Lady Fielding heaved a troubled sigh. “Then you might at least think of the children. “
“The children?” Sir John seemed honestly perplexed. “If you mean to include Jeremy, it was he who first postulated the details of the homicide. He, it appears, can no longer be shocked. It would seem that he is quite beyond redemption.”
“Perhaps so, but in truth, it was Clarissa whom I hoped you might spare. She is but twelve, Jack.”
Through all the above, I had been exchanging glances with Clarissa. At the mention of murder, I had noted that her eyes had begun to glisten with interest and excitement. Yet with Lady Fielding’s last remark, a look of dismay suddenly clouded her face. Clearly, she had no wish to be spared.
Nevertheless, Sir John seemed to be affected by this appeal. “Perhaps you’re right, Kate,” said he, “though it is sometimes as difficult to keep in mind Clarissa’s chronological age as it is to remember Jeremy’s. But we have, I daresay, drifted far from my original point. I see little justification in remaining, since the reason for my coming has, if you prefer, ceased to exist.”
“But could we not stay one more night?”
He weighed the matter silently as we waited for his answer. “Perhaps. After all, no decision may be necessary. Jeremy, would you go now and inquire as to the immediate availability of coach space back to London for the four of us?”
I hopped to the task and went direct to the porter, purveyor of such essential intelligence. He listened sympathetically to my query, nodding in the manner of some village sage as he stroked his chin.
“Well,” said he, “you’ve come to the right man.”
“Ah,” said I, quite reassured.
“But, I fear, you’ve come a bit late.” He went on to explain that the midday coach had just departed, and the only space available on the evening coach was up on top of it. “And that,” said he, “would not do for folk like yourselves.”
“Oh, right! Right you are.”
“But I can offer you four places in the morning coach,” said he. “Leaves at eight, which is a better time to travel, after all.”
“Excellent,” said I. “Is the post coach house nearby? I’ll run over and book places for us.”
“No need. I’ll send the errand boy in your stead. I’m sure you’ve better things to do, lad. Enjoy your last night here. “
Thus it came about that some hours later, we four sat at table with Mr. Bilbo. Now, it must be admitted that he was an unusual sort of friend for one such as Sir John Fielding. Not enough that he was proprietor of London’s grandest gaming establishment, he had also come to the city pursued by rumors that he had acquired his fortune by piracy in the Americas. There were indeed those who would say that Mr. Bilbo was not merely an unusual friend for an eminent magistrate, but an unsuitable one, as well. That bothered Sir John very little. He had said often to me, “Perhaps I should not like the fellow, but I do, and I also trust him. He is, in short, my friend, and there’s an end to it. Let them say what they will.”
Mr. Bilbo was known for his physical strength (he personally ejected dukes and earls from his premises when they misbehaved); for his dark, thick beard (which had won him the nickname Black Jack, by which he was universally known); and for his great, booming laugh (which sounded often through the Orangerie on that memorable evening).
I would not pretend to remember in any great detail what was said in conversation over dinner. Nevertheless, I recall in truth two significant instances, one of which gives a suggestion of the flavor of the table talk, and the other which proved of no little importance to this tale I have here undertaken to tell.
We sat at a round table, Clarissa and I farthest from Mr. Bilbo, listening to our elders chatting and laughing in a most easy manner. Eventually — and no doubt inevitably — they touched upon a question that had certainly occurred to me.
“What brings you to Bath?” asked Lady Fielding. “You are indeed the last person I expected to find here.”
“Ah, well, that may be, m’lady,” said he. “Yet I make an effort to visit this place at least a couple of times a year — more if I can manage it.”
“Not, surely, to take the benefit of the waters?”
“No, though in truth I have heard marvelous reports as to their power to heal various and sundry ills, I have yet to test them myself, either internally or externally.”
“Well, when you do, you will find them extremely beneficial,” she assured him.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt of it,” said he, and simply left it at that. “Jack,” said she to Sir John, “do make him tell what he does here.”
“I cannot force it from him, Kate,” he replied. “He’s not in my court.”
“No,” said Mr. Bilbo, “and I hope never to be again.” He burst out laughing at that, no doubt remembering, with some embarrassment, his only previous visit to the Bow Street Court. “But I’ll not make it a secret. I’ve come, as many do, for the gaming.”
“Games, is it?” said Sir John with a chuckle. “Did you have bowls in mind? Or perhaps cricket?”
“Neither,” said he. ‘They seem to favor whist hereabouts.”
“Playing at cards?” said Lady Fielding, making a great show of disapproval. “Goodness gracious!”
“It’s what I do best, m’lady.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” said Sir John. “I seem to recall stories of your skills in seamanship …”
“As I’ve often said, all that’s behind me now.”
“Yes, as you’ve often said.” This was delivered with an amused smile, Sir John then did add: “But after all, what hurt can there be in an innocent game of cards?” A pause. “If that’s what you had in mind.”
“Well. .”
“Surely, Mr. Bilbo, you would not cheat!”
“Well, sir, there’s cheating and there’s cheating.”
“Meaning. . precisely what?”
“Meaning, Sir John, that while you would no doubt condemn me for cheating to win at the game, you would look perhaps a bit more favorably on cheating to lose.”
“Well, I might if I could suppose why in the world anyone would wish to lose at a game of cards.”
“It’s simple enough,” said Black Jack Bilbo with a wink. “When I sit down at a table of gentleman players, I make no secret of who I be. I present myself to one and all as John Bilbo — and let him who knows the name make the proper association. Then the game starts, and I begin to lose, and I continue to lose through hand after hand. I won’t say I do much cheating — only as a last resort — but I make every mistake a man can make with cards in his hand. Whatever it takes, I lose. Then, finally, when things slow down and come to a stop, as eventually they must, the game breaks up, and I pass out the cards for my gaming establishment. I have them always on my person in great number. They look at them, look at me, and they say to themselves, ‘If this cod runs a gaming house, then I shall visit it next time I’m in London, for he is the worst gambler ever I played with. It should not be hard to beat his tables.’ In just such a way, I keep them coming.’’
He told his tale with such a sense of childish conspiracy that we could not but laugh when he had done with his performance. Yet, as we did, Sir John suddenly fell silent and, with an expression of mock concern, asked him: “Your tables are run fair, surely?’’
“Well, of course they are, sir — and I’ll take an oath on that.”
“Someday you may have to.’’
And we all did laugh again together at the jesting look of consternation on Mr. Bilbo’s face.
Thus went near three hours of the evening. The food was good. The drink was plentiful. But they were somehow the least of it. Rather, it was the companionship at table, the warmth and good cheer, which held us so long. This was, as it happened, Black Jack Bilbo’s first meeting with Clarissa Roundtree. While he had heard something of her from Annie and me, he pretended to know naught of her troubled past — her term in the Lichfield poorhouse, her escape from it, et cetera. He asked her but a few questions (it was never necessary to ask her many) and she answered them, as she always did, quite volubly. Ultimately, he made what I judged to be a mistake by seeking amplification from her on that career in letters she would follow.