Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“And I’ve no doubt that the woman’s place of residence is quite nearby?”

“Oh, quite, sir. I can spy it now from where we stand.”

“Then take me there, Jeremy, for I would exchange a few words with Margaret Paltrow.”

While there was no difficulty conducting Sir John to Number 6 Kingsmead Square, it proved a bit harder to locate the resident herself. We found, upon making inquiries to a Mrs. Eakins on the ground floor, that she lived at the top of a stairway so steep that it would have kept most women prisoner there on the upper floor.

Climbing those stairs, I understood how one of advanced years might indeed feel marooned if one like her was faced with the prospect of ascending them each time she went out. For that matter, the descent might also be dangerous. Nevertheless, once above, there was a further problem in discovering the correct door. There were three to choose from; hers was the last upon which we knocked.

Margaret Paltrow was a small woman, a bit over seventy years of age as I judged her. When she opened the door, she stood for a moment blinking from behind thick, square-framed glasses, unable quite to focus upon us, so shortsighted was she. When at last she had us properly in sight, she seemed to me perhaps a bit disappointed. It could be, I told myself, that she awaited the arrival of that same odd pair.

“Hello,” said she, wasting few words in greeting. “And who might you two be?”

“I am Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court in London,” said he, summoning all the considerable dignity that he possessed. “And this” — placing a hand upon my shoulder — “is my young assistant, Jeremy Proctor.”

She took a step back — for a better look at us, I supposed; it seemed sure to me that she had not invited us to step inside. Yet I was wrong. She gestured inward with a nod of her head, and I moved Sir John forward, touching him lightly at the elbow. Thus I took him to the very middle of the room, where we stood awkwardly, awaiting some further word from her.

She frowned as she pressed the door shut behind her. “I know your name,” said she to Sir John. “Yet I cannot think at the moment how it is that I know it. I’m a woman growing old, you see, and my memory seems to grow worse each day. But do sit down, both of you, please do.”

As if to provide encouragement, she seated herself in a chair just opposite us.

I eased down on the sofa beside Sir John, looking over at him as I did. Never, I think, had he seemed quite so much at a loss for words. His mouth opened and shut, then opened again-yet no words escaped it. He turned to me, an expression upon his face that could be read only as a mute call for help.

Indeed, he had been put in a bad position. She evidently expected him to inform her of why it was his name was familiar to her. What was he to say?

“Have I had dealings with you in the past?” she asked quite innocently. (Poor soul, she did seem a bit addled.)

“No, madam,” said he, “I am sure you have not.”

“Then my son, Lawrence,” she suggested, “perhaps you, as magistrate, have come to inform him of some matter to do with his claim. I can direct you to him if that is what you wish.”

“No, I fear not. The matter does pertain to the claim, right enough, but it is indeed with you I wish to speak and not with him, even if he were here with us now.” He paused but a moment, then added. “And by the bye, is he here in Bath?”

“Yes, of course he is. You know …” She did not complete that sentence — and probably never would — for in an instant she was upon her feet, advancing across the short space that separated her chair from us on the sofa.

I jumped to my feet also, for I liked not the look in her eyes, nor the sudden set of her jaw. I would protect Sir John if need be, yet would there be need? She seemed quite incapable of doing him physical harm. A verbal assault, however, was well with her power.

“ Now I know who you are!” She fairly growled it out; anger seemed to have deepened her voice. “I was deceived by your blindness. I thought, ‘This poor blind man means me no harm’ and so I let you into my humble rooms. How wrong I was! You had already done me the greatest harm ever a mother could have. You are the one who sent my elder son to be hanged.”

She hovered over him in what I deemed a threatening posture. I was about to move her back, forcibly if necessary, but then did Sir John rise, and in doing so sent her three or four steps into retreat.

“Madam,” rumbled Sir John, using a voice he usually saved for the courtroom, “your son committed the crime of homicide. In point of fact, he murdered three people. That much was proven in the course of a just trial. Would you have such a one, were he not your son, go unpunished?”

“But he was my son,” said she. “And now if I understand you aright, your interest in the claim of my son, Lawrence, upon the Laningham title bodes no good for him — or for me. I believe you would now take my younger son from me.”

Sir John put his weight upon his walking stick and leaned toward her rather aggressively. “ Is he your son, Lawrence? This young man who presents himself as such?”

“Why, yes, he is,” she declared. “Of course he is.”

“How can you be sure?”

“A mother knows.”

“Does a mother also know how it was he managed to reappear after eight years hidden away in the American colonies but only after the Laningham title came vacant?”

“We have discussed that.”

“With what result? Did he tell you what it was he did all that time he was away? “

“He has told me a few things.” Having said that, her eyes shifted away from Sir John and to the floor. It was evident that she grew less sure of herself — and of the claimant — with each question put to her by the magistrate.

“Among those few things that he has told you, madam, has he given you a satisfactory reason for not writing, or in any way communicating with you during those years he was away?”

She faltered perceptibly, beginning to say one thing and then another, and finally, after a pause, no more than this: “Not perhaps to my complete satisfaction.”

“I should think not,” said he with great certainty. “One guilty as he of such neglect can hardly call himself your son. You show great generosity in calling yourself his mother.”

With that, the woman gave in to the tears which had been threatening for moments past. She covered her face with her apron and wept most bitterly and unashamedly. I could scarce believe what next I saw, for Sir John then opened his arms to her, and she stepped inside them, allowing herself to be comforted by him who had, so to speak, brought on her tears. He patted her shoulder, muttering words of consolation as one might to a child; thus the two remained for a considerable while.

At last, Sir John said to her, “Mrs. Paltrow, I shall leave you now, having planted a seed of doubt in your mind. Let us see if it takes root overnight. We shall return to you tomorrow morn and talk about this once more. Doubt can be a healthy thing. It is faith misplaced that so often betrays one.” He inclined his head in my direction. “Jeremy?”

And together we left, I guiding him through the door, and he descending those steep stairs with his hand upon my shoulder.

A change came over Sir John as I described to him certain details of Mrs. Paltrow’s appearance — her manner of dress, her shortsightedness, her spectacles — as well as the general look of her small apartment. We had not gone far from Kingsmead Square, when I noted that he had picked up the pace a bit. He no longer strolled, but forged ahead at something close to his London speed. And, surprising me further, it was not long until he began whistling a tune — a lively jig it was, perhaps “The Rakes of Fallow.” I could not resist commenting upon it.