Person or Persons Unknown (Sir John Fielding), page 21
part #4 of Sir John Fielding Series
Sir John paused and leaned back a moment as if in thought. He stayed thus for near a minute. And then said he, as if still giving consideration to the matter:
“I am especially desirous that no profit should be made from this criminal act in which you two collaborated. Tell me, Mr. Neville, what were you paid for writing the broadsheet?”
“Two guineas, sir.”
“That shall be your fine. And you, Mr. Nicholson, what did the firm profit from its sale across the city?”
“That’s difficult to say exact, sir, but it should come to about twenty-five guineas, give or take a bit.”
“Ah, there is a lesson for authors in that disparity, is there not? But that is neither here nor there. Twenty-five guineas shall be your fine, Mr. Nicholson.”
“But, Sir John, that is the firm’s money, and not my own.”
“You are a partner in the firm, are you not? Work it out with Mr. Boyer. Yet still the wrong has not been righted, and considering this dilemma, I was quite at a loss until Mr. Oliver Goldsmith stepped forward and made a most generous offer. Mr. Goldsmith, will you come now and repeat it?”
Come forward Oliver Goldsmith did, at the bouncing pace of one who was accustomed to moving through London by foot; the man had a leg, or rather two of them, and he used them to good advantage. He took his place next Ormond Neville.
“I understand, sir,” said Sir John to him, “that you have certain scruples that you wish first to make clear?”
“I do, sir, yes. In general, I am in agreement with the position voiced by Mr. Nicholson — that an author should be free to have his say, and that if he is in error, his errors will be corrected by others writing against him. That is the very nature of controversy, and controversy is the very heart of intelligent life. Nevertheless, when I read Mr. Neville’s broadsheet, I strongly objected to certain passages in it, in particular those which dealt in general with the Jews, their history, and criminal practices. I, like you, impugned his sources, and we had been in argument at table in the Goose and Gander before your constable arrived to take him away.”
“And what then do you suggest, Mr. Goldsmith?” asked Sir John.
“The only proper answer to such a broadsheet is another broadsheet pointing out — as you described them — Mr. Neville’s surmises, fabrications, and ancient calumnies — and correcting them. My offer is to write just such a broadsheet, that it may appear as soon as possible and do the fullest good.”
“Your generous offer is accepted, sir, and Mr. Nicholson, I assure you, will be pleased to publish it, terms to be settled between you.”
From Covent Garden I returned most dejected and worried. I had been sent there by the magistrate on that errand that I had so dreaded. The butchery of the murder in King Street had returned Sir John’s suspicions to the butcher, Mr. Tol-liver. In the end, when given the task of inviting Mr. Tol-liver to come by to talk a bit more about these matters, I did manage to blurt out a few words in his defense. He was, I told Sir John, “a fine man who would do naught to harm a soul. He — ” And then had Sir John cut me off sharply, saying, “It is not harm to souls we are concerned with here, Jeremy, but rather grievous attacks upon corporeal bodies. Go and find him; invite him to come to me; I wish to talk with him.”
(Sir John was seldom so short with me — indeed I rarely gave him cause. Yet in his defense, should he need one, it ought to be said that he had complained only moments before that he had never had a more exhausting day in court. He seemed, and even looked, much diminished by it.)
And so I had gone to Covent Garden to deliver the invitation to Mr. Tolliver, finding my way through the afternoon crowd, looking not far ahead, thinking perhaps too much of my own discomfort at having been given this task. Thus was I quite amazed when I arrived at his stall and found it closed.
I looked about me. Could I have mistaken its location? No, of course not. I had been to it too often, buying meat for the household. But here I was, where I had always gone, and there was no Mr. Tolliver, no meat hanging, waiting to be carved, nothing at all but a shuttered stall secured by a great, large padlock. Where could he have gone? No doubt he had closed up early that day. But why?
I stepped up to the greengrocer stall next his. The woman behind the table there was busying herself rearranging her stock of carrots, potatoes, and such. I stood, waiting for her attention, but it was slow in coming. At last she raised her eyes to me and grunted.
“I was wondering, ma’am,” said I, “if you could tell me where Mr. Tolliver has got to.”
“No idea.” She returned then to her work of shifting her stock about.
“Well, when did he leave?”
“He never come,” said she, without looking up.
“Did he leave no word as to where he was going, or where he was off to?”
“Not a word. Him and me, we have little to say one to t’other. Just ‘cause he’s the only butcher in the Garden, he thinks he’s right special. He don’t belong here, and he ought to know it. It’s the Garden for greens and Smithfield for meat, as all well know.” Then did she look up at me once again — nay, glared. “Now, if you ain’t goin’ to buy nothin’, I’ll thank you to move on and make room for those who will.”
Indignant but still baffled, I said no more but did as she advised. Indeed, I thought, were I Mr. Tolliver I should have little to say myself to such a rude sort of woman. I sought information from him who ran the next stall down from hers. Though farther removed from Mr. Tolliver’s end stall, he might well have been on better terms with the butcher. But while far more polite — he recognized me as an occasional buyer — he was no more helpful than the shrew in the place next his. So far as he knew, Mr. Tolliver had made no appearance that whole day; his stall had remained just as it was now — padlocked tight. And though they sometimes spoke in greeting or goodbye, there was seldom anything more between them, certainly nothing to explain why the butcher might have chosen this day to absent himself.
Deciding it would be useless to ask further, I set off across Covent Garden for Number 4 Bow Street. Had I known Mr. Tolliver’s dwelling place I would have gone there and looked for him. No doubt, I told myself, the man was ill; yet if he were so, it would be the first time in my memory — and he seemed right enough the night before.
Thus I fretted as I went, worried that his absence would weigh heavily against him in Sir John’s mind. Surely he could be found at home, or barring that, he would show himself in a day or two.
I found Sir John ensconced in his chamber, a bottle of beer on his desk which Mr. Marsden would have fetched for him from across the street. He bade me sit down and give my report, and that I did. He listened, giving little outward sign of his response. In truth, he seemed listless and a bit distracted, as if his mind were on other matters. And as it happened, that was so.
“Jeremy,” said he, “I fear I gave you a bad example today.”
I was a bit surprised to hear that. Though he had complained that his day in court had exhausted him, I had thought him most specially shrewd and ingenious on the bench.
“In what way, sir?”
“In my treatment of that young villain, Tribble.” He sighed. “First of all, I should not have thrashed him. Had Constable Fuller done that — or Mr. Bailey, or Perkins, or any of them — they would have received a stern reproof from me. But, dear God, did you hear what he said? ‘She was my wife and my whore’ — as if that gave him the right to do whatever he liked with her, alive or dead.”
“I heard that, yes, sir.”
“All the way back to Bow Street, I labored hard to think of some suitable charge for what he had done, and none came to me but the one I used against him. Yes, disturbing the dead is a hanging offense meant to discourage grave robbing — but it should not be. Murder should be, I suppose — though even in willfully causing the death of another there are more mitigating circumstances than the court generally allows. What is done to a body after death is not near so serious as killing. Perhaps in that depraved mind of his, he truly did have some vague intention of giving her a proper burial from the proceeds of his sales, a revolting idea but practical, I daresay. Who can reckon such matters?” A pause, a shrug, and then: “Well, a judge and jury must. They will be shocked, no doubt, and as horrified as I — and they may be all for hanging him. But he should not hang — not for that which he did. It would be unjust. Tomorrow morning, Jeremy, we shall compose a letter to the Lord Chief Justice, giving the facts of the case, but also giving some emphasis to his burial plan. I shall plead for leniency in sentencing, suggest transportation for a period of years. Perhaps they can work some of the nastiness out of him in the colonies.”
“You had already said you would do that if he helped recover the … missing organs.”
“Oh, he has already done so — gave two names and even an address. There was no end to his helpfulness. I’ll send two constables to bring them in tonight.”
“I could go to Mr. Tolliver’s tonight and offer your invitation. I believe Mr. Bailey has the location.”
“No, I’ll have one of the constables attend to it — and it will be, as I promised you, just an invitation to come in and talk — tomorrow sometime.”
I rose from my chair. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. Why not go on to Mr. Perkins? He tells me you’re quite an apt pupil, that you grow more dangerous by the day.”
I laughed in embarrassment. “Hardly that, sir.”
“But, Jeremy,” said he, “never be a bully.”
The mention of that word reminded me in a flash of my experience earlier that day in that very room.
“Oh, Sir John, there was a matter I thought I ought mention to you. When you sent me earlier to fetch that broadsheet from your desk drawer, I noticed that in the drawer you had left that bag of booty I brought from Polly Tarkin’s room. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten it was there. I have no idea how much is inside, but it seemed a goodly amount.”
“You’re right. I had forgotten. I’ll hand it over to Mr. Marsden for the strong box until we decide what’s to be done with it. And …”
“Yes, Sir John?”
“Thank you for reminding me.”
NINE
In Which Sir John Looks
Forward To All
Hallows Eve
Mr. Tolliver had quite disappeared. Constable Lang-ford returned that night from the butcher’s place of dwelling on Long Acre with this dismaying revelation as the four of us — Sir John and Lady Fielding, Annie Oakum and I — sat at table. We had just completed our evening’s meal when his footsteps sounded on the stairs and his knock came on the door. I jumped to open it, and the red-waistcoated constable asked permission to enter. Sir John bade him come ahead, and Mr. Langford doffed his hat, stepped inside, and blurted it out. And those were his very words: “… disappeared he has, sir. There is nor hide nor hair of him to be seen.”
In my surprise, I looked at Lady Fielding. Her eyes were wide, as indeed my own must have been. Surely Mr. Tolliver could not have fled as some fugitive might. I could not, I would not believe that.
The constable continued his report: “I banged on his door right hard and failed to raise him. Now of course that meant nothing; he could’ve been out to sup or wet his whistle or both. So I started through the house to get some word of him from his neighbors, and that way I happened upon his landlord, who dwells at the same address right below this Tolliver fellow. He tells me he was out last night and as he was coming in, he run into his tenant hauling a portmanteau and in a great hurry. ‘Where are you off to?’ says he to him. That’s my own affair, ain’t it?’ says Tolliver, who, says the landlord, is often inclined to be rather short. He noticed that he turned off in the direction of Covent Garden. Now, the landlord — his name is Coker, got it all down in my book — he was right puzzled, for he says all the years this Tolliver lived there, he never knew him to go off like this on a trip, and the way that portmanteau was stuffed, he meant to stay a while.
“Well, Sir John, I asked this man Coker if he had a key to Mr. Tolliver’s place, and I convinced him this was a matter of some importance to you — ‘a court matter,’ I told him — ”
“And quite right you were to do so, Mr. Langford,” said Sir John.
“He opened the place to me,” said the constable, proceeding, “and accompanied me inside, which was quite proper, as I reckon. I was quite taken with the size of it, I was. There was two large chambers — one for sittin’ and one for sleepin’, and a smaller, separate place for cookin’. The thing that struck me, sir, was that sittin’ room and — what would you call it? — the kitchen were clean and neat as a pin. Don’t often see that when a man lives by hisself. But the bedroom, now that was a different matter. The bed was made, right enough, but there was clothes thrown atop it, all helter-skelter. I looked inside the wardrobe, and in a chest at the foot of the bed, and I saw he’d quite emptied them, he had, and just grabbed up the clothes he wished to pack and left the others lie. I says to the landlord, ‘It looks like your tenant left in a great hurry.’ And he says to me, Tt does indeed.’ “
“Did you happen to notice a packet of knives about?” asked Sir John. “They would have been wrapped in… How were they wrapped, Jeremy?”
“In soft chamois,” said I, feeling quite the traitor.
“No, sir, I never seen such, but then, I didn’t do a proper search of the place because, for one, I hadn’t been told to, and for another, I’d no idea for what to look. Anyway, that’s what happened, for I left then, and telling the landlord he might be hearing from you later on.”
“Indeed he might,” said Sir John, and except for thanking Constable Langford, praising his initiative, and bidding him a good night, that was all Sir John said. Which, to make clear the matter, might be better said, he refused to talk about it with us further.
As soon as the sound of the constable’s footsteps on the stairs had died, Lady Fielding attempted to open up the matter for discussion, beginning most sweetly, “Jack, I’m sure there is a very sound explanation for Mr. Tolliver’s sudden departure.”
But Sir John would have none of it. He, having resumed his place at the table, simply shook his head and said, “Please, Kate.”
No more was said of it that night, nor to me, for some time to come.
Next day there were letters to write, including that to the Lord Chief Justice on Edward Tribble’s behalf. More and more. Sir John depended upon me to take his dictation, thus leaving Mr. Marsden free to attend to his many other duties as court clerk. Often, when letters of no great gravity were to go out, the magistrate would simply tell me in summary what he wished them to say and would depend upon me to put them into his words. After hearing them read to him, he would then sign them. In spite of his blindness, once the quill was put in his hand and placed upon the paper, he proved quite adept with it. His may have been, as some said, a scrawl, but it was an impressive scrawl, far more legible than that of some other men who had the power of sight.
Thus it was that we two often sat opposite one another at that same large table which served him as a desk — I, scrivening away, and he, lost in cogitation. And perhaps, from time to time, he would rise and pace silently about the room, whose dimensions and plan he knew by heart.
So were we that morning when a tap came at the open door and Mr. Marsden announced Mr. Oliver Goldsmith. Sir John, caught in one of his rambles about his chambers, invited the author in and hastened to his usual place behind his desk. I, in turn, moved to one side that Mr. Goldsmith might have the place opposite the magistrate. After taking the hand offered by Sir John and giving it a manly squeeze, Mr. Goldsmith took from his coat a sheaf of papers and seated himself.
“Well, sir,” said the magistrate, “have you come to me to gather more facts about that rascal, Yossel Davidovich?”
“No, Sir John, your clerk, Mr. Marsden, was more than helpful in that regard. He gave me the gist of the inquest from his notes. I have written the broadsheet.”
“Already?” Sir John asked in some surprise.
“Indeed, sir. I am a night worker. I thought it best to get it out of the way, so to speak, that I might get on with matters that concern me more. Since you were quite insistent that my broadsheet should not only carry the news that this Yossel had been released but explain how and why this came about, I thought to read it you to make sure I had in it observed the proper formalities and legalities.”
“Why, by all means,” said Sir John, most pleased. “Proceed, proceed.”
Mr. Goldsmith produced a pair of spectacles and fitted them over his ears. As he did so, he resumed his address to Sir John: “By the bye, I was most favorably impressed by the testimony of the surgeon, Mr. Donnelly. Being myself a physician — ”
“I had only lately heard that, Mr. Goldsmith.”
“Ah yes. Trinity College, Dublin — though I have not practiced that art in London.”
“You are indeed a man of parts.”
“But as regards Mr. Donnelly. Since I assume he is Irish as I am, I should like to make his acquaintance.”
“As I am sure he would like to make yours. That can certainly be arranged. But, please, sir, proceed with the reading.”
“Ah yes.”
And so Oliver Goldsmith directed his attention to the sheaf of papers in his hand and began reading. There was a sentence in preamble in which it was announced that what followed was “both an answer and a correction to mistakes, misconceptions, and misrepresentations put forth in a broadsheet in reference to the Jews, and one in particular, which was distributed earlier in the week. As regards the particular Jew, one Josef Davidovich, commonly known as Yossel …” Then did Mr. Goldsmith present a concise and cogent account of the inquest into the death of Priscilla Tarkin of Half Moon Passage. The witnesses were named, with one exception, and their testimony was summarized in a few graceful sentences. Particular emphasis was put upon Mr. Donnelly’s fixing of the time of death “with remarkable precision.” And finally did he come to the unnamed witness. Lady Hermione Cox, whom he referred to as “a lady of considerable courage and unimpeachable word” Her testimony, wrote Mr. Goldsmith, “made it certain that Josef Davidovich was in her company during the space of time in which the murder was accomplished. And so he was rightly released, and the coroner’s jury voted a directed verdict of ‘murder by an unknown assailant.’ “
