Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

We came out upon a square of no great size. It was dominated by a large building of a design as graceful and handsome as any in Bath, yet different from all or most in ways that eluded me. Facing it were rows of houses of no beauty or distinction.

“What square is this?” I asked (as if Clarissa knew the answer). “We cannot be far from the Bear Tavern. The town is not so large, after all, and it was from this general compass point we came.”

She sighed. “Well,” said she, “there is a tablet upon that great building just ahead. Perhaps that will tell us where we are.”

We went to it and read. “Kingsmead Square,” it said, and that sounded a note in my memory. Was that not the location of Margaret Paltrow’s residence?

“Jeremy, look! Two men have just come out of one of those houses across the way. Perhaps they can tell us the way back to the Bear.” Together we ran to them and managed to capture their attention before they turned off down Avon Street, whence we had come. They stopped and turned. When they did, it became apparent immediately how different the two men were. The elder of the two, rawboned, bearded, and hard-faced, gave a tug at the sleeve of the other, making it clear he thought Clarissa and I not of sufficient importance to detain them. He stalked away. But the younger would stay a bit and find out more; he smiled at our approach, even took a step or two back in our direction; there was, above all, an openness in his expression, a welcome in his manner, which invited our inquiry.

“What may we do for you?” he asked in a manner that suggested that we had only to make our request, and it would be granted.

“Why, sir,” said I, “if you would be so good as to tell us the way to the Bear Tavern, we would be greatly obliged.”

“Easily done,” said the younger, “for we came from there not long ago.” He pointed behind us to a street leading out of the square. “Now, that,” said he, “is Bristol Road. You have but to walk it past two more streets, and you will be there.” He smiled an altogether winning smile. “You’ll find it is quite nearby.”

I thanked him quite sincerely; Clarissa not only thanked him but also curtsied deep in a way that I for one had never seen her manage before.

“Now,” said he, “if you will excuse me, I will wish you a good day, and be on my way.”

Thus, tipping his hat, he left us, jog-trotting to catch his companion up. Once he had done so, the two walked off in close step. I could not help but notice how closely they resembled one another from the rear. Both were big men — broad-shouldered, tall, and strong looking; both were dressed as gentlemen, yet only he who had spoken to us wore his clothes well and gave forth the impression that he might actually be a gentleman.

“He made it sound simple enough,” said Clarissa, ending my observations for the moment.

I nodded my agreement and we set off in the direction of Bristol Road as it had been pointed out to us. Again we lapsed into silence. As for myself, there was a maggot gnawing away at the back of my brain, a question that demanded answer, a mystery that called for solution.

“Clarissa,” said I, “did you happen to notice which of these houses those two men came from?”

We were at that moment passing by the block of dwellings where I had first glimpsed them. They were a rather sad-looking collection, not at all well matched.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said she. “Is it important?” But then, not waiting for my response, she stopped and pointed. “It was this one, I think — or perhaps the one next to it.” Her first choice had been Number 6, and her second, Number 8.

I looked back as we resumed our pace and studied Number 6 Kingsmead Square, which was the address, according to the Lord Chief Justice, of the mother to the Laningham claimant. The best that could be said for it was that it was quite undistinguished in appearance. Brown brick with an upper story, it looked to have been built well back into the last century. But it was said that the mother, Margaret Paltrow, had been reduced to rather humble circumstances. Could not the two who had emerged from the house wherein she kept her residence be the claimant himself and his traveling companion? Was I putting too much faith in coincidence, or was there perhaps truly a likelihood that I had seen them here? I wrestled with that as we left the square and started up Bristol Road. In the end, I decided that there was less a probability of it than a possibility. And as Sir John often said, “All things are possible, so it is best to deal in probabilities when there are no certainties.”

I might have put it out of my mind altogether had it not been for Clarissa. About the time I had settled the matter with myself, she turned to me and said, “They were a strange pair, were they not?”

There was no need to ask which pair she meant. “I think I know what you mean,” said I. “They didn’t fit together well, did they?”

“Not well at all. The person who spoke to us seemed of noble character- well spoken, generous-yet the other. . Jeremy, I know not what sort of impression he made upon you, but to me he seemed quite sinister, with that beard of his and all. I did not care for him in the least.”

“Sinister, you say? Truly so?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Hmmm. . well, now,” said I, perhaps in unconscious imitation of Sir John. “I must give that some thought.”

There had been no need to hurry so. Once Clarissa and I arrived at the Bear and viewed the clock in the corridor, we saw that not near so much time had elapsed since our departure as we had supposed. We had tramped Bath clear across and returned in less than two hours. It was indeed a town and no city.

We stood at the door behind which Sir John and Lady Fielding slept and listened to the sound of rhythmic breathing inside.

“Still asleep,” said Clarissa. “What do you suppose we ought to do?”

“Come along,” said I. “We shall repair to the lobby, where I shall have coffee, and you will have whatever pleases you, so long as it is not coffee or other strong drink.”

It was there that Sir John and Lady Fielding found us sometime later. They seemed refreshed and were, they announced, ready to tour Bath properly. Thus it was that Clarissa and I repeated the journey we had made to the Pump Room; yet it did not hold near so much interest for us as before. What is viewed for the first time shines bright to our eyes; each time it is viewed thereafter, it loses a bit of its luster.

People visit Bath from all over England, Scotland, and Ireland. Do all attend because of the salutary effect of the waters? I doubt it. Having observed them on the occasion of which I now write and a few others since then, I know that many who come to the town would rather do any number of things than splash about in that substance for which the place is so famed. Among those things they would rather do, gaming at cards ranks high, as does gossiping, and the drinking of spirits. Because of his affliction or by personal disinclination, Sir John had little interest in such pastimes. He did, however, diligently pursue an activity quite as popular as the rest, and that was strolling. Now, it must be understood that in Sir John’s estimation, as indeed in my own, there was a considerable difference between walking and strolling. Walking was what one did to reach a specific destination; it was usually done in a great hurry, particularly in London, where one had to move swiftly simply to keep up with the crowds in the streets. Strolling, however, was quite another matter. Not only was it done at a more leisurely pace, it was even more — the very expression of leisure. It allowed the stroller to greet his fellows and be greeted; to converse at length on a variety of matters with other strollers only recently met; it was, for a number of reasons, the sort of pursuit that fitted well such a place as Bath.