Bruce Alexander - [Sir John Fielding 01] Read online

  “Not exactly. It was built out, yes, but to both sides. It was shaped in such a way that it spread out under the two windows.”

  “Interesting. That should bear further investigation tomorrow.” I thought that might be all he had to say, but then he roused himself and asked about the garden.

  “Oh, quite beautiful, sir.”

  “Come now, Jeremy, you can do better than that. Describe it to me.”

  He was quite right to object, of course. I had done no better with it than Mr. Bailey had the night before when asked to describe the house. And so I thought for a moment, bringing a picture of the garden to mind, then simply telling him what I saw.

  “It is,” I told him, “about half the size of the house in depth, though wider on both sides, of course, which are bounded by wood fences.”

  He nodded at that but indicated with a gesture of his hand that I was to go on.

  “Flowers and small trees are planted on either side of a path that leads down the middle. There are two benches.”

  “The path leads where?”

  “To a gate in a privet hedge. The hedge is about six feet tall.”

  “And beyond the gate?”

  “A mews. Potter seemed a bit reluctant to open the gate, or perhaps that was only because he hadn’t the key with him. I made him fetch it.”

  “You did, did you?” Sir John laughed heartily at that. “It must have put him in a black mood, eh?”

  Remembering how Potter’s keen wish to deny me was written plainly on his face, I, too, joined in the laughter. “It did, it truly did!” I cried.

  “Good boy. But tell me, what sort of mews was it?”

  “Well, it went the length of the street and was probably wide enough for a wagon and horses, though perhaps not. Potter said that dust and garbages of all sorts are collected there. It is a dirt way and has a bad smell.”

  “There are no smaller structures behind the house?”

  “None, sir, no.”

  “Then the entire household staff must be housed below the stairs. None too comfortable, I daresay. But—” He broke off at that point and turned toward the street. “Yes, here we are at Covent Garden. It is time for me now to adopt my official mien.”

  I looked out the window of the hackney and, marveling, saw that indeed he was right. I had not realized we were so close.

  As the hackney driver slowed and halted his horse at the Bow Street Court, I could not help but ask, “Sir John, how were you able to tell our location?”

  “Jeremy,” he declared, “as I go about, I simply make use of my other four senses. You who have sight are so wasteful of the rest. Here, I simply put my nose and ear to work. I smelled the green and earthy smell of the greengrocers’ stalls and heard the greengrocers calling their wares. You may take my word for it, boy, there is no place in London that smells and sounds like Covent Garden.”

  As he indeed had demonstrated.

  The hackney driver paid, we went our separate ways, he to his court and I, alas, to Mrs. Gredge. But his last words to me were in the form of an invitation: “Should you complete your tasks to her satisfaction, you may feel free, if you like, to come into my court and observe the proceedings.” I accepted gladly.

  But there were stairs to be scrubbed, two great pots to be washed, and a bit of sweeping to be attended to. When I finished with all I’d been given to do, I was of course tempted simply to run off to Sir John’s courtroom. Yet I knew that would be unwise, and so I held my place there in the kitchen, not even daring to sit down at the table, but rather puttering about, bringing some arrangement out of the chaos of knives, forks, and spoons I found in a keep in the sideboard. I knew the result of my labors must be approved by Mrs. Gredge before I was properly dismissed.

  She was not immediately present. And if I were to judge from the murmurings from above, she was in Sir John’s bedchamber attending Lady Fielding. At last I heard a door open and close, then steps on the stairs, and Mrs. Gredge entered the kitchen. She seemed much troubled.

  She sank down in a chair at the table, her hand propped to her cheek, taking little notice of my presence. After waiting more than a minute, I shuffled my feet a bit and coughed discreetly.

  Of a sudden, she looked up at me and said, “Ah, Jeremy, a swift end is the best any of us can hope for.”

  “Is Lady Fielding very ill then?” Her state had not yet been made clear to me. “When will she be better?”

  “Indeed she is very ill,” said Mrs. Gredge. “And as for her growing better, it’s not likely, I fear.”

  I waited an awkward moment, curious, yet hesitant to inquire. Then I screwed my courage up and asked: “What sort of sickness has she?”

  “A wasting disease of some sort. The poor, good woman simply dwindles.” Then, as if coming to herself, Mrs. Gredge sat up straight in her chair and looked at me critically. “And have you completed the tasks I assigned you, Jeremy?”

  “I have,” said I. “The stairs, the pots, the brooming. I have even arranged the hardware in the sideboard.”

  “Well and good,” she said with a sigh. “You’ve no doubt done a fair job.” Then she added, with a little of her earlier fierce spirit, “If not, you’ll hear from me later. Rest assured.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  “You’re free to go upstairs and read. Better to do it in the daytime than waste candles at night.”

  “Yes, mum. But, well. Sir John said I might sit in his court and look on.”

  She shook her head once or twice. Her face reflected her dismay. “Go if you like, then,” said she, “though whv you should want to stand witness to that parade of human misery and iniquity, I can’t guess.”

  “Well,” I blurted out, “because Sir John offered.”

  “I understand. On your way then.” But as I made for the stairs, she called after me: “Jeremy!”

  “Yes, mum,” said I, stopping and turning.

  “He thinks highly of you. See that you don’t disappoint him.”

  Thus making my promise to her, I then headed down the back stairs.

  A good deal of the afternoon had passed bv the time I made my entry into the Bow Street Court. There were not so many defendants or witnesses left, and what I later came to recognize as Sir John’s usual audience had reduced to just a few. I had a wide selection of places, but made my choice of one close enough that I might hear the proceedings, yet might do so without attracting attention to mvself.

  Sir John seemed to be moving ahead quickly through the court’s business. A prisoner had been led out as I walked in. What his offense was, I knew not. It was evident, though, that he would be bound over for trial at Old Bailev. I looked upon him sympathetically, a young man not much older than myself, knowing that it was only due to Sir John’s interest in justice that I had not also gone before him to Newgate two davs before. I wondered then if this one could be the notorious Dillon who had delivered the slash to Mr. Bailey’s forearm. If so, I assured myself, I need not be quite so sympathetic.

  There were then two matters of little consequence that passed before the magistrate: a dispute over a deed of property which Sir John settled in favor of the deed holder; and that was followed by an accusation of pickpocketry. The outcome of the latter case was of some interest, so let me describe it to you here. To summarize briefly: Peg Button, of no profession (in realitv, a woman of pleasure), had detained one John Turlev, factor, in Black Bov Alley at about eleven o’clock that morning and made certain proposals to him. As he considered her proposals, he felt a certain slight move- ment in the pocket of his coat, and realized she had filched from him a silk kerchief worth a guinea or more. By the time he had missed it, however, she was in the act of passing the kerchief to her confederate, a young boy of ten or so. Turley grabbed at the boy, but managed to do no more than wrest the item from him before the latter disappeared quickly around a corner and into the street. The woman, however, impeded by her skirts, was easily caught. And once caught, was brought straightforward to the Bow Str
eet Court, where the charge of theft was thus lodged against her. This account came from Turley. There were no supporting witnesses.

  Sir John listened patiently to the story, then he asked, “What have you to say to the charge. Peg Button?”

  ” ‘Twasn’t me what took it, yr lordship, ‘twas the boy.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I seen him abouts.”

  “It’s been sworn to that it was you who took the silk kerchief, that the boy accepted it from you. What say you to that?”

  “I say that the gent’man was mistook, sir. I seen the boy with his hand in the gent’man’s pocket, and I sought to grab it from the boy to return to the gent’man.”

  “Logical, I grant you, logical. Then why did you run?”

  “Because he was yellin’ I was the thief of his foul kerchief, which I in no way was, but his mind seemed made up, it did.”

  “Is the item in question in possession of the court?”

  “I have it here, Sir John,” said Mr. Marsden, the court clerk.

  “Is it, in fact, foul?”

  “Well, it’s a bit stiff with dried snot and spittle.” There was general laughter from the remaining members of the regular audience. “It once was white but now is mostly yellow.”

  “Have you a cold, Mr. Turley?”

  “I have. Sir John.” He hacked once or twice in demonstration.

  “Well, at least we have established ownership.” There was further laughter. Then pondered the magistrate: “Or have we? Mr. Marsden, will you examine this once-white item and tell us if there are any distinguishing marks on it?”

  John Marsden opened it gingerly and looked it over carefully. “Two initials. Sir John, an F and an A,” he called out.

  “Well, how do you explain this, Mr, Turley? How came it into your possession?”

  “It was a gift. Sir John, a gift from one who didn’t know me well.”

  “No indeed, not very well, not by name, in any case.” Sir John was silent for a long moment. “PYankly,” he said at last, “I’m dubious. First of all, even the accusant has given it in testimony that he retrieved the kerchief from the boy, who then escaped. How the boy got it has been reasonably contested by the accused. And then there is the question of the item itself. Mr. Turley claims it, but there is reason to doubt his claim. And so the court discharges Mistress Peg Button and charges Mr. Turley to go his own way without his kerchief. The court claims it. If it is boiled for a day it may again be fit to use.”

  The gallery, which usually stood on the side of the accused, broke into applause as Turley turned and angrily marched away. Mistress Button called her thanks, but then Sir John summoned her to return.

  “Yes, sir, yr lordship,” said she, all smiles.

  He leaned dow n toward her and said in a voice only we in front could hear: “Go and sin no more, Peg.”

  She left with a sober nod to the magistrate.

  There was then what seemed a long conference between Sir John and Mr. Marsden, at the end of which the clerk got up and left the courtroom briefly. Returning, he left the door open and returned to his place near Sir John with just a further word between them. Then Marsden, a smallish man, stood to his full height and bellowed out in a large voice, “Bring the prisoner forward.”

  Through that same door to the rear of the courtroom a man was brought forth in chains by two constables. It was, unmistakably, Mr. Bailey’s attacker, Dick Dillon. He was, as had been described, a big man. Whether he was clumsy on his feet, it was impossible to tell, for he was in leg irons which would make even a dancing master heavy-footed. He flashed an angry look around the court, thus making an ill impression upon the gallery. Ushered by his guards to a place before the bench, he stared defiantly at the magistrate: a gesture lost on blind Sir John.

  Francis Hawkins was called forth and gave his account of the robbery by force of arms which was perpetrated upon him by Dillon. At the point in the narrative when Benjamin Bailey appeared upon the scene. Sir John took over. He announced that he had taken the deposition from Mr. Bailey that morning and proceeded to repeat it from memory word for word, except for a few corrections in grammar and diction. At the end, he declared, “Let the court record read that this was the testimony of the arresting officer.”

  There was a long, impressive silence then. At last, Sir John called out, making his voice both louder and deeper than seemed normal: “Dick Dillon, what have you to say?”

  “What have I to say?” echoed Dillon, as if mocking Sir John’s solemn inquiry. “What I have to say is I wants transportation.”

  “In other words,” said Sir John, “you prefer not to hang.”

  “Dick Dillon’ll not hang,” yelled Dillon. “He’s something to trade.”

  “And what might that be?” asked Sir John.

  “Can you promise me transportation to the colonies?”

  “As one indentured for life? A slave?”

  “I’ll take my chances with that.”

  “I can promise you nothing, Dick Dillon. But if you have information to give on criminal matters that lead to impeachment or conviction, it will be taken into consideration at your trial and in sentencing.”

  “I wants transportation!” reiterated Dillon.

  “And I cannot promise it.”

  “Then I’m talkin’ to the wrong one, ain’t it?”

  “No doubt you are,” said Sir John. Then, waiting a bit so that the words he was about to speak would be heard by the entire court in all their gravity. Sir John began again: “To all here, I call attention to this man before me. There is clear and sufficient evidence to hold him for trial on the charge of theft. The testimony of the victim and the deposed testimony of the arresting officer make that clear. As we all know, however, there is theft and theft. On the one hand, we may have a ten-year-old boy attempting to filch a dirty kerchief: reprehensible, of course, but such sneak-thievery pales to nothing when compared to the crime of Dick Dillon. His was theft with a deadly weapon, a cutlass. The victim, Mr. Hawkins, was lucky to escape with his life. In that, I do not exaggerate, for according to Chief Constable Bailey’s deposition, when confronted, Dillon made clear his intention to murder Mr. Bailey, and in the affray did succeed in wounding him before he was subdued. This I consider far more serious, for in striking an officer of the law, Dillon struck at the law itself. This cannot, should not, be tolerated. And so he is bound for trial, not only for theft but also for the attempted murder of an officer of the law while in the rightful performance of his duties. I do not believe that any judge or jury at Bailey Court will treat these charges lightly, nor with clemency.

  “Take the prisoner, Dillon, away to Newgate, where he will await trial at the convenience of the Crown.”

  Whether it was for the sense of his statement or the power of his extemporaneous rhetoric, the gallery (no more than twenty souls present) applauded Sir John Fielding roundly. He, thinking such display unseemly, banged with the fiat of his hand on the bench and called for order.

  Yet Dick Dillon would have the last word. As he left the courtroom, he shouted back, loud as he could, “I’ll not hang. You’ll see!” And then he was pushed through the door.

  “This court is dismissed,” said Sir John. He stood then and, without faltering, without a misstep, made his way quickly out of the courtroom, leaving by the same exit through which Dillon had been propelled only moments before.

  As I myself was leaving, I was detained by Mr. Marsden, who informed me that Sir John had requested that should I make an appearance, I was to visit him after court in his chambers. Thus invited, I made my way through that same door, caught one last glimpse of the notorious Dillon and, after announcing myself with a knock, was admitted into his presence.

  He sat as informally as before, feet elevated, shoes off, his periwig tossed aside. Bidding me sit down, he asked my opinion of Dick Dillon.

  “He seemed a true villain,” said I.

  “And to me, as well,” said he, then more to himself than
to me: “I wonder what he knows that makes him so confident.”

  Since I had no notion, I made no answer.

  “Did you,” he asked, “catch the distinction I made in my oration, sending him off to Newgate?”

  “Between his theft and his attack upon Mr. Bailey?”

  “No, Jeremy, I meant that between sneak-thievery and armed robbery. You see, the law looks upon both as the same. You heard the case that preceded it?”

  “I did, Sir John.”

  “Well, in all probability Peg Button did pick the fellow’s pocket and was caught by him passing it to the boy. It was simply her word against his. Had he seized the boy and brought him in as well, then in theory, at least, Mistress Button and the boy could both have been tried, condemned, and hanged.”

  “All for a silk kerchief?”

  “Yes, worth a guinea, or so the owner claimed: that amount being sufficient in the eyes of the law to warrant capital punishment.” He shook his head solemnly, as though in bewilderment. “I call that fellow, Turley, the owner; more like, he was merely the possessor. He probably bought it from another like Peg or her young confederate for a few pence when he felt his cold coming on.”

  I was quite overcome by what I had heard. I saw mirrored in their theoretical fate my own predicament of two days past. At last I asked him, “Would they truly be hanged for so little?”

  “In all likelihood, no. Children under fourteen are not to be executed, though a number have been sentenced to death. I understand that in certain rare cases in the counties the sentence has been carried out. Would Mistress Button, or one like her, have been hanged? Also unlikely. While our laws are the most severe in the Christian world, our trial procedures favor the defendant. Turley, or one like him, would have to do far better at Bailey Court: produce witnesses to the act, establish ownership of the item stolen, prove its worth, and so on. But had she been tried, convicted, and sentenced to death, she would also likely have had her sentence reduced to flogging, a term in prison, or the transportation to one of the colonies that Dillon seeks: not, by the by, a happy fate. In actual practice, only about half of the condemned—”