Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“So she had it! But Sir John Fielding, you say? Has he seen this book?”

“He cannot properly see anything, for he is blind.”

“I knows that. Him and me, we go back a ways. But why is a London magistrate lookin’ into such matters in Bath?”

“That you would have to ask of him yourself.”

“Does he now have this book we’re speakin’ of?”

“That I would not know.” I lied, of course, yet had not the slightest compunction in doing so.

“Does he know what’s special about it? Do you?”

Obviously, something was. I knew not how to respond convincingly to his question, for I knew not myself what special power or importance there might be in an eight-year-old travel diary kept by one who had altogether disappeared. I preferred to lie, but to lie effectively one should know the truth.

As it happened, however, no answer was called for. For from above us (I would have put the location at the top of the stairs which led to the cellar) came a voice, one heavy with authority, which put an immediate end to the interrogation.

“ That will be quite enough, Mr. Bolt. ”

“But, sir, I was just — “

“Come up here — now! ”

Obediently, though with a sigh, Eli Bolt raised himself from where he sat, which was, as I reckoned, just before me, though slightly to my right. Just as he was about to depart, he muttered to me, “I’ll be back. You better have the right answers for me.” Then did he start up the stairs; his tread was heavy upon them.

I remained where I lay, listening — for I could do no more. There were footsteps above, but no sound of voices. I considered matters for a moment or more upon that voice which had summoned Mr. Bolt. It was doubtless that of the ‘third party’ Yet what struck me as odd, even confusing, was the feeling that I had heard that voice before — and not so long ago. But whose was it? And where had I heard it?

I waited, expecting them to return, attempting to anticipate the questions they would bring with them. I was worried but not frightened. With Bolt brought under control, I felt I had naught to fear from the claimant or the ‘third party’. Bolt, rude colonial that he was, had no experience at interrogation; even I, in his place, could have done better — of that I was certain. Why, with the questions he had asked, he had told me more about Lawrence Paltrow’s ‘ Journal of Exploration and Discovery ’ than I could ever have told him. He had made it plain, to begin with, that there was likely some ulterior purpose to the Journal. Perhaps it may have had something to do with the mysterious role that Paltrow was to play on the expedition — his scales, weights, and measures, Sir John himself guessed that the journey described by Paltrow may well have had something to do with the mining of precious metals. Gold? Silver? Men would kill for such, would they not?

Time passed. I waited, at first, expecting them to return at any moment; then, less sure of it, I wondered if they would return at all that night. I was hungry, thirsty, and by that time of night (whatever time that might happen to be) quite exhausted. My mind drifted back to the ‘third party’, so-called, and to the familiar sound of his voice. If he had said just a bit more, I do believe I could have identified him sure and certain. But, alas, he had given me little to work with: “That will be quite enough, Mr. Bolt” and “Come up here — now.” It was indeed not much, and I feared it would be not quite enough. Well, the ‘third party’, who was obviously in charge, would probably have more to say to me tomorrow. But, repeating those two sentences in my mind, I fell asleep, still hoping to discover who it was spoke with that voice. My dreams revealed nothing.

I have no proper notion of how long it was that I slept. From later indications, I should say it was well over an hour but no more than three. In any case, my dreams were interrupted in deepest night by a repeated sound — a series of squeaks, I should call it — which informed me that someone was descending the stairs to the cellar. I was thus prepared when a touch was put to my shoulder, and I was given a light shake. In response, I twisted about to a new position. I was then pulled up to my feet by a pair of strong hands which I took to be the claimant’s. When he began to work loose the leather rope which bound my ankles, I whispered, “I’m ever so grateful to you. It was so tight that I — “

“Shhh,” he interrupted me; then did he put a hand on the blanket just at my mouth. “Shhh,” he repeated, and then removed his hand.

Swiftly untying the rope round my ankles, he then undid that about my wrists, took me by the hand, and led me up the cellar stairs. The blanket covered my upper body still. I fought my desire to pull it off, sensing that he wished it just so. Thus I was led through the ground floor. Had there been so much as a lighted candle along the way, I am sure I would have seen it through the blanket, which was a bit threadbare to the touch. The darkened house was for me made even darker.

We reached the door: I was certain of that, having caught a draft of cold night air about my feet. Struggling quietly, he managed to get it open, and then he pushed me out. As he did so, he whispered, “Turn right at the road”. With my back to him, he pulled the horse blanket from my head and sent me on my way. Knowing he would have it so, I did not turn immediately to discover my rescuer. By the time I did turn to look, all I could see was a good-sized house of the sort known well from two centuries past.

I reached the road without difficulty, turned in the direction I was told, and two hours later, more or less, I had reached Oxford and the Blue Boar Inn in High Street.

I found Sir John awake and dressed still. He quite amazed me, for no sooner had I spoken, apologizing for my late arrival (it was six in the morning by the clock in our room), than he leapt upon me, hugging me to him and ruffling my hair, telling me how happy he was to have me safe.

“I have much to tell you,” said I to him.

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” said he to me. “But tell me, Jeremy, are you not hungry?”

“Sir, I am as one starved. I could eat an elephant, a whale, and then perhaps have a hippopotamus for dessert.”

“And so you shall, “ said he. “If there be such beasts within a hundred miles of here, you shall have them on your plate.” He sighed a great sigh. “You cannot know how happy I am to see you.”

In the end, I was not called upon to make good my boast. I was most happy to settle for a grand breakfast of hens’ eggs, rashers of bacon, bread, and good Oxfordshire butter. Never, I think, had I eaten so much of a morning. And never, I think, had I finished a meal and afterward felt so needful of sleep. I was utterly exhausted from my tramp down the dark road of near ten miles. In spite of all, however, I managed to tell my tale, or most of it, as I ate. I admitted that I had, for one brief moment, forgotten his instruction to me and called attention to myself and to Paltrow’s Journal. Yet he took that in good stead, so happy was he to have me back, Sir John was eager to have a good description of the house wherein I was held prisoner, as well as its location; I did what I could. When I had finished my breakfast, I began nodding over my tea. It was then that Sir John ordered me up to the room that I might sleep the morning while he attended to some matters that required his attention. We would leave for London in the afternoon.

Thus it took place. Having slept, I was properly prepared for my return to Bow Street; Sir John, on the other hand, was so worn by his night of waiting that he fell asleep as soon as our stagecoach was under way.