Bruce Alexander - An Experiment in Treason

“When was this?” I asked, becoming more excited by the moment.

“Very early indeed. I was still asleep. It must’ve been half-past five, or anyways earlier than six, but he woke me with all his banging and hollering. ‘Course he would.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Well, he was so big, and not just tall, either. He had legs like tree stumps, fists as big as your head.”

Only one man in London would answer such a description.

“Did he ask to see the rooms?”

“No, when he heard I’d cleaned it up, he wasn’t interested. He just asked more of the same kind of questions you did — when did he go? Where was he headed?”

“And then?”

“Nothing at all. He just left is all, and I went back to bed.”

“Could I see the rooms?”

At that, he took a step back and squinted as he looked me up and down. “Hmmm,” said he. “You sure you’re here from the Bow Street Court? What kind of work you do there? You look too young to be a Runner.”

“I’m Sir John’s clerk.” Which was true enough, if only temporarily.

“Well, you look like you could handle that.”

He threw wide the door and stepped aside, inviting me in.

“If you’ll just wait, I’ll get the keys,” said he. He stepped out of sight for a moment and returned with a ring of big brass keys, each one near the size of a carrot. He led me up the stairs to the apartment just above his own. There he inserted one of the keys, which looked like all the rest, turned it in the keyhole, and swung open the door. He nodded me into the room. It was fairly large, but there was sufficient furniture inside to give it a somewhat cluttered appearance: there was a sofa with a long table before it, padded chairs, and so on. Actually, it looked to be quite a comfortable room, and I surprised myself by picturing Clarissa and me taking our ease there. This and the smaller bedroom would seem to be just the right size for us two.

My eyes fell upon a small writing desk which folded compactly into a single unit. It was, indeed, folded up at that moment. I walked to it and swung back the lid, which extended the writing space of the desk by a good foot or more.

“You interested in buying any of these pieces?” the householder asked. “They’re all for sale, except that little desk you’re lookin’ at. Mr. Lee, he made me promise to ship that to him within the week.”

“To what address?” I asked.

“Someplace in Boston. I’ve got it writ down in my place.”

“Then it must be there that he’s headed.”

“Hmmm. Must be. But he did say something about Virginia. Is that near Boston?”

“No.”

“Can’t help you then.”

The writing desk had a fair number of little drawers and compartments secluded in and around the writing space. I began systematically to open them and search through them, finding oddments of paper in some, and in others nothing at all.

“Say,” said the householder, “I don’t know as I ought to let you do that. I’m sending that on to Mr. Lee. Some of those bits of paper might be important to him.”

“If they were, he wouldn’t have left them.”

“Well,” said he, rubbing the stubble on one cheek, “I s’pose not.”

“I’ll just go through them, and see if there’s anything of importance. Then you can have them all.”

“Is Mr. Lee in some kind of trouble?”

“He may be.”

“Is that truly so? Why, I’m surprised to hear it — always paid right on time, he did — except once when he’d been out of town, and he …” As the householder rambled on, beginning an anecdote which proved what a fine fellow Arthur Lee was, I shuffled through the bits of paper in my hand until I came upon one which interested me — the only one, as I recall. It bore the name of a ship — “the New Covenant — Wharf 17, Wapping,” and then the date and time of departure. It was last Thursday, the day before Benjamin Franklin’s announcement. I palmed it and handed over the rest.

Thus I made another trip to Wapping and sought out my acquaintance Ebenezer Tarkenton, wharfmaster, who confirmed what was written upon the slip of paper. I asked him if he had in his office the passenger list for the New Covenant , and so he took me there and sought it out.

“Who you looking for, lad?”

“Does the name Arthur Lee appear on the list?”

“Oh, it does indeed — right at the bottom, last passenger aboard. I remember him well.”

“Oh? How is that, sir?”

“He was so eager to get aboard, he tried to bribe me to get a cabin. I told him there was plenty of cabins, for the very good reason that people don’t like to travel across the ocean in the winter season. I wished him well and added his name to the list.”

“And the ship sailed on time?”

“Just as you have it there.”

I hastened then to return to Bow Street. Too much of the day had been taken up by Mr. Arthur Lee. That he had escaped was perhaps no great matter, though Sir John might well have wrung a confession from him. Of far greater interest, and ultimately of greater importance was the fact that George Burkett had preceded me in inquiring after him. How had he learned so much in so short a time? What more could he tell us? Pondering such questions, I returned, just in time to perform my duties as Mr. Marsden’s substitute.

Two days passed. On the first of them we were paid a visit by Mr. William Slade, the new proprietor of Black Jack Bilbo’s gaming club. As it happened, he came by in the afternoon not long after Sir John had held the day’s court session. Nevertheless, Mr. Fuller, the jailer, was away, conveying two prisoners to the Fleet Gaol. Thus I was alone, at Mr. Marsden’s desk, completing the last bit of paper-work on the day’s cases for our files, when a knock came upon the door. Thinking it best, I fetched the cosh out of the desk drawer and tucked it into my pocket. There ‘was no telling who might seek admission from the street here in Covent Garden. We had had experiences in the past, which I need not relate here, that would caution any gatekeeper to beware.

I walked to the door, and as I did, the knock sounded a second time. It was neither measured nor hurried, but rather commanding and direct. The man who knocked in just such a way was used to being admitted at once. Few doors were closed to him. “Who is there?” I asked.

“William Slade,” came the answer. I knew the name. That was good enough for me.

I threw open the door and recognized the man before me most immediately. He, too, seemed to recognize me.

“We have met before, have we not?”

“So we have,” said I, “on two occasions.”

“Ah yes, and the last was upon the day when I took possession of my new house.” He paused, hesitating there at the door, as if coming to a decision. Then did he continue: “I should like to call upon Sir John Fielding — that is, if he be available.”

I invited him inside and asked him to wait whilst I announced him to Sir John. Walking briskly, I traveled down the long hall to Sir John’s chambers and informed him of William Slade’s request for an interview.

“The fellow who bought Black Jack’s gaming club? He’s here now? Well, bring him to me by all means.”

Returning to the hall, I waved Mr. Slade forward, then went to meet him. Except for his clothing, which was beautifully tailored and richly decorated, he was in no wise an impressive figure. He was short and squat in shape, and the appearance of his face was marred by the wealth of pockmarks upon his cheeks. He would not, in any case, win favorable attention from any, were it not for his possessions and obvious wealth; even his somewhat sardonic manner could be counted against him.

“Everything then is in order?” he asked as we marched forward together.