I thanked him quite sincerely; Clarissa not only thanked him but also curtsied deep in a way that I for one had never seen her manage before.
“Now,” said he, “if you will excuse me, I will wish you a good day, and be on my way.”
Thus, tipping his hat, he left us, jog-trotting to catch his companion up. Once he had done so, the two walked off in close step. I could not help but notice how closely they resembled one another from the rear. Both were big men — broad-shouldered, tall, and strong looking; both were dressed as gentlemen, yet only he who had spoken to us wore his clothes well and gave forth the impression that he might actually be a gentleman.
“He made it sound simple enough,” said Clarissa, ending my observations for the moment.
I nodded my agreement and we set off in the direction of Bristol Road as it had been pointed out to us. Again we lapsed into silence. As for myself, there was a maggot gnawing away at the back of my brain, a question that demanded answer, a mystery that called for solution.
“Clarissa,” said I, “did you happen to notice which of these houses those two men came from?”
We were at that moment passing by the block of dwellings where I had first glimpsed them. They were a rather sad-looking collection, not at all well matched.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said she. “Is it important?” But then, not waiting for my response, she stopped and pointed. “It was this one, I think — or perhaps the one next to it.” Her first choice had been Number 6, and her second, Number 8.
I looked back as we resumed our pace and studied Number 6 Kingsmead Square, which was the address, according to the Lord Chief Justice, of the mother to the Laningham claimant. The best that could be said for it was that it was quite undistinguished in appearance. Brown brick with an upper story, it looked to have been built well back into the last century. But it was said that the mother, Margaret Paltrow, had been reduced to rather humble circumstances. Could not the two who had emerged from the house wherein she kept her residence be the claimant himself and his traveling companion? Was I putting too much faith in coincidence, or was there perhaps truly a likelihood that I had seen them here? I wrestled with that as we left the square and started up Bristol Road. In the end, I decided that there was less a probability of it than a possibility. And as Sir John often said, “All things are possible, so it is best to deal in probabilities when there are no certainties.”
I might have put it out of my mind altogether had it not been for Clarissa. About the time I had settled the matter with myself, she turned to me and said, “They were a strange pair, were they not?”
There was no need to ask which pair she meant. “I think I know what you mean,” said I. “They didn’t fit together well, did they?”
“Not well at all. The person who spoke to us seemed of noble character- well spoken, generous-yet the other. . Jeremy, I know not what sort of impression he made upon you, but to me he seemed quite sinister, with that beard of his and all. I did not care for him in the least.”
“Sinister, you say? Truly so?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Hmmm. . well, now,” said I, perhaps in unconscious imitation of Sir John. “I must give that some thought.”
There had been no need to hurry so. Once Clarissa and I arrived at the Bear and viewed the clock in the corridor, we saw that not near so much time had elapsed since our departure as we had supposed. We had tramped Bath clear across and returned in less than two hours. It was indeed a town and no city.
We stood at the door behind which Sir John and Lady Fielding slept and listened to the sound of rhythmic breathing inside.
“Still asleep,” said Clarissa. “What do you suppose we ought to do?”
“Come along,” said I. “We shall repair to the lobby, where I shall have coffee, and you will have whatever pleases you, so long as it is not coffee or other strong drink.”
It was there that Sir John and Lady Fielding found us sometime later. They seemed refreshed and were, they announced, ready to tour Bath properly. Thus it was that Clarissa and I repeated the journey we had made to the Pump Room; yet it did not hold near so much interest for us as before. What is viewed for the first time shines bright to our eyes; each time it is viewed thereafter, it loses a bit of its luster.
People visit Bath from all over England, Scotland, and Ireland. Do all attend because of the salutary effect of the waters? I doubt it. Having observed them on the occasion of which I now write and a few others since then, I know that many who come to the town would rather do any number of things than splash about in that substance for which the place is so famed. Among those things they would rather do, gaming at cards ranks high, as does gossiping, and the drinking of spirits. Because of his affliction or by personal disinclination, Sir John had little interest in such pastimes. He did, however, diligently pursue an activity quite as popular as the rest, and that was strolling. Now, it must be understood that in Sir John’s estimation, as indeed in my own, there was a considerable difference between walking and strolling. Walking was what one did to reach a specific destination; it was usually done in a great hurry, particularly in London, where one had to move swiftly simply to keep up with the crowds in the streets. Strolling, however, was quite another matter. Not only was it done at a more leisurely pace, it was even more — the very expression of leisure. It allowed the stroller to greet his fellows and be greeted; to converse at length on a variety of matters with other strollers only recently met; it was, for a number of reasons, the sort of pursuit that fitted well such a place as Bath.
And so, on those mornings on which Lady Katherine Fielding left, with Clarissa in tow, to take the waters, Sir John and I would wait about the dining room in the Bear, drinking our morning tea until at last he would turn to me and ask, “What would you say, Jeremy, to a bit of a stroll? I believe it might aid digestion.” Then off we would go, trying one route and then another, sometimes altering the one we had chosen to the north or south, even occasionally doubling back again; yet no matter how devious our route, we would eventually arrive at the Pump Room, where we would drink each a glass of water (like me, Sir John liked the stuff rather well) then set off once again to continue our stroll.
A good two hours or more might be thus consumed — not so much in strolling here and there as in talking with first one and then another along the way. It all began the day after we arrived as Sir John and I crossed that vast round open area which was known as the grand circus. Though not crowded, the place had a good many people milling about in all directions, so I cannot say that I was completely surprised when Sir John was recognized by one of them, a London merchant named Henry Harley, who approached him in a most friendly (not to say presumptuous) manner and offered enthusiastic congratulations on the way that criminal activity had been reduced in his corner of Westminster. He was so generous and loud in his praise that he attracted a small group of listeners, most of them evidently Londoners like himself. At the end of Mr. Harley’s fulsome tribute there was a smattering of applause. Then it seemed that each who had attended the little scene must have a word or two with Sir John. We must have spent well over an hour there before at last we were allowed to move on. The next day, there on the promenade, we were hailed by a man whom we had never met, yet one who proved to be well known to us: He was Matthew Tiverton, Magistrate of Warwick. It was his letter which told in detail of the last days of George Bradbury in the city of his birth. He wished to know all there was to know of the trial of Mary Bradbury. At his invitation, we went with him to a coffee house nearby, where the matter was discussed at great length.