Bruce Alexander - Blind Justice

“Mr. Alfred Humber of Lloyd’s was called as the most eminent of those who witnessed the act,” said Sir John. “He gave a clear and unassailable account of it. Perhaps Lord Goodhope assumes that because the footman was a servant and had taken part in the plot, his murder will be forgiven.”

“If all were known,” said Dr. Johnson, “some of his peers may have been comparably guilty. Perhaps that was his stratagem in pleading his case before the House of Lords.”

“Yet from their temper,” said Sir John, “if that is his assumption, it is a dangerous one. They seem far more likely to view him as their scapegoat.”

“He taking their sins with him to the scaffold-an interesting notion.”

“But, Dr. Johnson,” said Sir John, “1 have a favor to ask of you …”

Then followed what I had feared, for Sir John began to eulogize me not only as a brave lad, but also well educated and well spoken. I quite blushed with embarrassment at his praise. He explained that I had a trade taught me by my father, now deceased. “That trade is printing,” said he. “He can set type and is capable in all the attendant matters. Since he has made this beginning, I should like to see him continue. You know most, if not all, the booksellers, publishers, and printers of this city. I thought perhaps a word from you might see him on his way with one of them.”

“If he is all that you say-and I am sure that he is, sir-no doubt a place can be found for him. And I should be happy to assist in it. Give me but a few days to ask about, and I shall arrange an appointment with the most suitable.” Then, leaning toward me, he looked at me as close as his scrofulous eyes would allow. “Will you make a good apprentice, young man?”

“I shall try, sir,” said I, and somehow managed a smile.

That night, when we had returned to the living quarters above Number 4 Bow Street, I said my good night to Sir John and prepared to make my way to my attic room. It came to me, as I took up the candle to light my way, that there might not be many more such journeys for me to the top of the stairs. Yet determined not to dwell on this unhappy matter, I put my mind to other things and my foot to the first step. It was then I was called back by Sir John.

“Stay, Jeremy,” said he. “I think we should have a word together.”

I returned to the kitchen, and with me came the candle, which brought Ught to the dark wherein he stood.

“I sense you are disappointed,Sir?” said I, not wishing to own up to feelings that at that moment I had most keen.

“Or perhaps it is that in my view you have a right to feel so,” he continued. “Think not for a moment that I do not value your qualities, nor appreciate how well they were put to use in this Goodhope matter.”

“Then why …” I began strongly yet did not conclude, for I had sworn to myself to give him no reason to think I doubted his wisdom in this or any other matter.

He waited, then satisfied that I would say no more, he addressed me thus: “Yes, why. That is a reasonable question.” He paused, plainly looking for the precise words, before continuing. “In my vanity, Jeremy, it would be very easy to ask you to stay in this house, to run my errands, to fetch and carry for me. You would like that, I think. But I fear it would be wrong.”

“Wrong!” said I, momentarily forgetting my resolve.

He held up his hand. “For two reasons, Jeremy. First of all, there is yourself. Consider your situation. You are young, a bit more than a boy yet not quite a young man, and you are an orphan. Usually one in your situation would have little reason to hope for his future, particularly here in London. But you are remarkably keen witted and well educated for one of your years. More to the point, you have been trained in a useful and important trade. Though you will begin as an apprentice, your natural talents and earlier training will far exceed that of your fellows. You will shine. At this moment in your life, you will need such recognition. Your employer, whoever he may be, will move you along swiftly. You will be a journeyman well before your majority, and a master in no time after that. You will have a fine future. Why, no doubt you will be welcomed as a partner or have started your own enterprise while your old friend is still tied to the bench here at Bow Street, listening to the woeful tales of humanity as they pass before him.”

He ended with a hopeful smile and a nod. He seemed earnest in his wish to convince me.

“You refer to yourself here at Bow Street?” I had never before considered the possibility that he might wish to move onward. He was so complete in what he did.

“I do, yes.”

“You said there was a second reason, sir?”

He sighed deeply. “Yes, Jeremy,” said he, “and that second reason is my own condition. I fear that owing to my good wife’s death, and the long dying that preceded it, I am in no state to give you what you want and deserve from me. I can scarce give myself what I require.”

He stood silent for a moment, lost in his thoughts, as I was in mine. Finally: “You have been a good lad, Jeremy. I will continue to seek after your welfare, never fear. But it is time for you to make your own way in the world.”

Emotion struggled with reason in my breast, but at last reason won. Sir John had spoken true.

“I understand, sir. I accept your judgment in this,” said I, then added, “… gratefully. None but you was ever so generous on my behalf.”

He extended his hand to me. “Then let us be friends.”

“For all eternity,” said I, grasping his hand firmly.

The verdict came down as guilty on both counts of murder. Lord Goodhope would be executed as was customary and binding by law for criminal members of the nobility: His head would be separated from his body by the executioner’s axe. There would be no appeal. His only hope was the clemency of the King.

This possibility was the subject of brief discussion when Mr. Gabriel Donnelly came by one morning only two days later to bid goodbye to Sir John and Mrs. Gredge, who had served him as a nurse for Lady Fielding, and to me, as well. He explained that he was moving his surgery to Lancashire, “where there are many more of my faith. Lve been told that I would prosper there.”

“And have ample opportunity to press your suit, I trust,” said Sir John, with a knowing smile. “Well, good luck to you in it and in all things, Mr. Donnelly. It was good fortune that brought us together. I’m sure you will find occasion to return to London in the future. I would not want us to be too long separated.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Donnelly, “good fortune for me, as well-but decidedly bad for Lord Goodhope. They say he languishes in Newgate, praying for the King’s pardon. He was once a favorite of the King.”

Sir John laughed a bitter laugh. “But no more,” said Sir John. “No, he’ll get no pardon. I recall telling you, Mr. Donnelly, as I told Jeremy here, that Lord Goodhope had a certain talent for mimicry, that he had oft portrayed Mr. Clairmont to the amusement of his guests.”

“I recall that, yes,” said Mr. Donnelly.

“Well, I heard from the same source that on a few occasions he had also mimicked the King, done him as a raving lunatic. Word must have got back to His Majesty, and thus was Lord Goodhope banished completely from the Royal Presence.”

There were expressions of astonishment at that from both Mr. Donnelly and myself.

“Can you imagine it?” asked Sir John. “His Royal Highness King George the Third-a madman?”

On August first of that year, when all the gentry and nobles were in such places as Bath, Paris, and Venice, Lord Richard Goodhope, fourth Earl of Tibbie, mounted the scaffold and surrendered his head to the executioner. None mourned him, least of all the King.