Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

He offered me a nod, and to Sir John he gave his hand — his left hand — grasping the other’s right quite solemnly with it.

“You have surprised me, sir,” said Sir John, pulling back slightly. “I hope you will forgive my use of the left hand, “ said the claimant. “I fear my right hand is broke.”

“I should not doubt that it is, having heard the use to which you put it. Mr. Baker? Did I hear you come forward?”

“Yes, sir,” said the gaoler. “I am here.” He had followed the claimant down the corridor and now stood directly behind him. “When did this gentleman arrive?”

“Near an hour ago, sir.”

“Not long after we left, then?”

“That would be about right.”

“You must have come here direct,” said Sir John to the claimant. “Were you so sure that escape was impossible that you dispensed with any such effort in order to save us all trouble?” There was a sharp edge of irony in his voice.

“Nothing of the kind. Escape did not occur to me as an option.”

“And why was that?”

“Because escape would be tantamount to an admission of guilt.”

“And you wish now to maintain your innocence? If you’ll forgive me, sir, that strikes me as rather brazen. That was, after all, a corpus which you left behind in your room at the Globe and Anchor, was it not?”

“It was, though I wish it were not. “

“No more than I,” said the magistrate with a sigh. “Do you wish, then, to make a confession?”

“No, sir, I wish to make a statement.”

“Ah, a statement, is it? That sounds ever so much more salubrious than a confession, does it not? Confessions are of their very nature untidy. They deal in guilt and hold nothing back. Statements, on the other hand, seem to say as little as possible and deal in distinctions. I am not sure I wish to hear your statement, sir, if by making it you suppose you can put aside the matter of the homicide without making a complete revelation of all that led up to it. Do you understand me, sir?”

“I understand you completely,” said the claimant. “And I shall hold nothing back.”

“In that case, Mr. Baker, prepare my chambers. Light every candle,” said Sir John. “And you, Jeremy, come along and make sure you have a plenty of paper — take it from Mr. Marsden’s desk if you must — for I shall want you to take down what is said in dictation. “

“What is your true name?” asked Sir John.

“Percival Mobley,” replied the claimant.

“You have said that your true name is Percival Mobley. In so saying, do you give up all pretense that you are Lawrence Paltrow and renounce all claim to the Laningham title and fortune made in his name.”

An odd look passed across the face of him who had just claimed the name of Percival Mobley. “Indeed I do not claim now to be Lawrence Paltrow, but as for renouncing the Laningham title and fortune, I have never made the claim officially — that is, to the House of Lords. Though I admit, however, that I have presented myself to various individuals as Mr. Paltrow and registered as such in inns and hostelries. That, of course, I should no longer do.”

(It may be pertinent here, reader, to reveal how I, as amanuensis, treated the material given above. Since Sir John wanted the statement made in Mr. Mobley’s voice, I simply eliminated the questions and any discussion that passed between them and presented all in declarative sentences, as follows: “My true name is Percival Mobley. I hereby give up all pretense that I am Lawrence Paltrow and renounce all claim in his name to the Laningham title and fortune.’’ But now to continue with the basic matter with which I worked.)

“Your age, sir?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Where were you born, and where did you grow to maturity? “

“I was born in Southwark, and there did I grow up.”

Sir Johns brow wrinkled. “Southwark, you say? You mean just across the river? You do not sound in your speech as one from Southwark — and I am one who can usually place a man by his manner of speech.”

“And so am I,” said Mr. Mobley, formerly the claimant. “I was the youngest of six children and soon became the family mimic. And it was not long before I exercised my talent beyond the limits of our home. I was soon able to imitate speech and physical movements of all my teachers at school. Soon there was no one on either side of the river whom I did not consider fair game for my play.”

“This, then, was a sort of game with you?”

“In the beginning, of course, but then, as a boy no older than this young fellow here” — indicating me, of course — “I discovered amateur theatrics.”

“Ah, yes,” said Sir John, “as many before you have. And did that lead to professional employment?”

“In the theater? Not in London’s three companies, but one summer I went out with a troupe of strolling players and had a grand time. That did, however, move me to emigrate to the North American colonies. I told myself that things would be better there. At least there was no Licencing Act. I told myself that I might one day have my own company, my own theater, as Mr. Garrick has.”

“You were ambitious.”

“And am still. Yet I had to take employment where I could find it in the colonies. The history of work which I attributed to Lawrence Paltrow was my own.”

“You speak as a gentleman, or at least as an educated man,” noted Sir John.

“Mimicry — naught but a good ear, the actor’s gift. Surveying, which saw me through when all else failed, was a skill I acquired quite casually along the way. As I said earlier today, there is work in the colonies for a man willing to dirty his hands. I might also say that I am reasonably intelligent, and as the youngest child of six, I was allowed to stay longest in school.”

‘You said that you were in the city of Philadelphia when you read of your brother’s death and saw your claim to the title. Would you now like to correct that?”

“In truth, it happened quite different. I was in Georgetown in the colony of Maryland when I was approached by the man you seem to know as Eli Bolt. He has appeared with me as Elijah Bolton. As you perceived, they are one and the same.”

“What did Eli Bolt have to say to you?”

“He had just attended a performance of The Duchess of Malfi in which I played a role. Though the drama pleased him greatly — no doubt because of its violence — it was not to discuss it that he invited me to a dram shop nearby, but to acquaint me with the facts of Arthur Paltrow’s execution and its relation to the Laningham title and fortune. He told me that Arthur Paltrow had had a brother named Lawrence, who would now be in line as the next Lord Laningham, but that he, Mr. Bolt, knew as certain what no one else knew — that Lawrence Paltrow was dead. He had been with him on an expedition along the frontier seven or eight years past, and he had seen him drown during a river crossing. ‘Let me tell you, young sir,’ said he to me, you are the spit and image of Lawrence Paltrow, except a little taller and wider. You could fool his own dear mother, I’m sure.’ Thus I began to understand the direction in which he was taking me, and I confess I did not resist him overmuch — perhaps not at all. Mr. Bolt flattered my abilities as an actor and hinted how much greater a role this would be for me to play — greater than any heretofore. My head was turned by him. I began to fantasize what life might be in the House of Lords.”

“You consented, then, to impersonate Lawrence Paltrow?”

“In so many words, I did, yes,” said Mobley. “He said there would be a man in London who would wish to meet me before the plan could be put into action. Would I be willing to sail to England to meet him? I said I would, and in less than a week we were on a ship bound for London. My fare was paid by Eli Bolt. I thought this most fortunate, for I was long overdue for a visit to my family in Southwark. I told myself that no matter how this adventure might turn out, I should at least have that out of it. “