“And what sort of books will you write?” Mr. Bilbo asked quite innocently.
Whereupon, as Lady Fielding smiled indulgently and Sir John set his jaw, Clarissa proceeded to tell Mr. Bilbo the plot she had devised for her first romance. She later told me that she was sure he would wish to hear it, for the hero of her tale was a dashing pirate captain. Had I known that, I would have headed her off, for Black Jack Bilbo was aware of the rumors surrounding his past and was quite sensitive about them; I had no wish to see him given cause for embarrassment. Yet she told her story in such detail that she had barely penetrated the second chapter (wherein the pirate captain makes his first appearance), when two familiar figures made their entry into the Orangerie. They were the two Clarissa and I had met in Kingsmead Square — the gentlemanly fellow I had supposed to be Lawrence Paltrow and his much rougher bearded companion.
As they were led to a table and passed quite close to us, the bearded man talked quite loudly to the other; his words were meant to be reassuring (“Think nothin’ of it-you’ll see I’m right in this,’’ et cetera), but they were said in a harsh, hectoring tone which caused those about them to look up in annoyance. Still, the response of Sir John and Black Jack Bilbo went well beyond that. As Clarissa prattled on with her tale, Mr. Bilbo turned his attention away from her completely and focused upon the new arrivals. As for Sir John, the sound of the bearded man’s voice seemed to hold him momentarily transfixed. His face wore an expression I had come to know quite well. It was a look of intense concentration; he seemed, when it appeared, to be asking his ears to do the work of his eyes.
“I believe I know that cod,’’ said Black Jack Bilbo.
“I believe I do, too,’’ said Sir John. Then did he add: “But tell me, are we speaking of the same man? Describe him to me, Mr. Bilbo.’’
The bearded man and the putative Mr. Paltrow were given a table nearby; so close to our own was it that there was but one between us. Yet that loud, dominating voice continued only slightly less in volume than before. It was as if its owner were oblivious of all in the room except him that he addressed.
“The one who’s doing all the talking,” said Mr. Bilbo, “is a man well into his forties, near as thick set as me, but taller. He has a beard longer than mine by a couple of inches and has it tied in braids the way it was done in the last century.”
“That is how he was described to me some years ago. Do you have a name to put on him?”
“I do. As I remember, it was Bolt — Eli Bolt. I knew him in the colonies before I came here — in Virginia, to be exact. I was sailing out of a little upriver place called Frenchman’s Bend in those days, when this man Bolt came into town with his party of about a dozen to collect a shipment of what’s marked ‘trading goods.’ He was then one of them who went out beyond where it was safe to go and traded with the Indians in their own territory. Such pursuit took some nerve, but he’d plenty of that. Now, these ‘trading goods,’ as they were called, never usually amounted to much — some beads and some mirrors, trinkets and gewgaws. They would generally bring good value in feathers and animal pelts and such. A good, tidy trade could be handled in such a way and no harm done. But as it happened, that did not satisfy Mr. Eli Bolt.”
“Oh?” said Sir John. “What then?”
“Well, as it happened, this all took place during the war with the French. Bolt moved in and out of the town then, provisioning and whatnot, as I did with my ship and crew. It was certain that we would meet, and we did on two or three occasions. On each of them I came away not liking the man but forced to respect his pluck in dealing as he did. Then I heard rumors that he had taken to offering firearms — mostly old matchlocks and fowling pieces — in trade to his Indian clients. They wanted them bad and would rob and steal whatever it took to get them. As I say, this was at the time of the war, and as I understand it, Mr. Bolt was not particular to which tribes he sold his wares. Some of them were hand in glove with the French.”
“Giving aid and comfort to the enemy, would you say?”
“What I would say is that from what I heard at the time, it is almost certain that some farmers out on the frontier and a few British soldiers were cut down by bullets from guns that came from Eli Bolt.” All of the above discussion was carried on in tones barely above a whisper. There could be no question of Mr. Bilbo having been overheard by the two men at the nearby table, and by the time he had concluded, both were staring across the space that separated them from us. No doubt Bolt had recognized Mr. Bilbo — or was at that moment trying to place him.
“An interesting tale you’ve told,” said Sir John. “Yet I fear the name you’ve given him is only something like that one I seek now to remember.”
“Names can be changed, even invented,” said Mr. Bilbo. “You know that as well as I, Sir John.”
“Oh, indeed. Faces are more difficult to alter, and voices almost impossible. Still, since you are certain of the fellow’s identity, and I have my own suspicions, as well, I would like to know what Mr. Bolt and his companion are doing here in Bath.”
After hesitating a moment, I gathered my courage, leaned forward, and then said, “Perhaps I can offer a guess, sir.” Wherewith, I told him of the meeting Clarissa and I had had with the two men at the other table.
Of all that occurred thereafter in Bath, I have now only a little to add — and that in summary. First of all, let it be said that Sir John Fielding welcomed what I had offered in hazard, only voicing his desire that we find some way to confirm that the two sitting near to us were indeed the claimant and the one who was said to be always in his company. Such reassurance came from the innkeeper of the Bear Tavern himself; he showed us that the two were registered as Lawrence Paltrow and Elijah Bolton. The latter prompted Sir John to comment, “When men set about to improve upon the name given them by their parents, more often than not the original may be found signaling to us coyly from the counterfeit. Elijah Bolton is undoubtedly the same man as Eli Bolt, though I cannot be absolutely certain that he is my man, for neither is that one the name I have been searching for.”
Having learned all he could at this time and in this place, Sir John surprised us by consenting to accept Mr. Bilbo’s invitation that we ride along with him in his coach and four to the center of town; once arrived, he left us immediately and went in search of a proper game of cards. Lady Fielding was determined that since it be Friday, we should all attend one of the balls for which Bath is so justly famed. Clarissa Roundtree thought it a superb way to pass our last evening there. I was, I admit, curious, Sir John was simply obliging: For one afflicted as he was, there was naught to gain, neither in social discourse nor physical exercise. Within the assembly room, however, he found great pleasure in listening to the music. He had me station him near the five musicians that he might hear them better and without interruption as Lady Fielding set off in the company of Clarissa to discuss matters with the ladies she had met while taking the waters.
Thus were we occupied, when Thaddeus Bester, Magistrate of Bath, descended upon Sir John, greeting him as jovially as he might if they were long-acquainted, long-separated friends. He came soon to reveal the reason for his approach when, following that effusive welcome, he puffed his cheeks, pursed his lips, then queried in a manner most innocent: “I take it that you found nothing of significance in the Widow Paltrows quarters?”
Sir John offered him a rather frigid smile. “Nothing that would interest you.”
“I thought not,” said he, clearly relieved. “Bath is a peaceful place, and not the sort of setting for one of your London murders.”