Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

And here I was once again, sent off to fetch that vile broadsheet from Sir John’s chamber. Could he not have sent Mr. Marsden? No, such an errand would have been beneath the court clerk. Better to send Jeremy; he will do any and all that is asked of him.

(Boys not yet men do often thus experience such attacks of dissatisfaction, overestimating their powers and underestimating the blessings bestowed upon them by fortune.)

I stormed through the open door and into the room kept by Sir John for private and informal interrogations, meetings with the constables, and the like. I knew precisely the location of that for which I had been sent. There was but one drawer in the desk, which in truth was more in the nature of a table, but one drawer did him well enough. He had no need to store papers; for that he relied on Mr. Marsden. I jerked it open and pulled out the broadsheet, folded over on account of its large size.

Just as I was about to shut the drawer I stopped, for my eye had glimpsed something familiar inside. It was the leather purse I had found under the floorboard in Polly Tar-kin’s room. Unable quite to help myself, I tugged it open and satisfied myself that the same heap of guineas and sovereigns was intact, just as it was when I had brought it in to Sir John. Nor had I any doubt that they had gone uncounted. It was true. The magistrate was careless about money that flowed into the court. In my mind echoed the words of the bully-boy from the night before: “It’s not like the Beak would miss it if you helped yourself, maybe a little at a time.”

I dipped my hand into the purse and let the treasure run through my fingers. It would not be necessary to take a little at a time. Ten guineas would never be missed from such a store. And had I not found the purse? In that sense, was it not as much mine as Sir John’s? Had I kept it, none would have been the wiser, yet I had handed it over to him, thinking it would have importance to the inquiry — yet it had none. He simply tossed it indifferently into the drawer.

Yet how could I be indifferent to that bag of money when just a fraction of its contents would buy Mariah’s freedom from that despicable, giggling wretch?

All this, reader, passed through my brain in the merest part of a minute. Yet what then came to mind were the jeering words of that pimp, those which were his last to me: “It’d be like stealing money from a blind man.” And with that, in my mind’s eye formed the gentle, generous visage of Sir John Fielding — he who had taken me in, clothed me, and fed me — and I knew then that I could take not a single guinea from that bag. Putting behind me all sophistry and self-deceit, I pulled closed the purse by its thongs and slammed shut the drawer. Grabbing up the broadsheet, I ran from the room and made straight for the court.

The hum of conversation told me, as I opened the door, that the session was still in recess — and yes, I saw that they were still up and milling about. Sir John was still in conference with Oliver Goldsmith at the bench, and he spoke most heatedly.

“ — if need be, yes, Mr. Goldsmith, for it must be made clear that that petty criminal Yossel has been dismissed for good and sufficient reason. You need not be specific. Say only that his time that night was accounted for. We need not bladder about who accounted for it and how. That story will be all about London swiftly enough.”

“I daresay,” agreed Mr. Goldsmith. “Uh … the lad is back, sir.”

“Ah, Jeremy, good. Have you the damned thing with you? Give it me. I shall need it for brandishing purposes.”

He groped for it, and I put it in his hand.

Mr. Fuller appeared with Ormond Neville in tow. “The prisoner’s present,” said he.

“Then we may start. Mr. Goldsmith, do not sit too far to the rear. I shall ask you to come forward. And again, sir, I thank you for what you have offered.”

“Glad to be of service, sir.”

And then did Sir John beat mightily with his gavel upon the table before him.

“The Bow Street Court is back in session,” cried Mr. Marsden, rising to his feet. “All take your places, and be silent, for Sir John Fielding, magistrate, will now hear the final case of the day.”

It took bare a minute for the crowd to disperse to the benches and chairs provided. I noted with interest that when Oliver Goldsmith returned to his place, which indeed was near the front, he seated himself next Mr. Millhouse, the neighbor of the second victim, Polly Tarkin. I, for my part, scrambled to find a better place than I had had earlier, and found one off to the side behind Mr. Fuller and his charge, Ormond Neville.

“Order, order now,” said Sir John, and the room fell silent. “Mr. Marsden, call the prisoner forward.” And then did the clerk summon him by name. As Mr. Neville took his place before the bench, the magistrate called forth: “I summon also Mr. Benjamin Nicholson.”

Was I not then amazed, reader, to see the younger partner of the publisher William Boyer rise from a place much in the rear of the courtroom and come forward with his head hung low. He was a man of reputation in Grub Street, so highly esteemed by his elder partner that the name of the firm had recently been altered from Boyer’s to Boyer and Nicholson. Yet there was little pride in the man as he shambled up to take his place beside the prisoner.

“Mr. Neville,” said Sir John, picking up the broadsheet and waving it before him, “are you the author of this scandalous concoction of surmises, suspicions, fabrications, and ancient lies?”

“Ah, well, yes, I suppose I am. Yes.”

“Such hesitation. Where is that pride of authorship? And you, Mr. Nicholson, did you not publish it?”

“Well, we printed it.”

“You seem to be making what I would call a false distinction. Did you not pay Mr. Neville for his work? Did you not cover the cost of printing right in the Boyer and Nicholson shop? Did you not then engage a company of hawkers to take the broadsheet through the streets of London and sell it for the price you set? Did you not, finally, claim the profits from this little enterprise for the firm?”

Mr. Nicholson sighed a great sigh. “Yes, Sir John,” said he.

“Does the process I have described not constitute publication, as it is generally understood? So I put it to you again, sir — did you not publish it?”

Another sigh. “Yes, Sir John.”

“Now tell me, either one of you, whose idea was it to create this” — Sir John hesitated — “this tissue of hasty conclusions and outright calumny?”

The two men then spoke in chorus: “It was his.” And so saying, each pointed at the other.

“Well,” said the magistrate, “I see that there is some difference of opinion here. Let me ask the questions and weigh your responses. Mr. Neville, how is it you say Mr. Nicholson initiated the enterprise?”

“Why, sir, because he called me to his office and suggested I make a journalistic inquiry into the murder of Polly Tarkin, which I had then not even heard about. He believed there to be material for a broadsheet in it.”

“Very well,” said Sir John, “and how was it you came to hear of the murder, Mr. Nicholson?”

“From Giles Ponder, vicar of St. Paul’s Covent Garden, who has a book in preparation with us. He said that he was wakened by a commotion — voices, lanterns, and such — at the back gate of the churchyard. He went down to investigate and heard from a constable that a woman had been found murdered just there. The constable and a lad were just then in the act of moving her body.”

I was that lad, of course. And I recalled a visit from a half-dressed churchman, his nightshirt hanging down over his pantaloons, who demanded to know what we were about. (Sir John was off at that moment talking with Mistress Linney and her colleagues.) Constable Brede, tight-lipped as ever, had told him simply that — a woman had been murdered — and wished him a good night. Or a good morning, for by then dawn was breaking.