Each day seemed to bring a new encounter, or often more than one. In truth, Sir John seemed to enjoy the attention, the sudden celebrity which he gained once away from London — and I, of course, was glad for that. Nevertheless, I began to wonder just when he would carry out the task which he had been assigned by the Lord Chief Justice. Perhaps to remind him of that task, or perhaps only to relieve the monotony of our usual trip back to the Bear, I took him along the route upon which Clarissa and I had blundered on our trip back from the Pump Room. Nothing was said about it until we reached Avon Street and the river. And when we did, he began inhaling deeply, taking in the deep damp of its grassy banks. He seemed greatly interested in what he smelled.
“We have not come this way before, have we, Jeremy?”
“Not together, sir, no, we haven’t.”
“But you have been here without me?”
“Yes, Sir John. Just ahead is Kingsmead Square. You’ll recall, I’m sure, that Margaret Paltrow resides on one side of the square. “
“Ah, yes, the mother of the claimant.” We ambled on in silence for a short distance. “Do you feel that I have shirked my duty here in Bath?”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Please, lad, do not falsely assume an attitude of innocence with me. You know very well what I refer to.”
“To your meeting with the claimant’s mother?”
“Exactly. Do you feel that I am delaying that meeting unnecessarily? “
“That is not a matter that I am fit to comment upon,” said I in a manner most forthright. “I will confess, however, that I am wearying somewhat of walking about Bath, and perhaps I thought that if I were to take you back to our hostelry by way of Kingsmead Square, you might be inspired to interrogate the lady in question. And I should like to be present when indeed you do.”
“Why? For your entertainment?”
“No sir, for my instruction. It is sure to be a difficult interrogation, and while I learn every time you question a witness, I learn most of all when you question a difficult one.”
“Jeremy,” said he, “I do not think that you quite grasp how difficult it will be for me to confront Mrs. Paltrow. Good God, lad, it was I who sent her son to the gallows!”
“So you said before, sir — or something quite like it. It does seem to me, however, that it was Arthur Paltrow himself who brought it upon himself-with some assistance from the judge, of course. All you did was make public what he had kept private. The deeds were his; the discovery was yours. “
“Hmmm. . well. . perhaps,” said Sir John. “You may be right, Jeremy, and I may accept what you say yet that does not mean that she will.”
We had by then reached Kingsmead Square and were, in fact, passing through it on a path that would lead us past the modest edifice in which Mrs. Paltrow made her home. That must indeed have been her door from which the odd pair — the young man of good character and his sinister friend — had emerged four days past. Could that indeed have been Lawrence Paltrow and his companion? I had pondered that often in the time that had elapsed since our meeting, and I had drawn two conclusions. Firstly, I had decided that I was not sufficiently sure of the young man’s identity to tell Sir John of my suspicions. But secondly, if he whom I had met were indeed the claimant, then his claim to the Laningham title was no doubt a just one, for no matter what had been said against him, the man to whom Clarissa and I had talked had certainly about him the air of nobility.
“Well, if you must know, Jeremy,” said Sir John after an uneasy silence, “you are quite right.”
“Sir? Do you mean in the matter of the deeds being his, and their discovery yours?”
“No, no, of course not. I mean in the matter of shirking my duty.”
“But, Sir John, I never said that you — ”
“No, it’s true! I have put off, postponed, done all I could to avoid performing the task I was sent here to do — and for one reason only.” He had come to a halt there in Kingsmead Square and was shaking a finger — one finger — at me. “And that reason, plain and simple, is that I simply cannot suppose what I would say to the woman. I have thought upon it for days now, and I can’t begin to imagine what might be done to persuade her to change her mind regarding the claimant.” I felt myself in a rather awkward state. While what I had told him was true, I did wish to watch and listen to the interrogation of Mrs. Paltrow, for I was certain he would rise to the occasion and provide an exemplar from which I might learn much. Yet, on the other hand, now believing it possible that the claimant was indeed who he said he was, I had come to doubt the justice of the entire enterprise. I was for the moment quite confounded and knew not what to say.
“So,” said Sir John, “I’ve surprised you with that, have I? It’s not often I admit defeat, is it? Quite at a loss for words, I’ll wager.’’
“Well, yes,’’ I admitted, “but I’m not entirely — ”
“If you’re not entirely certain that I’m giving up now, then you’re correct, Jeremy. By God, I’ll not let mere embarrassment stop me. It’s not shame that I feel. I am in no wise ashamed of my part in punishing that murderous son of hers. And I would have you know, too, lad, that I am no less tired than you of rambling about Bath and conversing with strangers.”
“What, then, do you plan to do, Sir John?”
“Why, we are here in Kingsmead Square, are we not?”
“We are, sir.”
“And I’ve no doubt that the woman’s place of residence is quite nearby?”
“Oh, quite, sir. I can spy it now from where we stand.”
“Then take me there, Jeremy, for I would exchange a few words with Margaret Paltrow.”
While there was no difficulty conducting Sir John to Number 6 Kingsmead Square, it proved a bit harder to locate the resident herself. We found, upon making inquiries to a Mrs. Eakins on the ground floor, that she lived at the top of a stairway so steep that it would have kept most women prisoner there on the upper floor.
Climbing those stairs, I understood how one of advanced years might indeed feel marooned if one like her was faced with the prospect of ascending them each time she went out. For that matter, the descent might also be dangerous. Nevertheless, once above, there was a further problem in discovering the correct door. There were three to choose from; hers was the last upon which we knocked.
Margaret Paltrow was a small woman, a bit over seventy years of age as I judged her. When she opened the door, she stood for a moment blinking from behind thick, square-framed glasses, unable quite to focus upon us, so shortsighted was she. When at last she had us properly in sight, she seemed to me perhaps a bit disappointed. It could be, I told myself, that she awaited the arrival of that same odd pair.
“Hello,” said she, wasting few words in greeting. “And who might you two be?”
“I am Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court in London,” said he, summoning all the considerable dignity that he possessed. “And this” — placing a hand upon my shoulder — “is my young assistant, Jeremy Proctor.”
She took a step back — for a better look at us, I supposed; it seemed sure to me that she had not invited us to step inside. Yet I was wrong. She gestured inward with a nod of her head, and I moved Sir John forward, touching him lightly at the elbow. Thus I took him to the very middle of the room, where we stood awkwardly, awaiting some further word from her.
She frowned as she pressed the door shut behind her. “I know your name,” said she to Sir John. “Yet I cannot think at the moment how it is that I know it. I’m a woman growing old, you see, and my memory seems to grow worse each day. But do sit down, both of you, please do.”
As if to provide encouragement, she seated herself in a chair just opposite us.
I eased down on the sofa beside Sir John, looking over at him as I did. Never, I think, had he seemed quite so much at a loss for words. His mouth opened and shut, then opened again-yet no words escaped it. He turned to me, an expression upon his face that could be read only as a mute call for help.