Bruce Alexander - Blind Justice

“Ho! French, is it?”

“And I can set type.”

That gave him pause. “There we may be on to something. Of course, your father, the unfortunate printer, would have taught you, would he not?”

“He did, sir.”

“Well, Jeremy, in all truth, I pride myself that I need no special help from anyone-man or boy-to get me through my daily round. In short, I must decline the generous offer of your personal service-though not, I confess, without some hesitation. No, I sincerely believe work as apprentice to a printer would fit your talents and background better.”

I felt it only right to inform Sir John that even as I had my unfortunate meeting with Bledsoe, I was seeking a print shop in order to inquire after employment. “My father told me I was as fast with a stick as some journeymen. He … he taught me well.”

Sir John reached out toward me and, groping slightly, found my arm, to which he gave a gentle touch. “I’ve no doubt of it, boy.” Then, abruptly, he was all business: “There is a man I know. He is less than a friend and more than an acquaintance. But he has great influence in the printing trade. A word from him would establish you with any one of several printers. I dislike asking a favor of him, but pride must be put aside on such occasions. So, Jeremy Proctor, there will be time enough for such matters on the morrow. It will be Tuesday, and Mr. Saunders Welch sits in his court. The chief magistrate of the Bow Street Court has an entire day to himself, part of which he shall devote to your cause. You have his word on that. In the meantime I have a spare bed in my garret, and you will be most welcome as my guest.”

Thus it was settled. Sir John summoned Benjamin Bailey and sent me off for a tour in his care. I found, when we two emerged in the street, that the day had all but passed. Nevertheless I looked with interest at all around me and gave particular attention to Covent Garden as we passed it on our way. I had no notion to find such country greenery displayed here in this great city. And I asked Mr. Bailey if there were many such places about.

“None but this,” said he, “and a good thing, too.”

“Why is that, sir?” I asked.

“Well, m’lad, the truth of it is this. Full many a blackguard can hide himself among the stalls and stands come nightfall. And the lanes what lead into the square are many so narrow that it makes this a most difficult precinct to maintain.”

“Maintain?”

“Patrol. Keep clear of the lower element. And the fact that there’s gentlefolk lives here and the court so near, well, it’s sometimes an embarrassment is what it is.”

I had no doubt of Mr. Bailey’s ability to handle what he called the lower element. Obviously a man of intelligence, he was most notable, however, for his size and strength. He stood well over six feet and must have weighed twelve stone or better, and in his best days (which were then not long past), he could have given the great Daniel Mendoza himself a considerable tussle. Yet with me he was then, as ever afterward, extremely gentle.

As night fell, the flow of people in the streets seemed much diminished. I noted that some passersby gave us a wide berth, though others who knew Bailey by sight and name were quick to give him a cheerful greeting. They seemed to take heart in his presence-as, I confess, I did myself.

“Is his house nearby?” I asked after we had covered some distance.

“Whose house would that be, m’lad?” Mr. Bailey seemed preoccupied with all on the street about him. He glanced watchfully to the right and left as we moved on.

“I meant Sir John’s.”

“Oh, well, yes. Sir John. He lives back where we started from, above the court. I thought to give you some notion of the surroundings. Seen enough, have you?”

We circled back to Bow Street, I marveling at the vast structures fixing the limits of the Garden, wondering what they housed. “Has he always lived here? Sir John, I mean.”

I caught Mr. Bailey’s quick smile down at me. “Well, now,” he said, “that I can’t rightly say. Perhaps previous on the Strand for a time. Here in the city, before he married, he lived with his brother, who was the previous magistrate of the Bow Street Court until he took ill and died. It was they who put together the Runners.”

“The Runners?”

“Aye, the Bow Street Runners, constables, as fine a band of thief-takers as ever sent a ruffian to heel. We rule the streets of London, m’lad. Or rather, Sir John rules them through us. It’s our pride we’ve made them safe to walk after dark-most of them, anyway.”

Mr. Bailey stopped beneath a street lamp and grinned down at me. “1 can see we wasn’t well met, we two. Allow me to introduce meself to you proper. Master… Master Proctor, is it?”

I nodded, somewhat abashed.

“Then I present meself to you. Master Proctor. I am Benjamin Bailey and am no less than captain of the Bow Street Runners, and I am at your service, sirT With that, he snapped a smart salute that bespoke his military background. I hen he ended his performance with a great, grand wink.

I was much delighted-so much indeed, that I attempted to return his salute in my own unpracticed way. But there and then Mr. Bailey set about to correct it, raising my elbow, flattening my hand, until he was satisfied. “There,” said he, “we’ll make a Runner of ye yet.”

Wishing to believe it might be so, my heart leapt. “How old must I be?”

He perceived the eagerness in my eyes, for he immediately set about to put me to rights. “Oh, well, a bit older, I fear, and a bit bigger. But ye’ll be there quick enough. Take it from Benjamin Bailey.”

My arm drooped down as did my spirits. But Mr. Bailey would have none of that. He clapped me firmly on the shoulder and set us walking again. “Ah, young Master Proctor, I was young as you meself once. And I well remember that like yourself I couldn’t wait to get on with things. Now I know I was wrong.”

“Wrong? How so, Mr. Bailey?”

“I could have waited.”

We were well back on Bow Street. We walked along in silence for a short space until Mr. Bailey offered, “I hear tell he was in the Navy for a time.”

My mind was elsewhere. “Who is that?”

“Why, Sir John, m’lad. It was him we was speaking of, was it not?” He winked down at me, but then he continued in a more serious manner: “It was there he lost his sight. There are many stories told of it, but I know not the true one.”

He led me back through Number 4 Bow Street. I noted upon our reentry a gathering of men down the hall, some as stout and imposing as Mr. Bailey himself. They spoke together in low tones with an air of preparation. Mr. Bailey led the way up two flights of back stairs. “Does Sir John’s wife await him?” I asked.

“Lady Fielding is ill. You’ll not see much of her,” said Mr. Bailey rather strangely. “But there is Mrs. Gredge. You’ll see a good deal of her-more than you wish, I vow.”

I knew not what to expect from this as we presented ourselves at the door at the head of the stairs. Mr. Bailey knocked stoutly upon it. A moment passed, and of a sudden there was a sound of screeching inside of such volume and duration that I wondered that there might be a pet corbie inside. But the noise grew louder and was at last heard in words and phrases of alarm from a spot just beyond the door: “Who is there? Who, I say? I’ll not open this door to a stranger! Make yourself known or wait for morning!”

” ‘Tis I, Benjamin Bailey,” he shouted loudly, “and I have a young charge for you sent by Sir John.”

A stout lock was thrown, and the door came open slowly no more than a foot. A grizzled female head appeared, regarding first Mr. Bailey and then myself in a most skeptical manner. Then to him: “Oh, it’s you, is it? The night watchman.” Truly she did screech. Her voice, even as I recall it today, was something between a corbie’s and a parrot’s. Good woman that she was in many ways, her style of speech and desire to command would have put off the best of men, of whom I would certainly number my companion there on the doorstep.