Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

Lady Fielding shuddered at that. Yet I knew, having walked Bedford Street of an early Sunday morning, that he was quite right. I had seen children of ten in the condition he described.

“But tell me, Kate, “ resumed Sir John, “what will you and Clarissa be doing during the rest of the morning? I take it you’ll not be going off to the baths this particular morning?”

“No, I believe I have got all the benefit I can from them. In fact,” said she, “they’ve done me a world of good. That little tic I had in my back is gone, and I’ve a spring in my step once again.”

“I’m happy to hear it, my dear.”

“Clarissa has told me of a large and quite marvelous bookshop not far from here. I believe we shall go and make a visit. There is surely no pleasanter place to pass the time than a bookshop.”

Having heard this, I glanced over at Clarissa and gave her a proper grin. She in return winked broadly at me, contorting her features most comically. At that, quite unable to help myself, I burst out laughing. Naturally, neither Sir John nor Lady Fielding saw Clarissa’s part in this.

The magistrate’s forehead knit into a frown. “Jeremy lad, what has got into you? Is this some bizarre effect of your coffee drinking? “

“Uh, no, sir, naught but silliness, I fear.”

“Well, show a little restraint if you will, for we must make a return visit to Kingsmead Square, and I wish you to behave in a proper manner. We want no more difficulty with the Widow Paltrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Indeed, we should be on our way. Does anyone see the server about? Wave him over, and I shall pay. Wonderful breakfast rolls, were they not?”

There was no difficulty in finding our way once again to Kingsmead Square. And while the area seemed no less dismal than before, it was not near so deserted. I was rather surprised to see that a group of people had gathered before one of the structures in the middle of the square. They seemed to be variously occupied: Two stood on either side of the door to the house as if guarding against intruders; two more appeared to be deep in discussion — gesticulating, nodding — before the open door. And looking on, also talking amongst themselves, were a goodly number of neighbors, men and women, and a child or two. All this, it seemed to me, could mean only no good, for such groupings (as I knew quite well from life in London) usually meant that misfortune of some sort had been visited upon the house where all had gathered. Since, as we drew closer, I saw that the house in question was Number 6 Kingsmead Square, where we had visited the Widow Paltrow the afternoon before, I became alarmed and told Sir John of the scene just ahead.

“Perhaps we should hurry,” I suggested.

“No need,” said he with a sigh. “If the gawkers have gathered, then what has happened cannot be undone by our haste.” And as if to prove his point, he slowed from a stroll to an amble; and then, as I led the way into the crowd, he followed at no more than a shuffle.

“Get me to those two who were talking at the door, Jeremy, if you can.

“Certainly, sir — if I can.” I pushed on through the assembly, solemnly repeating, “Make way, make way, please, for the magistrate.” It was a chant that worked well in London; in Bath, however, its use had a rather unexpected result.

“What do you mean, make way for the magistrate?” came a petulant voice from just beyond. “ I’m the magistrate in the City of Bath.”

At that, Sir John let forth a great booming laugh, and all those before us did turn and regard us with great curiosity. “Now, see what you’ve done, lad,” said he, chiding me in sport. “You’ve got me in a jurisdictional dispute with your ‘Make way, make way!’ “

What remained of the crowd melted away ahead of us. I believe Sir John’s laugh intimidated far more than my demand to be let through. At last, none stood between us and the men at the door. One of them stepped forward and looked intently upon us. He was a plump man, red-faced and possessed of an officious manner.

“I would hazard,” said he, “that you are Sir John Fielding.” He, it was, as I suspected, who claimed respect as the Magistrate of Bath: The voice was certainly the same.

“That I am,” said Sir John. He took a fixed position, leaning upon his stick.

“I had heard you were in Bath. Are you on holiday?”

“You might say so. I do, however, have some business with the Widow Paltrow, who lives in this house.” He paused but an instant. “Whom, by the bye, do I have the pleasure of addressing? You have the advantage of me.”

The Magistrate of Bath came forward a step or two and extended his hand, grasping Sir John’s and giving it the requisite squeeze. “Forgive me. The name,” he grunted, “is Thaddeus Bester, and I am, as I said, the magistrate of our little city. As for your business with the Missus Paltrow, I fear you will be unable to complete it, for it is her death is the cause for us to be here.”

“Her death, you say? To what do you attribute it?”

“It’s not me does the attributing. This gentleman with me is Dr. Thomas Diggs, who has just been appointed city coroner by the Corporation.”

“Well, if that be an introduction …,” said Sir John, and thrust his hand forward, exploring the air around him for the medico’s hand; at last, he found it, and the two men muttered their salutations as they did barely touch hands. “Then, tell me, Doctor, to what do you attribute her death?”

“Misadventure, plain and simple.”

“You say that with great assurance. Could you describe the nature of her misadventure? Supply a few details?”

“Of course. First of all, you must keep in mind her age. She was well over seventy — nearer eighty, I would say.”

“Perhaps. Over seventy I’ll grant you, and no more.”

“Had you been earlier to visit her?” asked Dr. Diggs.

“Jeremy and I looked in on her just yesterday.”

“Very well, then you know how steep are the stairs that lead to her door.”

“That I would also grant.”

“Then, of course, it follows, does it not?”

“What follows?” growled Sir John. “Be more specific.”

“She was an old woman,” said the coroner, his voice rising steadily, “and none too sure on her feet. She made a misstep on the stairs, took a tumble, and broke her neck. “

Magistrate Bester nodded in vigorous agreement with his townsman. “It happens just so with such ancient parties as her,” said he. “It’s a sad end for them, but really quite a common one — and not a bad way to go, all in all. Beats some terrible wasting disease, if you ask me.”

“Oh, perhaps, perhaps, “ said Sir John, “but have you considered the possibility that perhaps she did not fall, that indeed she may have been pushed?”

“How could one tell, after all?” queried the coroner.

“Well, you might examine the carpet on the stairs and see if there was a place loose enough to cause such a fall. I recall no such place, but that proves nothing. But was she really so clumsy that she would simply lose her footing on a flight of stairs which she had traveled up and down hundreds of times in the past? Tell me, did either one of you gentlemen know the deceased?”

“Well,” said Mr. Bester, “I can’t say as I had the pleasure.”

Dr. Diggs shook his head, then muttered a simple no.

“Then, it seems,” said Sir John, “that of the four of us, only one is in a position to comment upon the likelihood of Mrs. Paltrow making such a fatal misstep. What would you say, Jeremy? Would the widow have been clumsy to such a degree?”

I thought about it for a moment or two, then answered quite honestly, “No, sir, on the contrary. As I recall, she was quite surefooted. “