Bruce Alexander - An Experiment in Treason

Finally, as we two waited to board the coach, bags in hand, the magistrate turned to Mr. Perkins and asked if he were from Sussex.

“No,” the constable replied, “but you’re close. Just the next county over — in Kent.”

“I thought so. You’ve got a certain way of speaking common to people down here.”

“I grew up on a farm just outside Deal.”

“You see? I wasn’t far off at all.” He hesitated, then came out with what I judged to be the reason for his remarks. “If ever you get tired of London and want to come back south, you just let me know. I need a good constable, always do.”

Mr. Perkins chuckled at that. “You mean you’re hiring one-armed fellas like me? You must be desperate.”

“No, I reckon that if you’re good enough for Sir John Fielding, you’re good enough for me — one-armed, one-legged, or whatever.”

Again, Mr. Perkins laughed in embarrassment.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” said the magistrate, persisting. “Whatever he’s paying you in London, Mr. Perkins, I’ll match — and you’ll find your money will go a lot farther in Robertsbridge than it will in London.”

“Well, I-”

“No, don’t say a word. Just think about it, and look round you as you leave town. No place nicer than Robertsbridge.”

Having had his say, Peter Hollaby bade us farewell and sent us on our way. All the way to Tunbridge Wells, I teased Constable Perkins intermittently regarding the job offer. He simply laughed and allowed me to have my fun, yet I could tell that he took the matter more seriously than I. Why should he not? He had an affinity for the south of England, for it was from here that he had come. Oddly, he had received the offer of a job in Deal but a few months past in much the same way as he had here. And again, why should he not? He was one of the most able — in my opinion, the best — of all the Bow Street Runners, worth more than any man with two arms, it seemed to me.

Passengers boarded the coach at Tunbridge Wells, and I ended my mischief. Mr. Perkins must have thought it high time that I should have done. He dozed then all the way to London.

We arrived in Bow Street after dark and made our report to Sir John in his chambers. Sir John was sobered by the news of Ned Ferguson’s death, and he wished to hear all the details whilst they were still fresh in our minds.

“You wish to know if his arms was intact?” said the constable. Sir John sighed. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I do.” “They were cut off at the elbows, just as it was with Isaac Kidd.” Without hesitating, he added: “I want to go out and look for Burkett.”

“No,” said Sir John quite firmly. “You were out last night doing your job. You traveled all day today. You’re tired and weak, and you must sleep the night.”

“But I have a good idea of where I might find him.”

“No. If I must threaten you to make it plain, I shall do so. Even if you find him, bring him in, and lock him up in the strong room, I shall discharge you forthwith. You will no longer be a constable. And you know me well enough to tell the difference between a mere threat and a promise. What I have just offered you is more promise than threat. Do you understand me?”

Evidently he did, for he nodded and took his leave. Sir John then rose and suggested we have our dinner.

“It awaits us above,” said he. “A special treat is to be served us this evening, I am told.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“Clarissa has cooked the entire meal herself, part of her culinary education. The girl seems quite determined to learn all that she can as quickly as she can.”

“Under Molly’s strict supervision, I assume.”

“I assume so, too. Oh, I know. You’re doubtful, are you not? Yet Kate assures me they know what they’re doing.”

If I seemed doubtful, it was not without reason, for I recalled that not so long ago, before Molly had joined our household, Clarissa had attempted a meal on her own (a beef stew, as I recall) which left us all a bit queasy. Sir John himself seemed to suffer most.

“And what has she prepared for this evening?”

“Beef stew, as I understand.”

Sir John hastened to admonish me to give Clarissa a proper chance.

“A good lawyer must always keep an open mind,” said he.

As it happened, no special consideration needed to be given. Dinner was as good as any Molly had made for us that week. I realized, as Clarissa later confessed, that she had served as little more than Molly’s hands in preparing the meal. Nevertheless, I was also aware that with Clarissa’s memory and eye for detail, she would probably be able to duplicate that same stew in appearance and, most important, in taste, a month or even a year hence. There were frequent comments round the table and all of them quite flattering to Clarissa. I joined in with the rest and praised the spicing of her stew. “You’ve made good use of Annie’s paprika, ” said I, earning a frown from Molly. (I later learned that the red spice was the single original touch in Clarissa’s stew; Molly had warned against it because of its exotic origin.) But by any measure, the evening was a great success for Clarissa — and she deserved it.

She remained in the kitchen after the others had left, savoring her triumph as I washed up the pots, the pans, and the dishes. I was oddly aware of her eyes following me round the kitchen as I went about my usual duties. What did she mean by watching me so closely? I was made a bit uncomfortable by such attention. I was relieved when at last she spoke.

“What did you think of the meal?”

“Why, like all the rest I thought it excellent — wonderful, really.”

“Good,” said she with a solemn smile, “for it’s you I wish to please, more than anyone else in the world.”

I was quite taken aback by what she said. I knew not what to say. None had ever addressed me in such a way.

“Please don’t look so shocked, Jeremy,” said she. “You’ll be hearing more of such from me now.”

“Now?” I echoed.

“Yes, of course — now that you and I have an understanding. Now that I’ve no need to watch my tongue, lest you think me too flattering, too forward, lest I frighten you with such words and have you run from me. Why do you suppose I was so often tart, so frequently critical of you?”

“I don’t know; because it is your nature, I suppose.”

“Well, that’s partly true, but it was also true that I did not wish to frighten you.”

That seemed a strange thing to say. Frighten me away? George Burkett frightened me, not Clarissa Roundtree. “I don’t understand,” said I — and I truly did not.

“Oh, never mind,” said she, scowling, putting words to her sour expression. She was silent for a moment, then did she blurt out in a most ironically mundane tone, “And tell me, Jeremy, what did you do today?”

Not knowing how better to respond to that, I treated it as an honest inquiry. I shrugged. “Constable Perkins and I went down to Robertsbridge in Sussex to arrest two men and bring them back to London.”

“And did you?” She was becoming interested.

“No,” I sighed. “One of them was dead, and the other, who’d killed him, had already fled.”

“Oh, Jeremy, you do such dangerous work for Sir John. Supposing the killer had not fled. Supposing he had tried to kill you. What then?”

“Why then, Mr. Perkins would have killed him.”

“But…”

I disliked the turn that this had taken. Just as with Sir John and Mr. Donnelly, I thought it unwise to discuss the nastier aspects of keeping the peace with the women of our household. I decided that it would be wise to change the subject.

“Something interesting happened there in Robertsbridge, however,” said I.