Indeed, he had been put in a bad position. She evidently expected him to inform her of why it was his name was familiar to her. What was he to say?
“Have I had dealings with you in the past?” she asked quite innocently. (Poor soul, she did seem a bit addled.)
“No, madam,” said he, “I am sure you have not.”
“Then my son, Lawrence,” she suggested, “perhaps you, as magistrate, have come to inform him of some matter to do with his claim. I can direct you to him if that is what you wish.”
“No, I fear not. The matter does pertain to the claim, right enough, but it is indeed with you I wish to speak and not with him, even if he were here with us now.” He paused but a moment, then added. “And by the bye, is he here in Bath?”
“Yes, of course he is. You know …” She did not complete that sentence — and probably never would — for in an instant she was upon her feet, advancing across the short space that separated her chair from us on the sofa.
I jumped to my feet also, for I liked not the look in her eyes, nor the sudden set of her jaw. I would protect Sir John if need be, yet would there be need? She seemed quite incapable of doing him physical harm. A verbal assault, however, was well with her power.
“Now I know who you are!” She fairly growled it out; anger seemed to have deepened her voice. “I was deceived by your blindness. I thought, ‘This poor blind man means me no harm’ and so I let you into my humble rooms. How wrong I was! You had already done me the greatest harm ever a mother could have. You are the one who sent my elder son to be hanged.”
She hovered over him in what I deemed a threatening posture. I was about to move her back, forcibly if necessary, but then did Sir John rise, and in doing so sent her three or four steps into retreat.
“Madam,” rumbled Sir John, using a voice he usually saved for the courtroom, “your son committed the crime of homicide. In point of fact, he murdered three people. That much was proven in the course of a just trial. Would you have such a one, were he not your son, go unpunished?”
“But he was my son,” said she. “And now if I understand you aright, your interest in the claim of my son, Lawrence, upon the Laningham title bodes no good for him — or for me. I believe you would now take my younger son from me.”
Sir John put his weight upon his walking stick and leaned toward her rather aggressively. “Is he your son, Lawrence? This young man who presents himself as such?”
“Why, yes, he is,” she declared. “Of course he is.”
“How can you be sure?”
“A mother knows.”
“Does a mother also know how it was he managed to reappear after eight years hidden away in the American colonies but only after the Laningham title came vacant?”
“We have discussed that.”
“With what result? Did he tell you what it was he did all that time he was away? “
“He has told me a few things.” Having said that, her eyes shifted away from Sir John and to the floor. It was evident that she grew less sure of herself — and of the claimant — with each question put to her by the magistrate.
“Among those few things that he has told you, madam, has he given you a satisfactory reason for not writing, or in any way communicating with you during those years he was away?”
She faltered perceptibly, beginning to say one thing and then another, and finally, after a pause, no more than this: “Not perhaps to my complete satisfaction.”
“I should think not,” said he with great certainty. “One guilty as he of such neglect can hardly call himself your son. You show great generosity in calling yourself his mother.”
With that, the woman gave in to the tears which had been threatening for moments past. She covered her face with her apron and wept most bitterly and unashamedly. I could scarce believe what next I saw, for Sir John then opened his arms to her, and she stepped inside them, allowing herself to be comforted by him who had, so to speak, brought on her tears. He patted her shoulder, muttering words of consolation as one might to a child; thus the two remained for a considerable while.
At last, Sir John said to her, “Mrs. Paltrow, I shall leave you now, having planted a seed of doubt in your mind. Let us see if it takes root overnight. We shall return to you tomorrow morn and talk about this once more. Doubt can be a healthy thing. It is faith misplaced that so often betrays one.” He inclined his head in my direction. “Jeremy?”
And together we left, I guiding him through the door, and he descending those steep stairs with his hand upon my shoulder.
FOUR
A change came over Sir John as I described to him certain details of Mrs. Paltrow’s appearance — her manner of dress, her shortsightedness, her spectacles — as well as the general look of her small apartment. We had not gone far from Kingsmead Square, when I noted that he had picked up the pace a bit. He no longer strolled, but forged ahead at something close to his London speed. And, surprising me further, it was not long until he began whistling a tune — a lively jig it was, perhaps “The Rakes of Fallow.” I could not resist commenting upon it.
“You seem now to be in good spirits,” said I, “certainly better than before our visit to Mrs. Paltrow.”
“Yes, well, it does no good to put off such matters,” said he.
“As, no doubt, you have always said.”
“It is a rule I practice with some regularity,” said he, stiffening a little, “though perhaps not with the religious devotion that you might prefer.” Then did he add: “May I ask, Jeremy, since you were eager to learn from this interrogation, what bit of instruction did you come away with?”
It was of a sudden no longer a game. I thought hard upon how I might answer the question truthfully, for I knew that indeed I had learned from him that day. Yet how to isolate it? How to distill the lesson to its essence? I glanced at him. He seemed to be enjoying this more than I.
At last a phrase came to me. “I would say, sir, that what I learned from what transpired there in Kingsmead Square was that the questioner can learn a great deal if he will be sympathetic. “
“Could you elaborate upon that a bit?”
“I can try.” After a moment’s concentration, I began as follows: “In the beginning, you were more harsh with Mrs. Paltrow than I would have expected, reminding her that Arthur Paltrow was indeed a murderer and that he had been justly punished. Your tone remained harsh when you took up the matter of the claimant, yet it was all directed at him on her behalf. You feigned anger at him for his callous treatment of her. You found her sore spot, perhaps made her more keenly aware of the hurt she had tried to hide from herself.”
“Very good, Jeremy,” said Sir John. “I would also call attention to the fact that I did not try to accomplish all in a single visit. When she began to weep, I thought it best to leave her to ponder her doubts. Not that I enjoy making widows weep, but when the tears began to flow, I could not but take it as a happy sign.”
We walked on. The Bear Tavern was by then within sight, as large and imposing a structure as any at this end of Bath, save perhaps for that rather large church near the grand circus. We would, I know, be arriving a bit later than was our usual. No doubt Lady Fielding and Clarissa would now be returned from the baths. There seemed to me little to do but stroll about or take the waters. But Sir John was about to prove me wrong in that.
“Jeremy, you will not guess what this town of Bath offers that none other its size does! “
“No, perhaps not, but what is it, sir? Could it be a zoological garden?” Though I had seen nothing of the kind in my rambles, I thought it possible such a collection might exist in Bath.