Nor was he more communicative during the evenings. He reserved himself from talk at table and then often failed to respond when he was spoken to. And afterward, during the three evenings preceding the meeting at the residence of the Lord Chief Justice, he sequestered himself in his study (which was not unusual) and closed the door (which was). Altogether, he was as near completely absent from us as I have ever known him to be.
On the appointed day, however, his mood seemed to change. With no apparent cause, he began speaking when spoken to, commenced smiling once again, and left off pacing and muttering to himself. Nevertheless, he did in no wise allow the matter of his coming interrogation of the claimant to be discussed with him. That I know quite certain, for I tried twice to bring the matter up to him. The first occasion occurred in midmorning. I encountered him discussing the day’s docket with Mr. Marsden. When he had done, I stepped forward and asked, would he be dictating a memo in preparation for the interview at three. (This he often did on such weighty occasions in order to organize his thoughts.) Sir John declined, saying simply that he believed there would be no need. On the second occasion, I was surprised when he told me to be ready for an early departure: We would be leaving at two and allowing ourselves an hour to reach Bloomsbury Square by hackney coach.
“Is that not a great deal of time for a trip so short?” I asked him. “We can get there by foot in less than half that.”
“As it happens,” said he, “we will be traveling to the post coach house to meet one who will be traveling here from Oxford.”
“Oh? And who will that be, sir?”
“That will be revealed to you in due time. “
In fact, the name of the mysterious traveler was given me when we arrived at the coach house. Richard Inskip it was, but at that time the name alone meant nothing to me. I vaguely recalled it as one of those he had conjured with as he paced the long corridor behind the courtroom at Number 4 Bow Street. Yet I knew not what part Mr. Inskip was to play in the days proceedings, and so to have his name alone meant nothing to me.
“Just go and look for him,” said Sir John to me. “If the Oxford coach is in, just call out his name and that should be sufficient to alert him. I shall wait for you to bring him here.”
So it was done. An inquiry to the dispatcher made it clear that the Oxford stagecoach had arrived — or was indeed arriving as he spoke. He pointed it out to me as it entered the coach yard and showed me then where it would come to a halt.
I was thus waiting when the driver reined in his team, and a lad younger than myself leapt forward and threw open the coach door.
“Richard Inskip!” I repeated the name as the passengers descended from the coach. At first, it seemed that Mr. Inskip was not aboard. But then one, an old man he was, who had passed me by, returned and thrust his face at mine.
“What name did you call out?” he asked. “I fear I’m a bit hard of hearing.”
I said the name once again, and he nodded, satisfied. “I am he.”
“Sir John Fielding awaits you nearby,” said I. “If you will just come this way …” I relieved him of his portmanteau, and with my free hand I took his elbow and guided him through the crowd toward the coach.
He was indeed quite an old man — well over seventy, he seemed to be. Yet others who were older might seem younger than he. His skin, wrinkled and spotted, seemed thin as paper. He moved somewhat falteringly, so that I judged it necessary to slow my steps to accommodate his own. Still, there was something youthful in the eager expression he wore as he looked about him. Clearly, he felt great excitement to be in London.
Having reached the hackney coach, I threw open the door, helped him inside, and handed up his portmanteau to the driver.
“Where to now?” the driver called down to me.
“Bloomsbury Square,” said I.
Our destination was no great distance from the coach house, but it being the middle of the day, there were many coaches and dray wagons upon the streets and roads of the city, and as a result we made slow progress on our way to the meeting. As we went, my two fellow passengers discussed what lay ahead. It was soon apparent that Mr. Inskip, a rather humble individual, was distressed that he might in some manner disappoint the august gentlemen who made up the commission, Sir John would hear none of that.
“Absolutely not, Mr. Inskip,” said he. “Why, let me assure you, sir, that you have more true knowledge at your command than all the rest of us together.”
“But such personages as yourself, the Lord Chief Justice, the Solicitor-General — why, a man of my estate might never meet one such in his lifetime.”
“Nonsense. I would wager you have taught your share of dukes and earls in the course of your career.”
“In a way, I have, it’s true, but they were mere lads — noblemen, as it were, in the potential. Not the same thing at all.”
I had learned a bit more about Richard Inskip from that brief exchange. He was not only from Oxford, he was of the university. Yet he was much more modest in his demeanor than any of the professors there — or so I gathered from the tales of the faculty which I had heard. Were it not for his advanced years, I would have assumed Mr. Inskip to be in some junior position in the faculty.
They continued on a bit in just such a way. From further hints that were dropped, I learned that Mr. Inskip had been recruited by Sir John as an interrogator, that he was unknown to the claimant but had been well acquainted with Lawrence Paltrow at the time of the latter’s attendance at the university. The two men discussed some of the details of the questions which Mr. Inskip proposed to put to the claimant — yet these were quite beyond me, for they dealt with matters of science which were then (as now) quite unknown to me.
In any case, in the manner that I have described, Sir John and Richard Inskip had prepared themselves well for the interrogation of the claimant by the time we arrived at the residence of the Lord Chief Justice. And in so doing, they had become as familiar as old friends.
As I remained behind to pay the coachman his fare and collect Mr. Inskip’s portmanteau, the two gentlemen went directly to the door, Sir John, feeling about for the hand-shaped knocker, grasped it firmly when it was found and loudly made his presence known. Then, just as I arrived at the door, it came open, and there, of course, stood my old antagonist, the butler. Entering last, I took pleasure in presenting him with the portmanteau I had brought thus far. He took it with the ill grace I expected (and perhaps even hoped) he might show.
Perhaps we had arrived a bit tardy. I could in no wise be certain of that, for I had no pocket watch, yet all who were expected were already present — even one, I shall say, who was unexpected was present. The arrangement of the chairs was such that the claimant was placed in the center of the room, with the members of the commission ranged round him in a half-circle. Behind the rest and off to one side sat Sir Patrick Spenser, the Solicitor-General, who had been the moving force in the creation of the commission. My eyes went directly to him; why that was I could not say, though I then told myself it was only because I had been surprised to see him there. My gaze then shifted to the claimant, who sat at ease in the chair that had been provided him. He looked the very picture of self-assurance, as confident as any other in the room. In response to my stare, he gave me no response, not even the vaguest look of recognition.