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Authors: Bruce Alexander
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Waters.”
The porter looked at me blankly. “There’s no one of such a name here,” said he.
“Well, then, perhaps it would be William Walters.”
“No, sorry.”
“William Walker?”
He shook his head in the negative rather solemnly.
“Is there no one by a name even remotely like it?”
“No, lad, there’s no William at all. And as for family names with a ‘W,’ we’ve got only a Wiggins, but first name’s Elizabeth. She’s the cook.”
I stood there quite dumbfounded, rendered mute by my frustration. It seemed to me that I should have this confirmed by the butler. He was, after all, the chief of the household staff. “Could I speak with Mr. Collier?”
“No, ‘fraid not. He’s been sacked. That’s why I’m tending the door. I s’pose I will be till they hire a proper butler.”
“AndPinkham?”
“Sacked.”
“Anyone else?”
“Piper and Albertson — kitchen slaveys.”
“What was their offense? I mean, the last two.”
“They complained about the sacking of the first two — and Lord Lilley overheard. But now you must go, young man, for I’ve no wish to follow them out into the street.”
“I understand. And I have but one more question; it is this: Who was it carried the news of the robbery to Bow Street?”
Burley thought a moment upon it. “I’m not rightly sure anyone did,” said he. “But you’d have to ask Mr. Collier about that to be sure of it.”
I stood, arms folded, a scowl upon my face and a pistol at either side. I was placed prominently before the public entry to the Bow Street Court, inside the courtroom itself. The usual crowd of spectators paid little heed to me and to the similarly well-armed Mr. Fuller at the other door; Sir John and Mr. Marsden paid none at all. The business of the court was carried on as usual.
I had been armed and assigned my place by Mr. Marsden upon my return to Bow Street from the Lilley residence. He, the court clerk, sat beside the magistrate, a large, old cavalry pistol prominently displayed on the table before him. This show of arms was, of course, meant to discourage any further attempt upon Sir John’s life. I, for one, doubted there would be any such attack in a place so public. There was, after all, not a single black face among the many in the courtroom, and I knew quite well that his assailant of the night before had been an African.
In any case, Sir John’s session had gone routinely well that day. No shots were fired, and there were no disturbances of any sort. For his part, the magistrate sent a pickpocket off to a term of sixty days in prison; fined two brawlers for disturbing the peace in Bedford Street; and settled commercial disagreements between two Covent Garden greengrocers and their customer. An average day it was, perhaps a bit lighter than some. Even so, by the time Sir John had heard the last case, he was visibly exhausted. I saw him rise from his place, then did I notice that his left arm, bent at the elbow, was suspended in a narrow cloth sling. I turned away, giving my attention to the last of the spectators as they filed past me and out the door. When next I turned my attention back to him, I was shocked to see him collapsing to the floor before my very eyes. Fortunately Mr. Marsden was close by, and reaching out to him, he managed at least to ease his passage down. I hastened to them, hoping that I might be of some help.
“Mr. Marsden,” I called out before I had quite arrived, “what is wrong?”
“What indeed!” he wailed. “I could do naught to prevent his fall.”
Sir John, I saw, had slipped to a sitting position there on the floor and was fully conscious. “There is nothing wrong with me but a brief bout of lightheadedness. Why, it could happen to anyone.” Grousing and grumbling he was as one might, having slipped upon the stairs.
“But the truth of it, Sir John, is that it happened to you,” said Mr. Marsden, obviously distressed. “We must have you looked after.” Then,
The porter looked at me blankly. “There’s no one of such a name here,” said he.
“Well, then, perhaps it would be William Walters.”
“No, sorry.”
“William Walker?”
He shook his head in the negative rather solemnly.
“Is there no one by a name even remotely like it?”
“No, lad, there’s no William at all. And as for family names with a ‘W,’ we’ve got only a Wiggins, but first name’s Elizabeth. She’s the cook.”
I stood there quite dumbfounded, rendered mute by my frustration. It seemed to me that I should have this confirmed by the butler. He was, after all, the chief of the household staff. “Could I speak with Mr. Collier?”
“No, ‘fraid not. He’s been sacked. That’s why I’m tending the door. I s’pose I will be till they hire a proper butler.”
“AndPinkham?”
“Sacked.”
“Anyone else?”
“Piper and Albertson — kitchen slaveys.”
“What was their offense? I mean, the last two.”
“They complained about the sacking of the first two — and Lord Lilley overheard. But now you must go, young man, for I’ve no wish to follow them out into the street.”
“I understand. And I have but one more question; it is this: Who was it carried the news of the robbery to Bow Street?”
Burley thought a moment upon it. “I’m not rightly sure anyone did,” said he. “But you’d have to ask Mr. Collier about that to be sure of it.”
I stood, arms folded, a scowl upon my face and a pistol at either side. I was placed prominently before the public entry to the Bow Street Court, inside the courtroom itself. The usual crowd of spectators paid little heed to me and to the similarly well-armed Mr. Fuller at the other door; Sir John and Mr. Marsden paid none at all. The business of the court was carried on as usual.
I had been armed and assigned my place by Mr. Marsden upon my return to Bow Street from the Lilley residence. He, the court clerk, sat beside the magistrate, a large, old cavalry pistol prominently displayed on the table before him. This show of arms was, of course, meant to discourage any further attempt upon Sir John’s life. I, for one, doubted there would be any such attack in a place so public. There was, after all, not a single black face among the many in the courtroom, and I knew quite well that his assailant of the night before had been an African.
In any case, Sir John’s session had gone routinely well that day. No shots were fired, and there were no disturbances of any sort. For his part, the magistrate sent a pickpocket off to a term of sixty days in prison; fined two brawlers for disturbing the peace in Bedford Street; and settled commercial disagreements between two Covent Garden greengrocers and their customer. An average day it was, perhaps a bit lighter than some. Even so, by the time Sir John had heard the last case, he was visibly exhausted. I saw him rise from his place, then did I notice that his left arm, bent at the elbow, was suspended in a narrow cloth sling. I turned away, giving my attention to the last of the spectators as they filed past me and out the door. When next I turned my attention back to him, I was shocked to see him collapsing to the floor before my very eyes. Fortunately Mr. Marsden was close by, and reaching out to him, he managed at least to ease his passage down. I hastened to them, hoping that I might be of some help.
“Mr. Marsden,” I called out before I had quite arrived, “what is wrong?”
“What indeed!” he wailed. “I could do naught to prevent his fall.”
Sir John, I saw, had slipped to a sitting position there on the floor and was fully conscious. “There is nothing wrong with me but a brief bout of lightheadedness. Why, it could happen to anyone.” Grousing and grumbling he was as one might, having slipped upon the stairs.
“But the truth of it, Sir John, is that it happened to you,” said Mr. Marsden, obviously distressed. “We must have you looked after.” Then,
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