Deryn Lake: Death at the Wedding Feast

From the back of the court Beak Runner Smallwood stepped forward.

‘Is the arresting officer present?’ boomed Sir John.

‘Here, Sir,’ Smallwood replied.

‘And the complainant?’

‘Here, Sir,’ answered a smartly dressed gentleman who had been sitting on the end of the front row of spectators.

‘Now, Miss West,’ said Sir John deeply, ‘your pockets, if you please.’

These particular articles of clothing were carried underneath the skirt and Miss West drew them out with a glimpse of garter and bare thigh which she allowed to remain on display for a few seconds before lowering her dress once more. A terrific whistle rose from the gallery and Sir John banged his gavel.

‘Silence!’ he roared, but the beau monde were in no mood to be hushed and continued to murmur softly one to the other.

Aware that she now had the full attention of everyone present, Miss West slowly fished in her pocket and drew out a guinea, some silver and, finally, a white carnelian stone.

‘That’s mine,’ called Mr Wilson, the complainant.

Miss West flounced her skirt prettily and exclaimed, ‘Why no, Sir. I think you must be mistaken. That stone has been in my possession for the last three months.’

Mr Wilson went very red and turned to the magistrate. ‘I swear to you, Sir John, that that is my carnelian.’

Fielding’s black ribbon, concealing the useless eyes that were beneath it, turned in Wilson’s direction. ‘You have a witness here who can swear to that?’

‘No, Sir, but I can bring along such a person tomorrow. The lapidary who cut it and would know it anywhere.’

‘That should prove excellent.’ The blind gaze turned towards the saucy Miss West who was blowing kisses to the gallery. ‘You must spend a night in the cells, Miss West. The rest of your case will continue tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh I don’t mind at all, Sir John,’ she chirruped. ‘They’re nice and clean compared with some others I could mention. Besides, you’re treated like a human being there.’

‘Thank you for the kind words,’ answered the magistrate, a definite smile on his humorous mouth. ‘Take her below, Smallwood.’

And with a bob of her perky hat Miss West disappeared from their view.

There was one more case to listen to. A low personage in the gallery at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, had actually stood up and made water on the crowd below. Orange peel and rotten fruit theatregoers were used to, but this was going too far. He was knocked to the ground by two burly patrons and handed into the custody of Runner Raven, who happened to be on duty in the theatre that night. His case was now coming up before the Blind Beak, who dealt with him sharply.

‘What you did was disgusting and I can only conclude that you were drunk at the time. But that is no excuse. I sentence you to hard labour in Newgate. Your term to last one year. And you are to serve the full twelve month of it. Now get him out of my presence.’

He banged his gavel hard and nodded at Joe who stood up and said, ‘The court rises.’

There was the usual pandemonium as the beau monde tried to get out but Sir John and his assistants had already left by a door leading them to the stairs that led to the private apartments, while the shackled prisoners behind were taken — with many moans and groans — to the cells below.

John thought that the pretty Miss West was not going to have such a comfortable night of it as she had envisaged.

As he climbed the winding staircase he thought that he would be a rich man if he had been awarded a guinea for every time he had clambered up them, and he also thought of the powerful person he was to meet at the top. For Sir John Fielding, whom he had known for so many years and in so many different circumstances, was a force to strike fear into the breast of even the most hardened criminal. From outside the door to the salon on the first floor he could hear the sound of laughter and his heart lifted in his chest. Knocking politely, he heard the magistrate’s voice call out, ‘Come in,’ and, doing so, John entered a den of comfort.

It was a bitter February with a cheerless world outside, but within the Blind Beak’s living room there was a scene of great jolliness. Joe Jago, wig removed so that his bright red curls shone in the firelight, was helping Sir John to remove his shoes and put on a pair of comfortable old slippers. They were laughing together like the great friends they were. Joe, seeing a movement in the doorway, looked round and winked and John, signalling with his hands, asked him not to tell the Blind Beak that he was there. Thus he had a moment or two to quietly watch the legendary magistrate.

Though the great man looked older he was in fact still only forty-seven years of age. For once he had removed the black ribbon hiding his eyes which, half-open as they were, showed themselves as being of a greenish-blue. His wig, however, of long flowing white curls was still on his head, surrounding his handsome features and giving him a gentle look, very different from his demeanour in court where villains quailed before him.

Bodily, Sir John was starting to put on a little weight. Probably, John thought, because of sitting all day in the courtroom and getting little exercise. But for all that he still presented a fine figure, standing well over six feet and with impressive shoulders and a strong chest. Even though he knew the magistrate could not see him John bowed, a habit of his the origins of which were lost in the mists of time.

‘Good evening, Sir John,’ he said.

The magistrate jumped a little and it took him a second or so to place the voice. Then he said, ‘Mr Rawlings, what a wonderful surprise. What brings you here on this bleak February afternoon?’

‘Sir, I wanted to share with you my triumph. I have finally succeeded in carbonating water.’

Joe Jago, having finished putting on the Blind Beak’s slippers, rose to his full height and seized John’s hand which he pumped up and down with great vigour. ‘Oh well done, Sir. Well done. I know you have been working on this project for some years.’

‘It seems like all my life. But, Joe, I’ve done it! I’ve put joie de vivre into water. Look.’ And John produced from his greatcoat pocket a bottle and held it up to the light of the candles which were just being lit by an unobtrusive manservant.

‘By Jove, Sir. It sparkles like diamonds.’

‘You’re right, Joe. That’s a true description.’

And putting his arms round the clerk, the Apothecary danced a small jig of triumph. The Blind Beak meanwhile had taken the bottle from Jago’s hand and was feeling it carefully with his long and finely shaped fingers.

‘These are one of the few moments when I wish that I could see,’ he said, and sounded so sad that John bounded to his side.

‘But you shall be the first to taste it, Sir.’

‘Will I? Do you promise me that?’

‘Only I have done so before you, I swear.’

‘Then fetch three glasses, Miller, and we’ll drink to Mr Rawlings’s famous brew.’

‘Very good, Sir,’ and the manservant left the room.

Because the downstairs floor of the Bow Street house was entirely taken up with the Public Office — the courtroom being built in the grounds of the house next door — the layout of the premises was somewhat unusual. Sir John’s parlour was on the first floor — and very comfortable he had made it too — with the kitchen quarters on the same level. The family rooms and living areas were on the floor above, the bedrooms above these. And way at the top of the house were the rooms where the servants slept. Small wonder, then, that Number Four, Bow Street towered above its neighbours.

The manservant returned with the glasses and John poured a measure into each. Handing the first to the Blind Beak, he and Jago stood respectfully awaiting his opinion. The magistrate raised the glass to his lips, which he then smacked together with appreciation.