Bruce Alexander - Blind Justice

“Is it true that he went to you to recover the blasphemous papers His Majesty’s Government had seized?”

“Why, yes,” said Sir John, “he-”

“He had the gall, had he? Why, if you were to ask me, I …”

Et cetera.

They went from Wilkes to the French and on to Boswell’s book on Corsica, which he advertised shamelessly to the magistrate; they spent over an hour on the voyage. I was by this time quite famished. Sir John must have perceived this, for he managed to silence Boswell long enough to order a steak and kidney pie for me and a joint of beef for himself. By that time the place was quite packed, but there was no sign of Dr. Johnson.

Sir John, in fact, remarked on that to Boswell, mentioning only that he had expected to encounter the lexicographer. Was he expected?

“Aye, indeed he was and is expected,” said Boswell. “He’ll not be long.”

At last our dinner arrived. And shortly behind it, to my great surprise, came none other than Benjamin Bailey. I was barely three bites into my pie when his tall figure filled the doorway of the Chop Room. He ducked through and proceeded direcdy to our table.

“Mr. Bailey,” I exclaimed, “why-”

He touched me on the shoulder, perhaps with the intention of silencing me: In any case it had that effect. He then leaned over and spoke at some length in Sir John’s ear. I watched the magistrate’s expression change from one of shock to stern resolution. At the end of the whispered speech, he nodded and rose.

“Forgive me, Mr. Boswell, but we must take leave of a sudden.”

“What is it, Sir John?” Boswell’s interest had been whetted. “Riot? Wilkes?”

“Nothing so grave. This errand is all in a night’s work for a poor magistrate.”

With that we left, Mr. Bailey leading the way and Sir John close behind. I mumbled my goodbye to Boswell, who had given me no notice whatever, then grabbed up a few slices of bread from the table and ran to catch up with the others. I found them at the door. Sir John was just pushing past a stout, red-faced man with a large nose who greeted him by name and made attempt to open conversation with him.

“No time now. Sorry,” blurted Sir John. “Something I wish to discuss with you later, though.”

As we hurried into Fleet Street, I asked the identity of the man at the door.

“Oh, that one,” said he. “That was Johnson.”

“I’ve a hackney carriage waiting,” Mr. Bailey called from ahead.

Waiting and open. He held the door at an attitude of attention. All that was lacking was the salute. As I, too, stepped up and in, I turned curiously and asked, “What is it, Mr. Bailey? What’s happened?”

“Never you mind, lad. In with you now.”

With a word to the driver, Bailey himself jumped inside, and we were under way.

“I think we may as well tell Jeremy since he must accompany us,” said Sir John. And then to me: “There has been a shooting at Lord Goodhope’s residence. He himself is apparently the victim.”

We alighted from the carriage: I first, then Mr. Bailey, and Sir John last of all. Although no word had passed between them, I soon enough learned that the house at which we had stopped was situated on St. James Street, inside the precincts of Westminster, which was then the jurisdiction of Sir John.

It was indeed a grand house from the last century and can be judged so today, for still it stands on that street, though now dwarfed by others even grander. Lately, while investigating the details of this matter to write its account, I ascertained what was then common knowledge: to wit, that although the Goodhope family had great holdings and a manor house in Lancashire, Lord Goodhope was known to spend most of his time in London, sometimes in the company of Lady Goodhope, though more often without it.

For all our haste in getting to the place. Sir John showed no immediate hurry in proceeding to the door. As Mr. Bailey took a moment to instruct the carriage driver to wait, the magistrate simply stood on the walk before the house, his head tilted slightly upwards. As I observed this, it occurred to me that were it not for his affliction, I should have thought him to be staring at the Goodhope residence by the dim light of the street lamp.

“Mr. Bailey!” he called out.

The thief-taker hastened to his side. “At your service, Sir John,” said he.

“Would you describe for me this house we are about to enter?”

“Well, it’s a big ‘un. ‘S’ truth, it is.”

”How big, man?”

“Three floors up,” said Bailey. “That’s counting the ground floor as one of the three. But wide, sir, wide.”

Rather than ask how wide. Sir John c ailed me to witness: “Perhaps you can contribute something to this, Jeremy.”

“I’ll try, sir.” And I did so, noting its brick construction, and the fact that its upper floors were Hve windows across, with the space of a yard between each, and a yard to each corner. The place of a window in the center of the ground floor was taken by a large double doorway to which three steps led.

“Very good,” said Sir John. “And which of the windows is lit?”

“None, sir, that I can see. All the windows seem to be shuttered.”

“Ah, well! They’re keeping old customs then.” With that, he plunged toward the house, his walking stick ahead of him slightly, seeking contact with the lowest step. “Mr. Bailey, give that double door a sound rap, and let them know we have arrived.”

It was oak-upon-oak as Bailey beat thrice upon the door with his club. As we waited for admittance, he gave me a wink and a smile, as if to assure me that he bore no grudge that I had bettered his performance in description. He was a small man in neither size nor spirit.

In less than a minute, the door opened a crack, and the face of a man was partially revealed.

“John Fielding has come,” announced the magistrate, “to inquire into the calamity that has befallen this house.”

Both doors were thrown wide, and we entered. The black-clad butler, dressed as a gentleman to my eyes, showed us immediately into a sitting room just off the spacious hall. There Lady Goodhope awaited us. She rose and walked directly to Sir John. Although the light from the single lit candle within the room was quite dim, I saw that she was well, though discreetly, dressed in the style of the day, a rather thin woman w ith a countenance not so much of great beauty, but rather one that displayed a certain purity. I also noted that her eyes were dry.

“It was very kind of you to come. Sir John, and so promptly. I trust my call did not greatly interrupt you.”

“Nothing that cannot keep.” He groped forward with his hand, found hers, squeezed it sympathetically, and brought it to his lips. “I am deeply shocked at what I’ve heard. I offer my condolences.”

Lady Goodhope had given neither Mr. Bailey nor I so much as a glance. She did not inquire into our presence but stared at Sir John, waiting.

Having waited a space himself, Sir John resumed: “We must view the remains, of course. Mr. Bailey here will assist me in that, due to my obvious deficiency. And, if it is not too much to ask. Lady Goodhope, I should also like you to give me a statement as to how you became aware of the deed. That, however, can be put off until such time in the future as you may feel more capable.”

“I am quite capable, thank you.”

“Then you wish to speak?”

“Yes,” said she bluntly. “Let’s be done with it.”

Benjamin Bailey fetched a chair for Sir John, and after Lady Goodhope had taken her seat again, settled him down into it. They were not five feet apart, each facing the other.