tryin’ to do so. But he says it’s time he ventured out into the world. The short of it is, Samuel Johnson put in a word for Mr.

  Burnham and got him a job teaching at a school run by Monsieur Desmouhns — that’s the one Johnson’s man Frank Barber went to. It’s somewhat out of London, so that’s where he’s gone off to.”

  By then we had reached the last door on the left, where I had expected to find Mr. Bilbo. Bunkins confirmed he was inside.

  “Let me go and tell him you’re here with a message — get him ready for the news.”

  Naturally, I gave my assent. He knocked softly upon the door and waited for the invitation to enter. When it came, he signaled that I was to remain.

  “I’ll tell him it’s you with a message from the Beak,” he whispered to me. Then did he slip into the room, closing the door after him.

  Not only were things quieter here in this grand house, they were also altogether more formal. Or was it precisely that? Perhaps not. It may have been that a pall of secrecy had fallen over the house. It was as if, unknowingly, I had entered an area of signs and countersigns, passwords and paroles. It seemed I hardly knew this place I had once known so well. I wondered if Bunkins had divulged the content of my message.

  But when he reappeared, I felt assured he had not. He held the door for me, and just as I entered the room, he whispered to me: “I got to watch the door. I’ll see you when you leave.”

  Was he butler or guard?

  When I spied Mr. Bilbo, so surprised was I that I halted for a moment, unable quite to believe what I saw before me. It was not that he had changed; his appearance was what it had always been — black beard, sharp eyes, balding head. No, it was not how he looked, but what he was about that took my attention.

  He sat at the great desk amid many piles of banknotes and gold sovereigns. There were thousands of pounds piled upon the desktop — tens of thousands, perhaps more than a hundred thousand. And there, among the stacks, half-hidden from sight, were those big-bored pistols which he ordinarily kept sequestered in his desk. He was counting his fortune, which was considerable, all of it laid out before him. When I approached and may have looked as if I were about to speak, he held me off by raising a finger and continued his silent counting.

  As I waited, my eyes roamed round the room and stopped suddenly when they met those of Marie-Helene. She stood at one of the windows which looked out upon the rear garden — yet she stared at me. She was beautifully dressed in a frock of French design, her hair perfectly set and combed. Having caught my eye, she nodded solemnly at me. It was a gesture, so it seemed to me, of great dignity. Then did she turn away and fix her gaze at the window. And so she remained through my brief interview with Mr. Bilbo, right up to the moment of my departure.

  “Bunkins says you’ve a message for me. From Sir John,” said Black Jack.

  “Yes, I have, sir.”

  He looked me up and down, almost — but not quite — coldly. “Well then, Jeremy,” said he, “let’s have it.”

  I had thought it out beforehand, and so I managed to present it in good order — or so I supposed.

  “Sir John was summoned by the Lord Chief Justice this morning, and among the matters they discussed was the trial date for Marie-Helene, Lady Grenville. The Lord Chief Justice has fixed it for Friday, the sixteenth of this month.”

  “Next Friday? We have but five days.”

  “Well no, not precisely.”

  “Say what you mean.”

  “There must take place beforehand an action in magistrate’s court whereby she is bound over for the trial in criminal court. Sir John has fixed that for the day before the trial at Old Bailey.”

  “And so four days it is.”

  “Four days, yes sir.” Then I remembered that I was to offer apologies and excuses. “Sir John wished to deliver this information to you in his own person, but he had to preside at his court. Because he did not wish to delay the news, he sent me in his stead.”

  Mr. Bilbo stared and nodded but said nothing.

  I wanted to add something, something more personal. “Mr. Bilbo, sir, and Lady Grenville, I want you to know how sad I am to be the bearer of such tidings as these I have delivered.”

  “I know that, Jeremy,” said Black Jack. “We blame none of you there in Bow Street.”

  Marie-Helene, who through all of this had stared steadfastly through the window at the brown and faded autumn garden, did turn to me at last, fixed me with her dark, glistening eyes, and spoke to me thus:

  “Jeremy, will you bring here your friend Clarissa? I wish to see her before I go away. I feel she is my friend, too. Can you do this? “

  “I can try. When do you wish to see her? It would have to be in the evening.”

  “Would tomorrow be possible?”

  “I can send the coach for you,” said Mr. Bilbo. “Say, tomorrow at eight.”

  “I’ll see what can be done,” said I. Then, with a bow to them both, I departed the room.

  Bunkins awaited me halfway down the hall. He clapped me on the shoulder, turned, and accompanied me in silence to the door. Only there did we speak.

  “How did they take it?” he asked.

  “Well enough,” said I. “Marie-Helene asked me to bring Clarissa here tomorrow evening. Black Jack offered to send the coach for us.”

  “That’s good. So I’ll see you again soon, won’t I?”

  “Surest thing ever.”

  “Good. I got some things I want to say to you, and now don’t seem quite the right time.”

  Hearing that, I wondered what those things might be, yet I asked not and went upon my way. That house I thought I knew so well had changed. Those within it shared a secret. Though I suspected well what it might be, I thought it best to say nothing, for fear the whole truth might be told me, and like it or not, I should become part of their plan.

  After dinner, with evening going swiftly to night, I sat with Sir John in the little room below my own, which he called his study. He reviewed the meeting with Lord Mansfield and our disappointing visit to the residence of Lord Hillsborough. And then, most surprisingly, he put a question to me.

  “What do you suppose is in those letters, Jeremy? “

  “In truth, Sir John, I have no idea,” said I.

  “Oh, come now, you must have some notion. Let us go over what little we know, and perhaps between us we can work out some sort of hypothesis on the nature of their contents. What did he tell us about them — about what they were, and what they weren’t? “

  I thought about that for a moment. “Well,” said I, “he said they were not of monetary value.”

  “Yes, he declared that they would only be of value to a very few men in London. Notice that — ‘in London.’ What does that suggest to you?”

  “Why, the implication might be that the letters would be of value elsewhere, perhaps to many, in some other place.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nor did they contain anything of a personal nature — according to him — the sort of material that would reflect badly upon him. He claimed there was nothing that could be used to extort money from him. He was very emphatic about that. And you, I noticed, accepted that without hesitation.” I frowned at him. “Why was that. Sir John? Is he known to be of such exemplary character that such was quite out of the question?”

  He laughed at that. “No, quite the contrary. He is of such notoriously bad character that there is naught that would be put past him. He has, so they say, left no commandment unbroken, and cares not w
ho knows. But now, Jeremy, what more do we know about those letters? “

  “That Lord Hillsborough was neither the sender nor receiver of them.”

  “Excellent. So what justification would he have to hold letters that were not his?”

  “Well, as you pointed out to him, sir, the letter could only have been in his possession by reason of his position as secretary of state for the American colonies. And he said himself that the government attaches great importance to the letters and to their recovery.”

  “And so we find we have actually learned more about this packet of letters than I was at first willing to admit, do we not?”

  “Yes, Sir John.”

  “Then in the light of all this, let me put to you again the question which started us out: What do you suppose is in those letters? Who do you think sent them and to whom? What are they about?”

  “Just as an hypothesis? There is no right or wrong response to be made?”

  “Just as an hypothesis,” he agreed. “There could be no right or wrong to it. There can be only what is reasonable or unreasonable.”

  “Indeed now,” said I, “let me consider.”

  And consider I did. I know not how long I took, for, after all, there was much to consider. For his part. Sir John kept silent. There was no impatient throat-clearing, no prompting, and certainly no call to get on with it.

  He gave me time enough to form my hypothesis, and at last I came out with it.

  “I would say that the key element, of course, is Lord Hillsborough’s position as secretary of state. They may be of value to only a few in London, but could be of profound interest and therefore valuable to those in the American colonies. To say that the government attaches great importance to the letters and to their recovery is to say that the letters contain material that would be embarrassing to the government.”

  At that point, I halted briefly that I might think through what must come next. Then did I continue: “All who follow the news from those American colonies know that there has been much turmoil in that part of the world of late. There have been riots, and British soldiers have fired upon the rioters. The colonists have gone so far as to call one of these incidents the Boston Massacre.’ Feelings, as I have read, run strong on both sides. Members of Parliament frequently accuse colonials of sedition and even treason. Nothing has been done to try any individual so far on such charges. But perhaps these letters, which Lord Hillsborough neither sent nor received, have to do with that.”