Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“Bath was lovely,” said Clarissa in response to Annie’s predictable question, “all that my mother said it would be, and all that I hoped.”

“Oh, indeed,” agreed Lady Fielding. “I believe that taking the waters did me a world of good, and I met so many charming people.”

“Such a beautiful place,” said Clarissa.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Then did Lady Fielding go silent for the moment as her eyes took on a somewhat abstracted appearance; it was as if she were reconsidering the entire experience. “But, you know,” she added as if in summary, “I would not have stayed a day longer in Bath. I believe we got from it all we possibly could have gotten.”

“Well said, Kate,” declared Sir John. “It is quite beyond me that those who live lives of leisure are pleased to spend whole summers there.”

“Some choose to live there the year round.”

“Or perhaps better put, choose to die there.”

To that there was naught to say. I, at least, could think of no response. I could but wonder why Sir John had said what he had and what he meant by it. Surely not that the Widow Paltrow was responsible for her own death.

Eager though I may have been to give close examination to those items which I had removed from the modest quarters in Kingsmead Square, I found that once I was in my little room atop all the rest, I simply lacked the will to give them more than a cursory perusal. Even though the so-called “Journal of Exploration and Discovery” did greatly interest me, so exhausted was I from our journey that I fell asleep with the candle burning at my bedside and the book upon my chest.

Next day, of course, I found myself thrust back into the routine I knew so well. I was up at six, or shortly thereafter, to build a fire for Annie. Once past breakfast, I shaved Sir John, that he might meet the new week smooth-cheeked and handsome. Before leaving for the Magdalene Home with Clarissa in tow, Lady Fielding urged me to scrub the kitchen floor, “ere potatoes grow in the cracks between the boards.” Annie, before leaving for her morning reading classes with Mr. Burnham, left with me a list of victuals of every sort to be bought in Covent Garden for the week ahead.

Thus it was not until the middle of the morning that I was able to present myself to Sir John and ask how I might be of service to him. I was informed that there were letters to be written and a thing or two for discussion. That left me wondering, as I prepared to take his dictation, just what those matters might be.

Among the four or five letters written that morning were two which were pertinent to this narrative. The first was a report to the Lord Chief Justice describing what had transpired during our trip to Bath. Though of necessity long and rather detailed, it was, in a way, more interesting in what it left out than in what it included, Sir John made it clear that the claimant was in Bath, but mentioned only in passing that he was usually in the company of one who was said to be a native, or at least a resident, of the American colony of Virginia. He said nothing of Eli Bolt, made no mention of his evil reputation. This had the effect of focusing blame upon the putative Lawrence Paltrow when the death of Mrs. Paltrow was described, Sir John made it clear that he suspicioned homicide, and he pointed out, as well, that the claimant may have had a good deal to gain by it, since her support for him had seemed to be weakening. Clearly, in spite of what he had heard from Mr. Bilbo regarding Eli Bolt, he held the claimant suspect.

Having had time to think upon it, Clarissa had decided as we talked at one of the rest stops on the journey to London that perhaps we ought to say something of our glimpses of the claimant at the theater on the evening of the murder. “That would surely have made it impossible for him to commit so ghastly a crime as matricide,’’ Clarissa had said, “for he was some distance away at the time.”

“Difficult,” I had then said, “but not impossible,” which I was certain would have been Sir John’s judgment in the matter. Having once thought so, I had no reason at this later moment to alter my opinion. We may not have felt that the claimant was capable of such a coldblooded murder, but feelings mattered little to Sir John; he would have facts and unimpeachable testimony.

And so it was that I said nothing as I offered the letter just taken in dictation for his signature. I dipped the quill in the inkwell, put it in his hand, and placed the point where he might make his famous scrawl. He executed it with a proper flourish and returned the quill to me.

“Now,” said he, “there is one last letter to be written. Little good it will do, I fear, for it may well be six months or more before we receive an answer. Nevertheless, the information given us by Mr. Bilbo while in Bath is such that it demands that we seek more information. Yet before this letter be written, I must ask you to go up and bring to me that file I set you searching for some days ago. “

“Ah, yes,” said I, “it was before we left for Bath, was it not? I believe the file was marked ‘Unresolved.”

“No doubt something of the sort. I believe I told you that it contained my failures.”

I remembered very well and did not hesitate, but left him directly, leaping steps three at a time as I proceeded from ground floor to top in less than a minute. This, I told myself, was what I had hoped for — some attention, surely, would have to be directed at this man Bolt. It was evident that Sir John had no intention to ignore him. I was satisfied, even though, having forgotten the exact contents of the file for which I had been sent, I had little idea which of the cases in that curious file he deemed pertinent (though I did seem to recall that one of them had to do with two gentlemen come from the colonies).

“Ah,” said Sir John upon my return, “back so soon? You must simply have flown up and down those stairs. Where do you find the energy:

“I seem to recall, sir, that when last we walked together in London, I had difficulty keeping up with you.”

“Did you? Well, perhaps I am not as old as I feel at this moment. I fear that grueling trip back from Bath sapped from me much of my vitality. A good sleep will help. I lay awake some time last night thinking upon that poor woman and how she died. But. . that is neither here nor there. Let us get on with that last letter.”

“What do you wish me to do with the file, sir?”

“Keep it close by. We shall refer to it anon.”

I did as he said and put before me a clean sheet of paper, then I dipped the quill into the inkwell and waited. “I am ready when you are, sir,” said I.

“You may address this to the Chief Justice, Crown Colony of Virginia. Mr. Marsden may be able to provide you with a name to go with the office — but then again, he may not, so we may as well address it so. It is certain to reach the right party. “

That said, he commenced to dictate. As I, his amanuensis, transmitted his words to paper, I saw clearly that Sir John was keen to know all that could be provided regarding Mr. Eli Bolt. Or, as he put it to the nameless colonial Chief Justice, “Naturally, I wish to know of any convictions for wrongdoing, be it felony or misdemeanor. But I would know more. What other offenses has he been charged with? And if not convicted or charged, what villainous acts has he been suspected of? He has put in an appearance here in England, and I wish to know what sort of individual I must deal with. He is here using the alias, Elijah Bolton, and — “ At that point, Sir John halted and turned to me. “Now, Jeremy,” said he, “if you will open that file which I sent you to fetch …”

“Certainly, Sir John.” I did as he directed.

“And look now at the most recent of the cases — the two men from the North American colonies.” He paused, waiting, and then: “What was the name of him whom I questioned so long and with so little result?”