Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

And so, on those mornings on which Lady Katherine Fielding left, with Clarissa in tow, to take the waters, Sir John and I would wait about the dining room in the Bear, drinking our morning tea until at last he would turn to me and ask, “What would you say, Jeremy, to a bit of a stroll? I believe it might aid digestion.” Then off we would go, trying one route and then another, sometimes altering the one we had chosen to the north or south, even occasionally doubling back again; yet no matter how devious our route, we would eventually arrive at the Pump Room, where we would drink each a glass of water (like me, Sir John liked the stuff rather well) then set off once again to continue our stroll.

A good two hours or more might be thus consumed — not so much in strolling here and there as in talking with first one and then another along the way. It all began the day after we arrived as Sir John and I crossed that vast round open area which was known as the grand circus. Though not crowded, the place had a good many people milling about in all directions, so I cannot say that I was completely surprised when Sir John was recognized by one of them, a London merchant named Henry Harley, who approached him in a most friendly (not to say presumptuous) manner and offered enthusiastic congratulations on the way that criminal activity had been reduced in his corner of Westminster. He was so generous and loud in his praise that he attracted a small group of listeners, most of them evidently Londoners like himself. At the end of Mr. Harley’s fulsome tribute there was a smattering of applause. Then it seemed that each who had attended the little scene must have a word or two with Sir John. We must have spent well over an hour there before at last we were allowed to move on. The next day, there on the promenade, we were hailed by a man whom we had never met, yet one who proved to be well known to us: He was Matthew Tiverton, Magistrate of Warwick. It was his letter which told in detail of the last days of George Bradbury in the city of his birth. He wished to know all there was to know of the trial of Mary Bradbury. At his invitation, we went with him to a coffee house nearby, where the matter was discussed at great length.

Each day seemed to bring a new encounter, or often more than one. In truth, Sir John seemed to enjoy the attention, the sudden celebrity which he gained once away from London — and I, of course, was glad for that. Nevertheless, I began to wonder just when he would carry out the task which he had been assigned by the Lord Chief Justice. Perhaps to remind him of that task, or perhaps only to relieve the monotony of our usual trip back to the Bear, I took him along the route upon which Clarissa and I had blundered on our trip back from the Pump Room. Nothing was said about it until we reached Avon Street and the river. And when we did, he began inhaling deeply, taking in the deep damp of its grassy banks. He seemed greatly interested in what he smelled.

“We have not come this way before, have we, Jeremy?”

“Not together, sir, no, we haven’t.”

“But you have been here without me?”

“Yes, Sir John. Just ahead is Kingsmead Square. You’ll recall, I’m sure, that Margaret Paltrow resides on one side of the square. “

“Ah, yes, the mother of the claimant.” We ambled on in silence for a short distance. “Do you feel that I have shirked my duty here in Bath?”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Please, lad, do not falsely assume an attitude of innocence with me. You know very well what I refer to.”

“To your meeting with the claimant’s mother?”

“Exactly. Do you feel that I am delaying that meeting unnecessarily? “

“That is not a matter that I am fit to comment upon,” said I in a manner most forthright. “I will confess, however, that I am wearying somewhat of walking about Bath, and perhaps I thought that if I were to take you back to our hostelry by way of Kingsmead Square, you might be inspired to interrogate the lady in question. And I should like to be present when indeed you do.”

“Why? For your entertainment?”

“No sir, for my instruction. It is sure to be a difficult interrogation, and while I learn every time you question a witness, I learn most of all when you question a difficult one.”

“Jeremy,” said he, “I do not think that you quite grasp how difficult it will be for me to confront Mrs. Paltrow. Good God, lad, it was I who sent her son to the gallows!”

“So you said before, sir — or something quite like it. It does seem to me, however, that it was Arthur Paltrow himself who brought it upon himself-with some assistance from the judge, of course. All you did was make public what he had kept private. The deeds were his; the discovery was yours. “

“Hmmm. . well. . perhaps,” said Sir John. “You may be right, Jeremy, and I may accept what you say yet that does not mean that she will.”

We had by then reached Kingsmead Square and were, in fact, passing through it on a path that would lead us past the modest edifice in which Mrs. Paltrow made her home. That must indeed have been her door from which the odd pair — the young man of good character and his sinister friend — had emerged four days past. Could that indeed have been Lawrence Paltrow and his companion? I had pondered that often in the time that had elapsed since our meeting, and I had drawn two conclusions. Firstly, I had decided that I was not sufficiently sure of the young man’s identity to tell Sir John of my suspicions. But secondly, if he whom I had met were indeed the claimant, then his claim to the Laningham title was no doubt a just one, for no matter what had been said against him, the man to whom Clarissa and I had talked had certainly about him the air of nobility.

“Well, if you must know, Jeremy,” said Sir John after an uneasy silence, “you are quite right.”

“Sir? Do you mean in the matter of the deeds being his, and their discovery yours?”

“No, no, of course not. I mean in the matter of shirking my duty.”

“But, Sir John, I never said that you — ”

“No, it’s true! I have put off, postponed, done all I could to avoid performing the task I was sent here to do — and for one reason only.” He had come to a halt there in Kingsmead Square and was shaking a finger — one finger — at me. “And that reason, plain and simple, is that I simply cannot suppose what I would say to the woman. I have thought upon it for days now, and I can’t begin to imagine what might be done to persuade her to change her mind regarding the claimant.” I felt myself in a rather awkward state. While what I had told him was true, I did wish to watch and listen to the interrogation of Mrs. Paltrow, for I was certain he would rise to the occasion and provide an exemplar from which I might learn much. Yet, on the other hand, now believing it possible that the claimant was indeed who he said he was, I had come to doubt the justice of the entire enterprise. I was for the moment quite confounded and knew not what to say.

“So,” said Sir John, “I’ve surprised you with that, have I? It’s not often I admit defeat, is it? Quite at a loss for words, I’ll wager.’’

“Well, yes,’’ I admitted, “but I’m not entirely — ”

“If you’re not entirely certain that I’m giving up now, then you’re correct, Jeremy. By God, I’ll not let mere embarrassment stop me. It’s not shame that I feel. I am in no wise ashamed of my part in punishing that murderous son of hers. And I would have you know, too, lad, that I am no less tired than you of rambling about Bath and conversing with strangers.”

“What, then, do you plan to do, Sir John?”

“Why, we are here in Kingsmead Square, are we not?”

“We are, sir.”