Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

‘’You left? But how could you?”

‘’It was only by escaping at intermission that I was able to elude Eli Bolt. He, indifferent to the tenderer passions of the play, had fallen asleep. I managed to get past him and into the crowd without waking him. I saw my chance and took it. Knowing my way well through the theater from earlier visits there, I was out and in a hackney in not much more than a minute. I surprised my parents at dinner. They were quite overjoyed to see me and sent word to my sisters and brothers, who came to welcome me back. We had a grand time of talking and eating and drinking, and I so forgot myself there that I stayed the night and slept in my old bed at home. When I returned next day to Grosvenor Square, I found I had been sorely missed. There would, I believe, have been more made of my absence had I not claimed to have gone off in pursuit of a courtesan and given the entire night to our amours. I do truly believe that Sir Patrick and Mr. Bolt were envious, for they fell to teasing me in a crude fashion. Nevertheless, next day Sir Patrick decided it would be best if I were to continue my studies at his country home in Oxfordshire.”

“Let me stop you at that point,” said Sir John, “so that I may ask if, while you were in the company of your family, you gave any hint of why you had come to London — that is to say, of the conspiracy to claim the Laningham title and fortune?”

“I told them nothing at all — or perhaps better said, next to nothing. I said I had come to London on business which I could not discuss, but that they were not to be surprised at anything which might occur in the future.”

“Very good, continue.”

“I continued my study of the model whom I knew to be dead. Upon Sir Patrick’s instruction, I modulated my voice until I captured what was said to be Paltrow’s tone. I practiced his halting manner of speech. Bolt recalled his walk, and I did all that I could to duplicate it. I did all that any actor could do to re-create him, and I later had reason to believe that I had done so quite successfully. Yet in one matter I failed and failed utterly, and that was in Lawrence Paltrow’s learning. Had I the proper foundation perhaps, an informed teacher, or greater time, I might have mastered aspects of natural science sufficiently to have satisfied others. Nevertheless, I was judged by Sir Patrick as well prepared to go out and seek affidavits which would attest to the fact that I was who I said I was. We — Mr. Bolt and I — went first to Laningham town and found considerable success among those who had known Lawrence Paltrow from infancy to young manhood. Frankly, I was surprised at how easy it was for us to convince those who had had a long acquaintance with the true Lawrence Paltrow.”

“How long did you stay there? “

“Perhaps a day or two less than a week.”

“And then on to …?”

“Bath,” said the claimant. “There I faced what was the crucial test.”

“Margaret Paltrow, the mother of Lawrence.”

“Indeed, yes. If she were to reject me as her son, then there was no point in pursuing the matter further. I had, however, learned a great deal of Lawrence’s childhood while in Laningham, for it seemed that every man or woman who said they remembered me had at least one story to tell about the boy they had watched romp through the town, and the youth who would ride bareback through the fields. Old family servants — and a number of them were still about — were a great source of such stories. In any case, I remembered them all, and putting them together, I was able to construct a sort of history of Paltrow’s childhood in stories and anecdotes. This was extremely helpful in dealing with old Mother Paltrow, for when we met I was able to say ‘Do you remember the time that I. .’ or ‘I recall when you. .’ All of this was extremely helpful in bringing her round to our side.”

“I suspect you may have used considerable charm upon her, as well,” said Sir John.

“Not much was needed, in all truth. The poor woman was nearly blind. She could not properly see me.”

“True enough, I concede. Yet when we visited her, she seemed healthy enough. She was greatly disturbed, however, that her son had left her so long without a letter, without a word. I fear I contributed to those fears.”

“She said as much and threatened to withdraw her recognition and tear up the affidavit she had signed because of ‘my’ neglect during all those years. Bolt and I had visited her together the evening after you saw her, Sir John. You simply awakened the doubts she had managed till then to keep still. You asked her the same questions she had been asking herself for years. Yet as we left, she asked me a question, one that quite baffled me. Bolt and I had started down the stairs, and she called me back. I returned to her while he waited at the foot of the stairs. She whispered to me, ‘Where is it? Where is the gold?’”

“And what do you suppose she meant by that?”

“I’ve no idea, sir. It was something between her and her son, I thought, but on the other hand, it made so little sense that I thought perhaps she was going mad. Other things she had said showed her grip on reality was not terribly firm.”

“What did you reply to her?”

“I’m not sure, really. I mumbled something to her about waiting. I believe it was ‘Well speak of that later’ or something of the sort. In response, she gave me a rather fierce look and shut the door in my face. Bolt then wanted to know what she had said. I told him she had merely repeated her threat to withdraw recognition. ‘We cannot trust her,’ said he. I made no argument then. I wish that I had. Then did Bolt surprise me by parting company with me. He had said he would accompany me to the theater there in Bath — Hamlet was the play. But now he said he had no wish to go. He would return to the Bear Tavern, eat and drink, and leave me to my evening’s entertainment. I was too happy to be rid of him to look deeply into this, and so I left him. I did not return to the hostelry until near midnight. By then Margaret Paltrow was dead at Bolt’s hand.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“As sure as I could be without having witnessed the deed or having heard him confess. Yes, I am certain of it in my own mind.”

“So am I,” said Sir John.

Though I knew this to be so, reader, I was nevertheless somewhat surprised to hear Sir John reveal it to Mr. Mobley. He had allowed himself to be more openly sympathetic to the man. It was, for him, a very good sign.

“You must continue,” said he. “Was it then that you returned to Oxford?”

“Soon — but not immediately. First it fell to me next day to deal with the death of my supposed mother. I will say that the tears I shed for the poor woman were real enough. I arranged for her burial, promising I would return, which I never did. Bolt kept out of sight during all this. It was only for dinner that night that we came together again. That was when he spied you and another man he knew who was sitting at your table. He declared that it was time to leave Bath, and we rode out of the town about an hour later. He did not in the least like being recognized. After Bath, things went from bad to still worse. You know of my calamitous interview with the two professors, Fowler and Newcroft. I was in no wise capable of deceiving them as to the extent of my knowledge of natural science and natural history. Had I had a year to prepare for them, I might have done better-though I doubt it. After what had happened in Bath to Mrs. Paltrow — after her murder, to call it by its proper name — I had no wish to continue with this masquerade.”

“Did you voice this to Sir Patrick?”

He sighed. “I did once, but only in part. I told him that I believed that Eli Bolt had killed Mrs. Paltrow. He simply dismissed my suspicions, saying something like, ‘Oh, I think not. But still, with what you yourself told me about her sudden wavering, her threat to withdraw her recognition, and so on, she died at a most opportune moment, didn’t she? There is but one way to be certain about whether Bolt killed her, and that would be to ask him yourself.’ I had no intention of doing that.”