Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

As for Sir John, he did not outwardly exhibit such signs of unease. He simply went silent for days at a time. Oh, of course he did say all that needed be said: he sat his court each day, gave those instructions to Mr. Marsden and to Mr. Bailey and the Runners which needed be given, and in short did all that needed be done. Yet those times before and after his daily court session during which he often wandered backstage, as it were, discussing all manner of doings and topics — such times he now spent in his chambers with the door shut. And at table morning and night where talk did ever flow from him so generously, we found the source now dammed, leaving us to wonder what, in that vast reservoir which he held back, might pertain to the Covent Garden murders and what, individually, to us. He had grown unusually distant, having retreated within himself. To one who knew him not so well, he may even have seemed somewhat lethargic.

I, with the rest of the household, looked forward to the dinner to which Mr. Donnelly and Mr. Goldsmith had been invited, for it was supposed by us that surely those two garrulous gentlemen would bring forth the magistrate and restore him to his old self. In the meantime, there was little for me to do to aid Sir John in his official duties. My time was open to Lady Fielding, and she did heap upon me those tasks of the domestic sort which I had come to despise as beneath me. Yet I did not complain, and to the utmost of my ability I scrubbed the floors, beat the rugs, and polished the dining table and the silver. Eventually she ran out of such duties, and I was left with time of my own to fill.

Whenever given such an opportunity, I was off to visit Constable Perkins for another in those lessons in self-defense which he taught right rigorously. He seemed quite pleased with my progress, both in the matter of my knowledge and in the way my muscles were hardening as his lessons were learned. My duration had also greatly improved. In the beginning, I could go not much more than a few minutes at a time at his big dirt-filled bag ere I was quite wasted in sweaty exhaustion. Now, after a month of instruction, I had easily trebled and perhaps quadrupled that time; nor was I afterwards near so depleted of my powers. Mr. Perkins usually ended my fantastical bouts whilst I was still ready for more.

I had told my old chum, Jimmie Bunkins, of my sessions with the constable, and he was most keen to accompany me so as to learn more of them. “I always counted on me heaters to get me out of a roue when I was on the scamp,” he said to me. “But I ain’t a kid no more, and there’s times a joe’s got to scrap it out with his daddies or take a flogging”

(Which, for those readers unfamiliar with the street language of “flash,” I may translate thusly: “I always counted upon my feet to get me out of trouble when I was engaged in thievery. But I’m no longer a child, and there are times when a fellow must fight with his fists or take a beating.”)

And so, there came a day when, having completed the tasks given me by Lady Fielding by early afternoon, and she having departed for the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes, I was left free to fill the rest of the day as I saw fit; and I did then set my heaters in the direction of St. James Street where my pal, Jimmie Bunkins, lived in relative splendor as joe to his cove. Black Jack Bilbo.

Now, let it be said in passing that Black Jack Bilbo was proprietor of what was, in those days, London’s grandest gaming house. He wore a fearsome black beard from which his nickname came, and he was credited (if that be quite the word) with a past near as dark, for it was said of him that he had made the fortune with which he began his lucrative enterprise from years as a pirate in the Caribbean and the waters off the North American colonies. Such was his reputation, yet the man himself was not near as fierce as the tale told of him might imply. Sir John Fielding counted him a friend, as did I, and to Jimmie Bunkins he was no less than savior, for he had taken him off the streets, offered him an education, and treated him, in his own rough way, as his ward.

I arrived at the grand house in St. James Street, which had previously belonged to Lord Goodhope, with much of the afternoon left before me. I knocked at the great double-door and waited, then knocked again. Who should open it but the cove of the ken himself. Black Jack kept only a small serving staff and had little use for butlers; the rule of his house was that he who heard a knock upon the door was obliged to answer it.

“Well, it’s you, Jeremy, is it? Come in, boy, come in. You know you’re always welcome in this house.”

“I thought to invite Bunkins for a ramble,” said I, “if he be willing and able.”

He let the great door slam behind me and stood scratching his bald head in perplexity.

“Now, that I cannot say. Willing he does seem always. Able is not for him to decide but rather his tutor, Mr. Bum-ham. Of a sudden he’s started doing right well in his lessons. Sums were always easy for him. Any good thief can do plus and minus. But plain reading always escaped him — until this fellow Bumham came along. He brought with him a primer, such as we all learned from, and Bunkins got the hang of it right away. The other tutors I had for him thought to teach him Latin and Greek at the same time. It was too much for the lad. Now he’s got him reading from the Public Advertiser and such like. Soon, says he, he’ll be starting Bunkins on proper books.”

“He has no need of Latin,” said I, “and Greek is a mystery to me.”

“So I told Mr. Bumham. I’m so well pleased with him that I gave him a room of his own upstairs. He dorses here, and I give him bub and grub, as well.”

Just then did the door open to that room off the front hall which I knew to be used as the schoolroom. Bunkins emerged, smiling, with him I took to be his new tutor. Mr. Bumham was a young man of about twenty years, tall and gentle of manner. He was, I noted, of mixed African and white blood, and I wondered at his history.

We were introduced by Jimmie Bunkins and shook hands. Accepting a nod from Mr, Bilbo as permission to put my request, I asked if Bunkins might be spared from his studies for the rest of the afternoon.

“That is up to young Mr. Bunkins,” said he without a moment’s hesitation, “for we have finished for the day.” Then to Mr. Bilbo: “Best to end when there is still pleasure in the lesson.”

Mr. Burnham spoke a good and proper English with a bit of a lilt such as a Welshman might give it. (Such I have come to recognize as the accent of the Caribbean islands.)

“Will that be right with you then, sir?” Bunkins asked Black Jack Bilbo.

“On your way, lad,” said he with a wink and a nod.

“I’ll just get me hat,” Bunkins called to me, already off at a run for the stairs.

“He does well under your tutelage,” said Black Jack to Mr. Burnham. “His manners have even improved. He did not earlier ‘sir’ me so regular.”

“Ah, well, I insist upon that.”

“As well you should, sir.”

Then was Bunkins back, hat in hand, far sooner than I could have expected, stopping only to give a quick bow to both men in goodbye, then grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me to the door. I had only the chance to wave before I was out in the street with Bunkins.

“He’s a rum joe, ain’ he?”

“Certainly seems to be,” said I.

We set off in the direction I had come, towards Covent Garden. All London was ours, and we’d a good hour to kill before reporting to Mr. Perkins.

“He’s from Jamaica. He showed it me on one of the cove’s maps.”

“How did he come here?”

“Oh, ain’t that a story!”

“Is it? Well, give it me then.”

And as we made our way, he told Mr. Bumham’s tale as it had been told to him.