I thought Sir John in good form. Given a proper challenge, he could intimidate a sergeant major of the guards; he could wilt the confidence of a high court judge. Yet the effect of his eloquent recital upon the doorkeeper of Balliol College, Oxford, was remarkable in that it had no apparent effect at all. The man — even his eyes — showed not the slightest response. He listened in an attitude of stony- faced politeness, glancing neither left nor right, simply waiting until Sir John had done. Then, with the magistrate’s urgent query still hanging in the air between them, the doorkeeper inclined his head and said most soberly: “Indeed, Sir John, Reverend Talmadge is expecting you. His quarters are located on the floor above, second door on the right.” That last was said to me, for he knew that it would fall to me to convey Sir John up the stairs and to the Reverend Talmadge’s suite.
For his part, Sir John seemed slightly nonplussed by the doorkeeper’s reply, though not so confused that he neglected his manners. “Uh, well, thank you,” said he, “thank you very much.”
“My pleasure, sir.” From the look of him, the doorkeeper appeared not to have taken pleasure in anything for thirty years at the very least.
Together, Sir John and I mounted the stairs. We were halfway to the floor above and well out of earshot, when he whispered to me: “He seemed uncommonly sure of himself, did he not?”
“Indeed he did, sir, and looked it, too.”
“I wonder what it is they feed these fellows to give them such confidence.”
“Whatever his diet, it must be well steeped in vinegar. You cannot imagine the sour face he wore.”
Sir John chuckled at that, but added: “I do hope our Reverend Talmadge will be more easily intimidated.”
He was, reader — and then again, he was not. Titus Talmadge seemed at first to be one of the most obliging men I had ever seen. Yes, he had heard of Sir John Fielding — of course he had! He was quite flattered that the appointment for this visit should have been requested by none other than Lord Mansfield, and he assured that he was honored, more than honored, to receive Sir John in his humble rooms. Nevertheless, he had not the slightest notion what such a distinguished personage as the Magistrate of the Bow Street Court should wish to discuss with him. Perhaps he could elucidate?
(Reader, in my attempt to capture the good reverend’s mode of speech in this way, I fear I do him no justice, for mere words do not convey the manner in which he fluttered about the room as he spoke, offering a pillow, preparing tea, pouring it — all with surprising swiftness. Surprising, that is, for two reasons: First of all, he was of really quite an advanced age. Mr. Marsden would probably have said that Reverend Talmadge was “older than time.” In my judgment, however, he was eighty years of age, no less and perhaps a bit more; but he was remarkably nimble and sure in his movements — this in spite of the fact that, like so many of his years, he was plagued by failing eyesight. It seemed to me that he saw no better than the Widow Paltrow, though, remarkably, he managed without spectacles, squinting so pitifully that I thought it remarkable that he could see anything whatever.)
As requested, Sir John attempted with some success to explain to his host just what it was had brought him to Oxford, and in particular, why he had sought this interview.
“I believe,” he began, “that you signed a statement supporting the claim of one who presents himself as Lawrence Paltrow — or so I have heard. Is this correct, Reverend Talmadge?”
‘Why, yes, “ said his host, “the young man came through here only last week — or was it the week before that? In any case, we had a pleasant conversation — reminisced a bit about his varsity days — and he certainly convinced me he was who he said he was. And so I had no hesitation in signing the affidavit when it was presented me.”
Through his response, Reverend Talmadge had ceased his tireless, birdlike flights about the room and had come to rest in a chair opposite Sir John. But once he had had his say, he jumped up and continued his circuit. At last, finding nothing more with which to busy himself, he settled down once more in that same chair and forced a smile.
Sir John waited in order to make certain that his host had finally come to rest. When he was certain of it, he spoke up at last: “How could you be certain he was who he claimed to be?”
“How is anyone to be certain? I have known Lawrence Paltrow for over ten years, after all.”
“But for the last eight of them, he was absent, was he not? Or so he claims to have been.”
“Many of our old boys return after many more years that that.”
“And ask you to sign sworn statements?”
“No, I believe this was my first ever. Yet how could I withhold my support from him?”
There was a pause at that, Sir John seemed puzzled by the reply. “I don’t quite understand,” said he then.
“It should be evident. He was a Balliol man. That much was plain.”
Sir John’s frown grew deeper and darker. “Why was it plain?”
“He gave me his word as a gentleman he was just who he said he was.”
“But how would you know he was a gentleman, unless he — ”
“Indeed, he is more than a gentleman,” said Reverend Talmadge, interrupting, “for as I understand it, the statements that he is collecting have something to do with his claim upon the Laningham title. He will be the next Lord Laningham. How could I deny one of a noble family?”
By that time it was clear to me, as it was patently clear to Sir John, that the fellow was a doddering old fool. We waited. First he, then I, took a sip of the tea that had been given us. I for one was ready to depart. But not yet Sir John.
“What was your relationship to Lawrence Paltrow?” he asked. “You were his teacher, were you?”
“Oh, no, by no means.”
“His tutor?”
“Again, no. He had no interest in my field, nor was there any reason he should have had.”
“Your field, then, is. .” Sir John hesitated. “Theology?”
“Ancient languages — Aramaic and Hebrew. So you see, he would have little need for either one in the study of nature.”
“Nature?”
“Natural science and natural history were the studies he pursued. “
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Sir John as if merely reminded of the fact.
“I tutor when there is need — divinity students, for the most part. But as for my dealings with Lawrence Paltrow while he was here at Balliol, well, I am a Fellow of the College, after all. “
“Meaning precisely what?” Sir John seemed as eager for the answer as I.
“Why …” He raised both hands in such a way as to indicate that surely the answer was self-evident. “I am here. I am a Fellow. I give support. . advice. . counsel. In short, I am available to all who need me.”
“And did Lawrence Paltrow often need you?”
“I would not say often — no — occasionally, rather.”
“And in what way? What sort of advice and counsel would you say he required?”
“Would you not say, Sir John Fielding, that your question is somewhat impertinent, considering that him about whom you inquire is soon to be one of the House of Lords?”
“I take it, then, that the matter was much too personal to discuss here and now?”
“Not a bit of it. His difficulty was quite common among students.” Reverend Talmadge said nothing for a moment or two; he seemed to be giving consideration to a course of action. “I believe I shall tell you the matter of it, for it was clear to me at our last meeting that what had once been a problem to him no longer was such.”
“Well, then,” said Sir John, “let me hear it.”
“Lawrence Paltrow was a very bright young man who, alas, lacked confidence.”