Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

Once we were back, Sir John assigned me the task of reading once more through the ‘ Journal of Exploration and Discovery ’ that I might learn what there was about it that made it such a cause of concern to Mr. Eli Bolt. Well and good, said I to myself, for I had speculated upon the matter and thought perhaps the answer might lie in the drawings which decorated each page. One of them might indeed turn out to be a treasure map if viewed from one side, or even upside down. I was, in any case, quite eager to take another look at the book — so eager that, once I had done with dinner and the washing-up, I rushed up the stairs to my little room, atop the house, to fetch the book that I might begin to search out its secrets.

To my great consternation, I found it gone. I well remembered the space I had found for it on the second shelf; it was not there. In fact, it was nowhere to be seen on the second shelf — nor on the first nor the third. Carefully, I went back and examined each book, to be certain I had not carelessly misplaced it in my haste to join Sir John at our departure-yet I found nothing. Then did I look behind the other books in order to make sure it had not somehow slipped down, as it had when I found it in Margaret Paltrow’s bookcase (or had she hidden it so?).

It was simply not to be found anywhere — for I continued to search in all the corners and under my bed. I could conclude only that someone had taken it from my room. But who? Surely not Eli Bolt! Could he have preceded me here as I slept through the morning? And even if he had, could he have managed to slip past Mr. Fuller and Mr. Marsden? Both possibilities seemed quite unlikely, the latter even less probable than the former. I allowed that it was passing strange that the ‘ Journal of Exploration and Discovery ’ had disappeared at just the moment that the great villain, Bolt, had learned that it was likely to be found somewhere at Number 4 Bow Street. Could there be a spy somewhere?

Though I had no wish to do so, I knew that I must inform Sir John. With a heavy heart I descended the stairs, intending to look for him in that little room — hardly large enough to contain more than a desk and two chairs — which he called his study.

I was about to walk into the study, so-called, close the door behind me, and tell him the bad tidings, when my eyes happened to stray down the hall. There, a shaft of light from a half-open door pierced the gloom of the hall. Something, I know not what, drew me forward to it. I leaned against the door as I knocked upon it, and it came full open. Annie sat at a small table, practicing her cursive script by candlelight. She looked up, smiled a vague, abstracted smile, and then returned to her writing lesson.

“Wherever did you find this?” It was Clarissa’s voice. It came from the corner, where she lay abed, fully clothed though in her stocking feet. She had a book propped up before her — nor was it just any book. I recognized it immediately as the ‘ Journal of Exploration and Discovery ’ in its brown leather binding and false spine.

I was altogether speechless, rendered dumb by feelings of surprise and indignation. Yet as I opened and shut my mouth, searching for words to express myself, she misinterpreted my silence and went indifferently on: “This fellow Paltrow writes well, Jeremy, but his romance lacks a proper plot, near as I can tell. It ends rather abruptly, of course — do advise him of that. Or is the manuscript completed?”

“No,” said I, “no, it is not. And it is certainly no romance. But how dare you — “

“Not a romance? Ah, well, that explains a great deal — for instance, the absence of female characters. I could not suppose how he hoped to publish a romance without female characters. But do you mean to say that this man Paltrow actually experienced all this? How fascinating! “

“You find that fascinating?” said I, having recovered myself at last. “Let me tell you what I find fascinating. I am quite baffled — fascinated, I might say — that you feel free to go into my room and walk away with whatever takes your fancy. That is outrageous. It breaks all rules of decent human behavior. Why did you not ask me first?”

“Well, because you were in Oxford. You were not here to be asked. And as for taking whatever strikes my fancy, I have taken only books. And why do I take books from your room? Because that is where they are kept. Why you should have all the books in your keeping quite baffles me.”

“Why. . why. . “ I fumbled about, trying to think of a good reason. The truth was, most of them were in the room when I came to Number 4 Bow Street, the last remains of Henry Fielding’s considerable library. “Well, let me tell you,” said I, beginning again, “that the particular book which you filched from my room on this occasion has importance as evidence in a case which Sir John is presently investigating.”

Then, from the other corner of the room, came Annie’s voice: “Do please quieten down a bit, won’t you? I’m working on my cursive, and that takes a bit of concentration.”

I must admit that our ill-tempered wrangle had grown in intensity and volume as counter-accusation followed accusation. Though we had not quite started shouting, we might soon have begun had not Sir John put in an appearance. Thinking back upon it, I wonder that he did not come sooner, for we waged this verbal combat no more than a dozen feet from where he sat, with an open door between us. There, in any case, he stood, glowering at us most unkindly, as one might if he were rudely awakened from a deep sleep. I wondered if that perchance was the way of it.

“What, pray tell,” said he, “is the cause of all this bickering? Or, perhaps more to the point, what is the need of it?”

Both Clarissa and I attempted to answer at once, and I fear that in doing so we became a bit unruly, each one trying to drown out the other as we made our bid for his attention.

“Enough!” he cried, and we both fell silent. He waited and, assured that we would keep the silence for a while, he said, “We shall proceed by alphabetical order. You, Jeremy, shall be the first, as P for Proctor precedes R for Roundtree.”

Given such an opportunity, I gave forth the case for the prosecution. I drew a dark picture of one who would enter the room of another without permission, without respect for the privacy of another, and without conscience take from that room whatsoever might strike her fancy.

“ Her? ” repeated Sir John. “I take it, then, you are not speaking in some general fashion?”

“No, sir, I am not.”

“You speak directly of Clarissa in your plaint? “

“I do, yes.”

“So then,” said he, turning in her general direction, “what have you to say to all that, Mistress Roundtree?”

“Well …” She was now up, standing beside the bed, leaning forward with her hands upon her hips; she appeared quite belligerent, though her voice seemed remarkably quiet and controlled. “I would say that if I entered his room without permission, so did he also enter mine just now.”

“Indeed, I did not,” I protested to Sir John. “Their door stood part open, and I knocked upon it before entering.”

“Yet he waited not for an invitation to enter but came in straightaway. And it is well known,” said she, “that a gentleman does not enter a ladys boudoir unless he be invited.”

At that Sir John burst out laughing. “Child, wherever did you hear such nonsense?”

Somewhat taken aback, she answered with much less certainty, “Why. . ’twas in a book, sir — a romance, it was.” She hesitated, then: “I think it important to say in my defense that when I went into Jeremy’s room and took the book, he was not about that I might ask. He was in Oxford with you.”