Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“He is also the subject of this letter Sir John has written to the Chief Justice of Virginia. “

“How do you know this?”

“Because I took it in dictation.”

“Yes, of course — his blindness. That is easily forgotten. What would you know of this Elison? He was a rough sort, the kind of half-savage that seems to thrive out on the North American frontier.”

“What was it you told Sir John about him?”

“Well, you must know that the crime for which Elison was suspicioned was murder. Both he and his victim were passengers on my ship. We had not many on board, so I became acquainted with them, Sir John was chiefly interested in whether the two had met on shipboard, as this fellow Elison maintained, or if they had known one another previously.”

“Which was it?” I asked.

“In all truth, I couldn’t be certain. I did not see them come aboard. In fact, I don’t believe I met either of them until our second or third day out. I did tell Sir John, however, that the two of them spent all their time together on deck. Elison did his tricks, and the other one — I can’t for the life of me remember his name — laughed at them and drank his corn liquor. Elison, at least, was drunk through most of the voyage — or so he seemed.”

“You said that ‘Elison did his tricks,’ Captain. What sort were they? “

“Rope tricks, they were. That fellow had a good-sized length of leather rope with which he could do near anything.”

“Leather rope? I’ve never seen such.”

“Oh, it’s common enough in the colonies, especially out on the frontier, wherever there’s aborigines about. His was the best of its kind I’d seen — two long strands of leather braided together. With a loop at the end of it, he could pick up near anything. He could lift a belaying pin, seize a kerchief from a pocket, near anything at all.” As he spoke, his eyes had strayed upward. It was as if he had seen his memories given shape and substance against the sky. But now, of a sudden, his recollections were done. He regarded me almost dubiously.

“Yet why now?” said he. “Why a letter to the Chief Justice of the colony about the fellow at this time?”

“He has returned to England,” said I. “You must have known that Sir John allowed him to leave. He felt that the case against him was not strong enough to bind him for trial at felony court.”

“Oh, indeed I did,” declared the captain. “I said, if you will recall, that Sir John Fielding had impressed me greatly. It was not so much in what he did as what he did not do that he proved himself to me. He was utterly convinced that Elison was guilty of murder — yet had not the proof of it. Even then, as I understood, it was generally accepted at Old Bailey that if Sir John sent a man up for trial, he was guilty. Yet he would not abuse his reputation by relying upon his feelings in the matter. He could have sent a man to the gallows who was almost certainly guilty, yet it was the ‘almost’ that prevented him.”

“Perhaps this time round,” said I, “he will satisfy himself as to the strength of the evidence and testimony against Elijah Elison.”

Captain Harrison stood, frowning, until he was struck by a most shocking supposition. “Good God,” said he, “has Elison murdered again?”

“That, I fear, I cannot answer, for it is, or soon will be, a matter before the court.”

I had heard Sir John use those words, or others quite like them, often enough in the years I had been with him, and though I had never before taken it upon myself to repeat them in forestalling further inquiry, I saw no reason why such a formulation should not also be used by me where it applied. Alas, reader, I made no distinction between what was proper and acceptable coming from the lips of a distinguished magistrate, and what was merely pompous coming from his sixteen-year-old helper.

In any case, the captain took umbrage at what I had said. He looked at me sharply and took a step back. “Indeed,” said he, “you are a young coxcomb, are you not? I do not mind telling you, young sir, that if you were under my command, I would soon teach you a bit of respect.”

Abashed, I stared after him as he strode away. “But, sir,” said I, “I did not mean — “

Yet it was too late. Captain Harrison banged loudly through the warehouse door and immediately was lost from sight.

All the long way back to Number 4 Bow Street, I reproached myself for my boldness toward the captain. At one point I recall asking myself if perhaps I had so annoyed him that he would renege upon his promise to see the letter on its way to Virginia. But then I assured myself that the great respect he had announced for Sir John would not permit him to do that. Taking heart in this alone, I hurried on — down Fleet Street, down the Strand, then through the tight little streets that led to the Bow Street Court.

By the time of my arrival, the day’s court session was long done, Sir John sat alone in that modest room behind the rest which he called his chambers. It was his habit, when naught stood in the way, to send Mr. Marsden out for beer, which he would drink from a cup, shoes off, his stocking feet propped up high upon the desk before him. And that was how I found him — alone and asleep, snoring away what was left of the afternoon. I was not greatly surprised, for that punishing coach ride, which had quite overwhelmed Clarissa and me, must also have taken its toll upon him and Lady Fielding, as well. I envied him, his chin down upon his chest, his hands folded over his belly; he seemed perfectly at rest-and likely to stay so for many hours to come. In fact, seeing him thus inspired me to turn round and tiptoe out of his chambers that I might myself go up the stairs to my bed and sleep. After all, had I not done the buying for Annie in Covent Garden, washed the kitchen floor, tramped the length and breadth of London? Did I not deserve a rest as much as he? I determined I would have it. But then, arriving as far as the door without making a sound, neither squeak nor creak, I realized I had little chance of bringing off my exit, when behind me there began a noisy chain of snorts and snuffles, and then a dark rumble: “Jeremy? Is that you?”

I halted where I was and turned about. “Yes, sir,” said I somewhat guiltily. “I thought to let you sleep a bit longer.”

“Longer? Was I asleep?”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“Hmmm, strange,” he reflected. “I’d no idea of it.”

He swung his feet down from his desk, beckoned me to him, and asked if all had gone well. I told him that it had, assuring myself that there was no need to go unbidden into my meeting with Captain Harrison.

Satisfied, he nodded and said, “I have a task for you, one that may keep us both busy until dinnertime.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“I believe you left that file regarding. . what name did he use those several years ago? Elijah Elison, I believe it was.”

“Yes, that was it.”

“You left it here with me. Is this it. . here?” Moving his hand over the desk, he allowed it to come to rest upon the file which was positioned at the corner nearest me. I was able to read, upside down, the letters which spelled out its title, “Unresolved.”

“It is, sir.”

“Then I should like you, Jeremy, to read to me the entire file pertaining to that fellow Elison. It may tell us a thing or two about the death of the Widow Paltrow, perhaps even give some indication why he has turned up in the company of the claimant. For my part, Im puzzled by the connection of the two deaths — or, let us call them two homicides — at a space of many years.”

That was indeed troubling. Had I not further taxed my tired body on that long walk about London, I should have welcomed the opportunity to read through it all with Sir John. As it was, I fear I showed little enthusiasm as I proceeded to separate those pages pertaining to Elison from the rest, take a place opposite the magistrate, and prepare to read to him.