Bruce Alexander - Blind Justice

Mr. Donnelly continued to make his morning visits and did all he could to ease Lady Fielding’s last days. It was quite evident she could not last longer. And so at some point the house took on the hushed air of a deathwatch. Mrs. Gredge moved exceeding quiet through the place and saved her squawking and screeching for a later day. I did all the work I was bidden to do and more, wishing only to keep busy. And Sir John simply waited.

The nights seemed most especially long. Unable to sleep, I sat up with him in the kitchen on an evening a week past that one described in the last chapter. As we sipped dishes of tea from a pot brewed for us by Mrs. Gredge, we discussed one thing and another, and at last Sir John said to me: “You must have questions regarding the Lord Goodhope matter.”

“I do, yes sir.”

“Now is a good time to ask them, Jeremy.”

I had so many. Where was I to begin? But so then, simply, “When did you first suspect that the corpus in the library was not that of Lord Goodhope?”

“Ah yes, that. Well, my first suspicion was only a suspicion, for it was given to me only as such. That poor child Meg, may the good Lord protect her, began to talk to me in the garden, and she told me a number of interesting things. First and foremost at the time was that she had a feeling that the body she and the other girl had washed was not that of her master. There was a darkness to the face and hands of the kind caused by repeated exposure to the sun and a certain anatomical difference about which she was not specific. I did not press her on the point.

“Then, further, she told me a little of Lord Goodhope’s impromptus and his love of theatricals. It seemed that her master fancied himself an actor and possessed a talent for mimicry. One of his favorite turns, it seemed, was to parody his half-brother, Mr. Clairmont-his voice, his odd walk; those who knew the man said he had him down to the life. This meant little to me at the time, for if you will recall, I had only that day heard of the half-brother’s existence. But when I talked with him later, you yourself remarked upon his glistening skin.

“He was wearing theatrical makeup, applied, no doubt, by his paramour Lucy Kilbourne. She may have convinced him that this charade would be possible with her aid in the arts of the stage. Yet he immediately grew overconfident. The putty applied to his nose and the paint which darkened his skin were sufficient to deceive a few seamen after dark on the Island Princess. And tried upon Mr. Bilbo in candlelight later that night at the gaming club, they worked again. Yet he grew so bold that he tried his disguise in daylight the next day. And do you recall Mr. Bilbo’s comment to us?”

I did remember then: “He said Mr. Clairmont was wearing paint, like a woman.”

“Exactly. I put this together with your earlier remark on the shine of his skin and drew a tentative conclusion. Had he been given permission on the morning of his visit to Mr. Bilbo to pay his respects to Lady Goodhope, she would surely have recognized him, myopic though she be. It was for this reason that on the night all were assembled in the library, I made it as warm and light in there as was possible. I thought if the nose be wax, I might melt it, or the paint might be sweated off him. David Garrick has since informed me that the stuff has more sticking power than I had supposed.”

“But oh, how he did shine in the lights of that room!” said L “And he seemed much worried by his sweating. I recall he dabbed carefully at his face with his kerchief, then examined it afterward.”

“I was sure enough that Mr. Clairmont was Lord Goodhope in disguise that I arranged that little mishap with young Meg. She was only too happy to play her part in it. It was perhaps a bit crude to play such a prank, but it worked surpassing well.”

“And then Dick Dillon’s statement made it all most certain.”

“Yes, Dillon-an unfortunate fellow altogether. I doubt I could have saved him from the gallows after he defended himself so well against that attack upon his life-for that was what it was, of course, that supposed attempt to escape in the middle of the night. Had he taken my offer when it was first made, he would have had a far better chance. I told him as much in my chambers. Yet he was so angered at Lord Goodhope-for he knew who had bribed the guard to make the attack-that he would make his statement against him in spite of all. It is perhaps best that Dillon died as he did. I have made a move to have that warder discharged-Wilson, Larkin, whatever his name. I doubt much will come of it, however. What goes on in Newgate is closed to us outside.”

“And so Lord Goodhope awaits his trial before the House of Lords. Is that a usual thing?”

“Very rare, none such in my memory.”

Quite early the morning after our talk. Lady Fielding died. According to Mrs. Gredge, who was present with Sir John, she passed most quietly: “One moment she was with us. There was a hitch in her breathing, like, then the rattle, and she was gone. She said nothing. She was in that state between waking and sleeping. It was a blessing so, after these many months.”

Mr. Donnelly came shortly after the event on his regular call, viewed the remains, and made official what was manifest. Sir John then went to his study where he remained the better part of the morning. He called me to him once as he sat in that darkened room, and in a bleak voice asked me to fetch Mr. Marsden so that he might make arrangements for the funeral. “I cannot,” said he. “I am not able. He will have errands for you to run, messages to deliver. I trust the two of you will act in my stead.”

And thus it was a busy day for me, and I welcomed it so. Surprising one and all, Sir John convened his court that day and sat through a brief session. Though I was not present, I afterward heard it discussed that he exceeded himself for leniency. He bound none for trial, sent none to Newgate, and settled disputes so evenly that he found no arguments from the parties thereto. Word of his bereavement had traveled swiftly.

The funeral service for Lady Fielding was held at St. Paul’s, just across the way. I remember little of it, and what was said by the priest. Yet I do remember the great crowd of people that was there. Sitting beside Mrs. Gredge in the pews at the front of the church- careful to go up as she went up, down as she went down, and sit only when she did-I had not noticed the number until I happened to turn halfway through the service. I seemed to me then that all of Covent Garden was there. At the conclusion, the casket was taken up by six of the Bow Street Runners, done into their best, and we filed along at the rear: Sir John behind the casket and I beside him, lest he make a false step, as he had asked; and Mrs. Gredge following us. I recognized a number from court along the way-Moll Caul-field, the street vendor, and Peg Button, whom he had charged to sin no more. And there were others whom I had not, for one reason or another, expected to see: Black Jack Bilbo, the former pirate; Meg from the Good hope residence (this was truly my last glimpse of her) and at her side, Mr. Donnelly; Mrs. Deemey, the dressmaker; and Katherine Durham, who had so kindly assisted me in buying meat out in the Garden. But there were scores more-well over a hundred, I should say; perhaps nearer to twice that number.

At graveside, however, there were only a few. Besides we three from the house, there were the pallbearers, of course, under Mr. Bailey’s command, Mr. Marsden, and the priest. Lady Fielding’s people lived so distant in Hull that none of them, of course, were present; perhaps they had only just got word of her death.

As the casket was lowered, and I gazed down into that deep cleft and heard the words “hope of resurrection” from the priest, I played the boy again and wept with Mrs. Gredge. I wept perhaps not so much for Lady Fielding, whom I could not have claimed to know well, as for my mother and father and little brother; for the life I had lost and the uncertainty of the one that lay ahead. Sir John had no tears. I believe he lost the power to shed them with his blindness. He stood simply solemn and somber, his face a mask of dignity under that black ribbon mask which covered his eyes.