The Price of Murder (33 page)

“I shall not make this a long oration, though the Good Lord knows that I could. There is so much to tell of Gabriel Donnelly that I’m quite sure that I could fill the rest of the evening with it. It was in 1768 that we met, and immediately we did, we found a basis for friendship, and it was as a friend that I rejoiced when, but a year ago, he came to me and declared his interest in Molly Sarton, who had come to us from her home in Deal where she had been recently widowed. She agreed to fill in for us as cook for a time—we never thought for a moment that we could hold on long to one as talented and experienced as she. In any case, her time with us has not been wasted, for here in Bow Street she met Mr. Donnelly, and that has led to a most favorable situation for both. They are here to announce their engagement, and we are here to celebrate it.”

Then did we raise our glasses and, standing, drink a toast to the two of them. As we resumed our seats, Mr. Donnelly remained upon his feet and, looking slowly round the table at each of us, he smiled and began his own brief oration.

“I bless the day that I met Sir John Fielding, and I have any number of good reasons for doing so. First of all, I met in him one of the brightest and deepest minds in London. And through him I met the second-brightest and second-deepest mind in London—” He paused, and then, with a grand gesture—“Clarissa Roundtree!”

The entire table exploded in laughter at that—and I louder and longer than all the rest. I had, just prior, fixed a rather complacent look upon my face, one I thought suitable for accepting a grand compliment. It must indeed have been comical to see my face drop so quickly.

“And oh yes,” continued Mr. Donnelly, “it was by my friendship with Sir John that I met my lovely wife-to-be, Molly. I was not along on that fateful trip to Deal. I have often wished that I had been, for I would likely have met Albert Sarton, a man whose measure I hope to live up to. Marriage, any marriage, is a journey into the unknown. Partners often need all the help they can get. Yet from all that I have heard from Molly about Mr. Sarton, I think we may well have him as our guide and helper in the years to come. And so, all, I propose a toast. Ladies and gentlemen, to the memory of Albert Sarton.”

There was, round the table, a chorus of “Hear, hears.” We drank, and Mr. Donnelly turned to Molly before seating himself.

“Will you have something to say?” he asked.

“I will,” said she, “but I shall make it short.”

“As long as you like, my dear.”

“In our time it does not often happen to a woman that she falls in love. They write poems about it and romances—and I’m sure you’ll add to the number, Clarissa. But still, it does not happen often, as in our hearts we all know. Yet I, of all women, have been doubly blessed, for I thought my world had ended when Albert died, but no, God has given me a second love, as strong or stronger than the first. I can only thank God and his blessed angel, Gabriel. And God bless you all—and thank you a hundred times over. I offer a toast to you all, my family.”

We drank the toast, such as it was, seated ourselves once again, and then, all of a sudden, was the table all abuzz with their plans. It was a complicated matter for two Catholics to marry in a Protestant country—so complicated, indeed, that they had decided to do all that needed to be done in Ireland: the bride-to-be would meet his family; banns would be posted; and they would at last be married. The entire process would take some weeks, of course, but they felt they had little choice in the matter. They would leave for Dublin in two days’ time.

On and on we talked, for it was a joyous occasion. Sir John sent me off to the kitchen for a bottle of the French brandy. He and Mr. Donnelly each had a taste of it; yet I, knowing that I would be out early in search of Mr. Deuteronomy, declined respectfully. I explained to Sir John.

“You were unable to see him?”

“Yes sir, I waited for over an hour without result, and then left him a note promising to be back very early in the morning.”

“No one could have done more,” said Sir John. “Wait for him all day, if need be. And don’t forget, you’re still my deputy in this matter. Arm yourself before you go.”

“Yes sir,” said I.

“What, pray tell, is this about?” Mr. Donnelly inquired.

“A matter which Jeremy will clear up in no time. I have every confidence in him.”

ELEVEN

 
 
 
 
Mr. Deuteronomy had kept silent ever since we had left Bermondsey, utterly exhausted by his effort to tell all. In truth, the nature of what it was he had to tell must also have weighed heavily upon him.

He had been awake and waiting for me when I tramped up the stairs to the floor above the Haymarket Coffee House. Nor had I arrived late: I was certain, in fact, that I should have to waken him, for it was just a bit past five-thirty when I made myself known. He opened the door so swiftly when I did that it seemed to me that he must have been holding the handle when my knock came.

“Right on time,” said he to me.

“If not early.”

“Well, let’s not argue about it. Come along with me to the stable. I’ve much to tell you.”

But he would not be telling it immediately. He led me round the corner to Burnaby’s in Market Street, and there he ordered up a wagon and a team of two.

“What will we be needing the wagon for?” I asked.

“You’ll find out soon as we get under way.”

I contented myself with that, though it was not much of an answer, for in truth the night ostler, a young lad no older than I, worked so swiftly that it was but a few minutes till all was ready. We were soon moving right along in a westerly direction, following the river. It was not yet six. There were few hackneys to be seen along the way, nor were there many dray wagons. It was simply too early. The hooves of the horses echoed hollowly through the streets of the dark city. I waited for Mr. Deuteronomy to begin. It was not long before he did.

“Most of this I got from the stable boys, so I can’t vouch for it exactly, but when I got there yesterday morning, it was all just about as they said, so I’m inclined to believe them, in all the details.”

“About what?” I was growing impatient with him.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d let me tell it my way.”

“All right, as you will then.”

“Anyway,” said Deuteronomy, “it was late, getting on toward midnight, when Bennett came back from my place. It shouldn’t have taken him that long, so it’s plain he stopped off somewhere between here and there, most likely for a little Dutch courage, if I know my man Bennett.

“Now, you know how the stable and the sleeping quarters are laid out, the one is attached to the other, so there’s really only a wall between them. So what the stable boys heard through that wall was Bennett coming home. He made a good deal of noise, the way he always does when he’s had too much to drink, and this time he was heard by Lord Lamford, who came out to talk to him.

“This was unusual, very unusual. The master seldom bothered himself with what went on in the stable, and never, so far as I know, with what went on there late at night. And so, it seems to me that he must have been up and waiting on Bennett. He must have had something special to talk to him about. And I think I know what it was.”

“And what was that?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Tell me now.”

“Oh, all right, Lord Lamford wants to have his picture painted with Pegasus.”

I was properly puzzled by this. “And Bennett paints pictures?” That seemed unlikely.

“No, ’course not! He—” Mr. Deuteronomy fumed a bit as he sought the right words. “Let me come back to it. It makes more sense that way.”

I sighed. “Do it your way.” The man was quite impossible.

“As I was saying—and it don’t matter much what brought Lamford down to the stable—the point is, he came down, and right away the two of them started arguing. Not like he
came
to argue, understand, but they fell to it just minutes after he arrived. All this is according to the two stable boys who got wakened by it all.”

“What were the two of them—Lord Lamford and Bennett—arguing about?” I asked.

“The stable boys said they couldn’t tell. It was just the sound of their angry voices till they heard their master yell loud and plain at Bennett, ‘You dare to judge me?’ And it couldn’t have been much later that they heard the shot.”

“The shot?”

“That’s what I said, ain’t it?” He looked at me fiercely.

“You mean he . . .” Confused, I began again. “Who was it was shot?”

“Bennett,” said he. “Shot dead, right through the head. But that ain’t the question.”

“What
is
the question?”

“The question is, who pulled the trigger? The pistol—which was the same one you gave to him night before last—was the weapon that killed him. ’Twas found in his hand. Lord Lamford admits to being there, and he says the two of them was arguing about Pegasus—whether ’twould be possible for Lamford to sit astride Pegasus to have his picture painted.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“Oh, he’s got some mad notion that he should be painted with his proudest possession, which is what Pegasus is now that he won the King’s Plate in Newmarket.”

“But how did that lead to Bennett taking his life?”

“Lord Lamford’s pretty vague on that, but the damndest thing is, he can be just as vague as he wants to be because nobody actually saw him shoot Bennett. And besides, that magistrate they got out here would sooner die than disagree with Lamford.”

“We’re headed so far out from London?”

He nodded. “So far indeed.”

“And the local magistrate calls it suicide?”

“That he does.”

“Well, didn’t the stable boys tell him about that shout, ‘You dare to judge me?’”

“Yes, I thought I had to say something about that myself,” said Deuteronomy. “But the magistrate wouldn’t hear of it. You know what he said? ‘The bullet was in his head, and the pistol was in his hand. What could be simpler?’”

“And that was where it ended?” I asked.

“No, not really. I pushed a little more, and I got from him Lord Lamford’s account of the so-called suicide. He said that according to him, Bennett got nastier and more personal, and that was when Lamford said, ‘Who are you to judge me?’ Bennett backed away from him then, and pulled out the pistol. He pointed it as if he meant to kill Lamford with it. Then, as if changing his mind of a sudden, he put the barrel of the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. When I asked the magistrate if he accepted that, he looked at me as if I were a troublesome fellow and said to me that I seemed to be implying that there was some irregularity involving Lord Lamford. ‘Is that your game?’ he asked. ‘The very idea!’”

Somewhat bewildered by all that I had heard, I spent some minutes trying to master it, looking at it this way and that, questioning what I had earlier assumed to be so. All this as the horses plodded along. Thus was I occupied as we crossed London Bridge and headed off down Tooley Street into Bermondsey. We both kept silent for a long while. At last, Mr. Deuteronomy spoke up.

“’Course you and I know,” said he, “that it wasn’t that way at all. We heard what poor old Bennett had to say about his master. The way I see it, he must have handed over the pistol to Lord Lamford. Then, somehow or other, with all that Dutch courage in him, he must have got carried away and accused him of all that he told you about night before last.”

“Yes,” said I, “that’s the way it seems. How much farther is this farm of Lord Lamford’s, anyway?”

“It’s still a piece on from here—around Deptford it is.”

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I may not be able to do much more than shake my head and go tsk-tsk-tsk when we get there.”

“Well, how’s that happen? Ain’t you a Bow Street Runner? You do investigating and the like, don’t you?”

“I’m Sir John’s assistant and a deputized constable, but Sir John’s power as magistrate only goes so far.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, each magistrate has his own jurisdiction.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Each magistrate has his own territory. For instance, Sir John just had a case taken away from him because the crime in question was committed outside his jurisdiction, his territory, which is the City of London and the City of Westminster.”

“You mean if you and me went before him, and we both swore as to the story we heard from poor old Bennett, Lamford couldn’t be tried on the basis of that?”

“No, probably not.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well . . . because it would be merely hearsay evidence. That’s hearsay, as in we heard him say it, but he didn’t live to say it himself.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that, just so long as we swear to it and tell the truth?”

“You’ve just put your finger upon it,” said I, “for
we
would tell the truth, but another might swear the same oath and tell nothing but lies.”

“Like Lord Lamford.”

“Exactly.”

“Why, that ain’t fair, is it? I thought the law was supposed to be fair.”

“Usually it is fair, but the law is made by man, and all that’s made by man can be improved upon.”

Deuteronomy chewed upon that for a bit. Then did his eyes narrow as he declared: “Well, by God, I intend to improve on it some.”

I didn’t ask Deuteronomy Plummer how he might go about that. I really didn’t want to know.

 
By the time we reached the horse farm, I had learned from him that since Lord Lamford knew my face, I was to keep as far away as I was able. It was just as well he didn’t see me at all, said Deuteronomy. Therefore, I was to remain in the barn to interrogate the two stable boys and stay inside just as long as Lamford was about.

When I protested that I would not willingly hang about in a barn eight hours or more, Mr. Deuteronomy assured me that there would be no such lengthy wait ahead for me.