Feeling a gentle touch upon his arm, Sir John sat up immediately, a look of expectation upon his face. He truly expected to hear Jeremys voice.
“Sir John, would you like the night porter to take you upstairs to your room?”
But no, it was none other than the fellow at the desk to whom he had inquired sometime before if there was a message from Jeremy.
Disappointed, Sir John declined the offer, thinking it best to wait where he was. But then of a sudden, a thought struck him — a course of action which would at least permit him some part to play. He called after the fellow who, he sensed, had already turned away from him.
“I wonder if it is possible at this hour to summon a hackney coach?”
“Why, yes, sir, we have not so many as in London, but we have a few, and I shall send the porter to fetch one immediately. Where is it you wish to go?”
“I wish to go to the Magistrate of the City of Oxford.”
And so it was that not long past eleven, Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the cities of Westminster and London, paid a visit to Anthony Fowlkes, Magistrate of the City of Oxford. It was late by town custom (though in the colleges of the university, lights burned the night long); nevertheless, upon his arrival at the home of the magistrate, Sir John was informed by the driver of the hackney that there was a proper rout in progress at the Fowlkes residence.
“How can you tell? “
“Why, can’t you hear the music, sir? There’s a fiddler sawing away like he might never stop.”
“Ah, so there is.”
“And all the lights is lit.”
“So much the better. I shall require your assistance in reaching the magistrate’s door,” said Sir John.
“As you wish, sir,” said the driver, “though I must first tie up my team.”
After attending to that, he helped Sir John down from the coach and took him by the arm.
“Would you mind,” said Sir John, “letting go my arm so that I might take yours? “
“Any way you wants it, sir. I’m sure I don’t mind.”
In this way, they reached the door, whereon the driver knocked with no effect.
“I can do better than that,” said Sir John.
“You’re welcome to try.”
With that, Sir John let loose a flurry of blows upon the door, which immediately silenced the voices and the music inside the house. There was a significant pause, footsteps beyond, and then through the door:
“Who is there who dares interrupt this social evening?”
“It is I, Sir John Fielding, Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”
“London?”
“That is correct, sir.”
At that point, the door came open, and the magistrate within had his first glimpse of the magistrate without. “Why, I be damned,” said he. “It is you, ain’t it? I heard that you were blind.”
“I daresay I am. And this silk band I wear over my eyes proves it, does it not?”
“Forgive me, sir. I meant no offense. What can I do for you?”
Sir John was now aware of others in the doorway crowding behind the master of the house. There was an undercurrent of whispered conversation. He cleared his throat and spoke loud above their voices as he responded; as he did, they fell silent.
“I am come,” said he, “that I might report a missing person — in short, my assistant, Jeremy Proctor. First of all, I must ask, has any report been made to you today of one fallen victim to violence or accidental hurt?”
“No such report,” said the Magistrate of Oxford.
“No corpus in the street? No report of one falling suddenly ill?”
“No, thank God. It has been a very quiet day, and may it conclude as such. But could you tell me, sir, what he — and, for that matter, you — have been doing in our corner of the realm? “
“I could,” said Sir John, “but I may not.”
“Oh, how is that?”
“To put it briefly, Jeremy and I have been taking part in an investigation, one which I am not at liberty to discuss.”
“And why not? It seems to me that if your investigation takes you here, then I should have been told about it first. As one magistrate to another, does that not seem proper?”
Sir John had the notion that this had been intended by the Oxford magistrate as much for the benefit of those guests of his who looked on and listened as for him. An assertion of the local magistrate’s importance had been made, and those who heard mumbled their approval, Sir John cautioned himself to proceed carefully: There would be no point in belittling the man whose help he hoped for.
“I quite agree,” said he. “Had it been left to me, I would certainly have prepared the way by notifying you and asking your assistance, but unfortunately, when he sent me here, the Lord Chief Justice — ”
There was a general intake of breath at the mention of such a grand personage. Yet their audience whispered not a word, but waited in expectant silence to learn what it was the Lord Chief Justice might have said or done, Sir John had no intention of telling them. He had simply used the office for effect. Having allowed them to wait, he placed hand to mouth as if suddenly stricken at his own temerity.
“Oh, dear,” said he, “I fear I’ve said too much already. It was not my intention …”
“Nonsense! See here, I’ve left you out on the doorstep far too long, I fear. Do come in. I’ve some guests and I’m sure we would all like to know more about, well, whatever you can tell us of. . you understand.”
“Much as I would like to do so, I must decline your kind invitation. I shall hasten back to the Blue Boar Inn to be certain that Jeremy has not returned while we talked here. I had hoped, though, to enlist your help for a search tomorrow — if there is still no sign of him by then.”
“You shall have it,” said the Oxford magistrate. “My constables will be at your bidding. They are but two. I have not a whole group at my command, as you have.”
“I’m sure they are most capable, “ said Sir John. And so saying, he bowed and thanked his way back to the coach, having grasped the arm of the coach driver for assistance on his way.
“Take me back through the city,” he muttered to the driver. “I would be certain that there is naught and nobody to catch your attention along the way. Stop if there be anything in the least questionable.”
And the driver helped him back up into the coach and, taking the reins, started them on their trip back to the inn. There were no stops along the way, though on one occasion the coach slowed so that the driver might look closer at what could have been a body crumpled in the shadow of a fence; it was no more or less than a sack, fallen, no doubt, from a farmer’s wagon.
Sir John returned to the inn and found, as he had feared, that there was no word of Jeremy. He determined that they would start out in the morning and make a full search of it.
Dear God, please, he thought, where is that lad?
At that time, reader, I had no better idea where I might be than he had. Once, as I recall, I came to myself sufficiently to realize from the squeaks and groans and the sound of turning wheels that I was in a wagon of some sort. The bumps and shakes told me that the wagon moved along a country road. Yet I saw nothing, for my head was still covered by what I perceived to be a horse blanket, nor could I move in any proper manner, for I was trussed up at the wrists and ankles like a pig on the way to market. Unable to help myself, nor in any way alter my situation, I did what any sensible young fellow would have done, and slipped back into unconsciousness.
The next I knew, I found myself dragged across the wagonbed, then hefted up and thrown over a shoulder with an ease which I found quite intimidating. I had not been tossed about so since I was a young child. Of course, I could see nothing still, for the horse blanket was yet firmly in place, covering me from waist to head. Yet bounced about as I was, I could tell when I was brought through a door and into a house, then immediately below — down a narrow stairway to a dank, cold cellar. There I was dumped rudely upon the floor, against a sweating wall. All this time, not a word was spoken. I wondered at that, as well one might. Yet I had long before dismissed the possibility that my abductor could have been that puff-pigeon who had threatened me for failing to move away from his desired place at the bar; he might throw a blanket over me and beat me about the head, but he would not cart me off to some distant location for whatever dark purpose. Was I frightened? Oddly, I was not — at least not to a measure proper to my awkward position. I was certain that my captor was Eli Bolt — and perhaps the claimant, as well. They had been so careful to avoid my look that they had left me more or less blinded by the blanket over my head. They had even kept silent during the trip from town. Surely this meant that they intended eventually to release me.