Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“Yet he forgot her spectacles,” said I.

“Indeed he did, and having forgotten them, he left an opening for us.”

I thought a moment upon the picture that Sir John had just presented. I saw the figure of a man sitting in the dark, the body of an old woman at his feet. Had he simply waited so on into the night? Sir John, I decided, was quite right. There was something monstrous about one who could share hours in a room with the corpus of one he had just murdered.

“What a strange one he must be,” said I. “The normal thing would be to flee the scene of the crime as quickly as possible. Yet he, apparently, simply sat and waited. There seems something quite inhuman about it.”

“Indeed,” said Sir John. “He seems to have murdered altogether without emotion — without anger and without fear. It is said, that is how the animals of the jungle kill.”

Our entrance into the Bear Tavern was abetted by the ever- friendly porter. Holding open the door, he spoke his greeting and called our attention to the fact that, as he put it, the ladies had preceded us by a good quarter of an hour.

Looking about, I found them in the Orangerie (so it was called), wherein meals were served at mealtimes and drinks of every sort were offered at all others. I brought Sir John round and, seated at the table, I ordered coffee for him and me. Lady Fielding told us of their morning: at length of their visit to the grand bookshop the first time with Clarissa, and then of their chance meeting with Mr. Bilbo.

“With Black Jack, you say?” exclaimed Sir John. “And what might he be doing here?”

“Well,” said she uncertainly, “he was a bit vague about that. However, he did say that he would be here the better part of a week and would expect us as his guests at dinner this very night.”

At that, Sir John pursed his lips and grunted unhappily.

“What is it, Jack? Not feeling well? Perhaps its that strong coffee.” She looked at me a bit crossly and all but shook her finger as she said: “Jeremy, you ought not order such for Sir John, nor should you drink it yourself. Tea would suit you both better.”

“No, no, Kate, nothing of the kind. The coffee suits me well enough. I was merely exclaiming in disappointment.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. There is no one I should rather spend some hours with than Mr. Bilbo, yet I fear we should return to London — this very day, if possible.”

“But, Jack,” she wailed, “it seems we’ve only just arrived.”

“Oh, I know, I know, but in truth I’ve lost my reason for being here in Bath.”

“How do you mean? I don’t quite follow.”

“Well, you do recall, don’t you, that I had come to interview a woman, a Mrs. Paltrow?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Well, she is no longer with us.”

“You mean she has departed Bath?”

“For good, I fear,” said he. “She is dead.”

“Oh, Jack, what a shame! An accident of some sort? Or was she taken ill of a sudden? “

“Neither, Kate. It appears certain that she was murdered.”

Lady Fielding gave an uneasy look about the near-empty room. Apparently relieved that none had heard, she leaned forward across the table and whispered earnestly in remonstrance. “Jack, dear Jack, I do understand that crime is your occupation, so to speak, but you really ought not to be quite so loose with talk of murder. This is a very respectable hostelry. There are gentlefolk hereabouts, even nobility, who would be shocked to hear the word ‘murder’ bruited about.”

“I fear,” said he, “that it is one of the gentlefolk, or better put one who aspires to nobility, who is responsible.”

Lady Fielding heaved a troubled sigh. “Then you might at least think of the children. “

“The children?” Sir John seemed honestly perplexed. “If you mean to include Jeremy, it was he who first postulated the details of the homicide. He, it appears, can no longer be shocked. It would seem that he is quite beyond redemption.”

“Perhaps so, but in truth, it was Clarissa whom I hoped you might spare. She is but twelve, Jack.”

Through all the above, I had been exchanging glances with Clarissa. At the mention of murder, I had noted that her eyes had begun to glisten with interest and excitement. Yet with Lady Fielding’s last remark, a look of dismay suddenly clouded her face. Clearly, she had no wish to be spared.

Nevertheless, Sir John seemed to be affected by this appeal. “Perhaps you’re right, Kate,” said he, “though it is sometimes as difficult to keep in mind Clarissa’s chronological age as it is to remember Jeremy’s. But we have, I daresay, drifted far from my original point. I see little justification in remaining, since the reason for my coming has, if you prefer, ceased to exist.”

“But could we not stay one more night?”

He weighed the matter silently as we waited for his answer. “Perhaps. After all, no decision may be necessary. Jeremy, would you go now and inquire as to the immediate availability of coach space back to London for the four of us?”

I hopped to the task and went direct to the porter, purveyor of such essential intelligence. He listened sympathetically to my query, nodding in the manner of some village sage as he stroked his chin.

“Well,” said he, “you’ve come to the right man.”

“Ah,” said I, quite reassured.

“But, I fear, you’ve come a bit late.” He went on to explain that the midday coach had just departed, and the only space available on the evening coach was up on top of it. “And that,” said he, “would not do for folk like yourselves.”

“Oh, right! Right you are.”

“But I can offer you four places in the morning coach,” said he. “Leaves at eight, which is a better time to travel, after all.”

“Excellent,” said I. “Is the post coach house nearby? I’ll run over and book places for us.”

“No need. I’ll send the errand boy in your stead. I’m sure you’ve better things to do, lad. Enjoy your last night here. “

Thus it came about that some hours later, we four sat at table with Mr. Bilbo. Now, it must be admitted that he was an unusual sort of friend for one such as Sir John Fielding. Not enough that he was proprietor of London’s grandest gaming establishment, he had also come to the city pursued by rumors that he had acquired his fortune by piracy in the Americas. There were indeed those who would say that Mr. Bilbo was not merely an unusual friend for an eminent magistrate, but an unsuitable one, as well. That bothered Sir John very little. He had said often to me, “Perhaps I should not like the fellow, but I do, and I also trust him. He is, in short, my friend, and there’s an end to it. Let them say what they will.”

Mr. Bilbo was known for his physical strength (he personally ejected dukes and earls from his premises when they misbehaved); for his dark, thick beard (which had won him the nickname Black Jack, by which he was universally known); and for his great, booming laugh (which sounded often through the Orangerie on that memorable evening).

I would not pretend to remember in any great detail what was said in conversation over dinner. Nevertheless, I recall in truth two significant instances, one of which gives a suggestion of the flavor of the table talk, and the other which proved of no little importance to this tale I have here undertaken to tell.

We sat at a round table, Clarissa and I farthest from Mr. Bilbo, listening to our elders chatting and laughing in a most easy manner. Eventually — and no doubt inevitably — they touched upon a question that had certainly occurred to me.

“What brings you to Bath?” asked Lady Fielding. “You are indeed the last person I expected to find here.”

“Ah, well, that may be, m’lady,” said he. “Yet I make an effort to visit this place at least a couple of times a year — more if I can manage it.”