Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

“Indeed he might,” said Sir John, and except for thanking Constable Langford, praising his initiative, and bidding him a good night, that was all Sir John said. Which, to make clear the matter, might be better said, he refused to talk about it with us further.

As soon as the sound of the constable’s footsteps on the stairs had died, Lady Fielding attempted to open up the matter for discussion, beginning most sweetly, “Jack, I’m sure there is a very sound explanation for Mr. Tolliver’s sudden departure.”

But Sir John would have none of it. He, having resumed his place at the table, simply shook his head and said, “Please, Kate.”

No more was said of it that night, nor to me, for some time to come.

Next day there were letters to write, including that to the Lord Chief Justice on Edward Tribble’s behalf. More and more. Sir John depended upon me to take his dictation, thus leaving Mr. Marsden free to attend to his many other duties as court clerk. Often, when letters of no great gravity were to go out, the magistrate would simply tell me in summary what he wished them to say and would depend upon me to put them into his words. After hearing them read to him, he would then sign them. In spite of his blindness, once the quill was put in his hand and placed upon the paper, he proved quite adept with it. His may have been, as some said, a scrawl, but it was an impressive scrawl, far more legible than that of some other men who had the power of sight.

Thus it was that we two often sat opposite one another at that same large table which served him as a desk — I, scrivening away, and he, lost in cogitation. And perhaps, from time to time, he would rise and pace silently about the room, whose dimensions and plan he knew by heart.

So were we that morning when a tap came at the open door and Mr. Marsden announced Mr. Oliver Goldsmith. Sir John, caught in one of his rambles about his chambers, invited the author in and hastened to his usual place behind his desk. I, in turn, moved to one side that Mr. Goldsmith might have the place opposite the magistrate. After taking the hand offered by Sir John and giving it a manly squeeze, Mr. Goldsmith took from his coat a sheaf of papers and seated himself.

“Well, sir,” said the magistrate, “have you come to me to gather more facts about that rascal, Yossel Davidovich?”

“No, Sir John, your clerk, Mr. Marsden, was more than helpful in that regard. He gave me the gist of the inquest from his notes. I have written the broadsheet.”

“Already?” Sir John asked in some surprise.

“Indeed, sir. I am a night worker. I thought it best to get it out of the way, so to speak, that I might get on with matters that concern me more. Since you were quite insistent that my broadsheet should not only carry the news that this Yossel had been released but explain how and why this came about, I thought to read it you to make sure I had in it observed the proper formalities and legalities.”

“Why, by all means,” said Sir John, most pleased. “Proceed, proceed.”

Mr. Goldsmith produced a pair of spectacles and fitted them over his ears. As he did so, he resumed his address to Sir John: “By the bye, I was most favorably impressed by the testimony of the surgeon, Mr. Donnelly. Being myself a physician — ”

“I had only lately heard that, Mr. Goldsmith.”

“Ah yes. Trinity College, Dublin — though I have not practiced that art in London.”

“You are indeed a man of parts.”

“But as regards Mr. Donnelly. Since I assume he is Irish as I am, I should like to make his acquaintance.”

“As I am sure he would like to make yours. That can certainly be arranged. But, please, sir, proceed with the reading.”

“Ah yes.”

And so Oliver Goldsmith directed his attention to the sheaf of papers in his hand and began reading. There was a sentence in preamble in which it was announced that what followed was “both an answer and a correction to mistakes, misconceptions, and misrepresentations put forth in a broadsheet in reference to the Jews, and one in particular, which was distributed earlier in the week. As regards the particular Jew, one Josef Davidovich, commonly known as Yossel …” Then did Mr. Goldsmith present a concise and cogent account of the inquest into the death of Priscilla Tarkin of Half Moon Passage. The witnesses were named, with one exception, and their testimony was summarized in a few graceful sentences. Particular emphasis was put upon Mr. Donnelly’s fixing of the time of death “with remarkable precision.” And finally did he come to the unnamed witness. Lady Hermione Cox, whom he referred to as “a lady of considerable courage and unimpeachable word” Her testimony, wrote Mr. Goldsmith, “made it certain that Josef Davidovich was in her company during the space of time in which the murder was accomplished. And so he was rightly released, and the coroner’s jury voted a directed verdict of ‘murder by an unknown assailant.’ “

There the author stopped, laid down the sheaf of papers, of which he had only read the first, and waited.

“Excellent, excellent,” said Sir John. “I have but a single correction, and that at the very end. The phrase used, Mr. Goldsmith, is ‘willful murder by person or persons unknown.’ “

“Ah, thank you. That will give that dash of authenticity which I seek.” And he whipped out a pencil and bent to the task of correcting his text on the table top.

“But pray continue,” said the magistrate. “I should like to hear the whole of it.”

Having made the change, Mr. Goldsmith folded the papers and dropped them in his pocket. Then said he firmly, “No, Sir John.”

“No? You refuse to read the rest?”

“I regret that I must disappoint you, but on principle I must decline your request.”

“I… I do not understand. On what principle do you decline?”

“On the right of authorship. Were I to continue and read it to you entire, you might call for further changes of a more material sort. Out of respect to you, I should probably feel obliged to make them. But since Mr. Nicholson has stipulated that my name is to appear on the broadsheet as author, it is I and I alone who must stand as guarantor of its contents. It would not do to call it, ‘A Truthful Way with the Jews,’ which is the title I have chosen, by Oliver Goldsmith and Sir John Fielding — now would it?”

“But you did not hesitate to seek my advice on the portion you read.”

“There I sought only your legal opinion. I was not present at the inquest. I wanted to be sure the facts were right. I might assure you, by the bye, that I followed your recommendation and sought information from Rabbi Gershon of the synagogue on Maiden Lane, a remarkable man by my measure. He was most forthcoming and helpful, and he gave to me so much information that I might indeed have extended this from a broadsheet to a pamphlet. Yet he did not ask to read what I would write. He put his trust in me. I ask you to do the same. I came here seeking your help in a limited way. I did not come seeking your imprimatur.”

Sir John Fielding found himself for once at a loss for words. I saw him twice form answers on his lips until at last one came.

“I fear you have misconstrued my interest, Mr. Goldsmith. I had no intention of censoring what you might have written. I myself wished to hear the remainder because I was aware that it was in it your true attachment to this enterprise lay. I wanted only to hear what you had done with it.”

“That’s good to hear. Sir John, and I promise you shall have a copy of the broadsheet as soon as it be in print.” He sighed. “I confess, however, that I fear you would be altogether happier if there were no journalists about to get in the way of your inquiries.”