We were once more back at Number 4 Bow Street, in the kitchen, and about to sit down to our dinner. Though a good deal of time had passed since the claimant’s departure, much of it had been spent in the residence of the Lord Chief Justice, where an argument raged for near an hour regarding whether or not the claimant had said he would no longer pursue his claim — and if not, what truly had been said. And there were other questions: Had he said he had been tempted into affairs over which he had no control? What had he meant by that? Should they prepare for a case in Chancery? Where had Sir Patrick Spenser gone? Why? And so on, Sir John had remarked sometime afterward that he had hoped that meeting with the claimant would clear up matters; instead, it had served only to complicate them further.
And then there was the matter of Mr. Inskip. It had been agreed that he should have no expenses to pay during this trip, and so he was given a lump sum out of court funds and then conveyed to the Globe and Anchor, the excellent hostelry on the Strand, Sir John had arranged with David Garrick for a seat at that evening’s performance of The Recruiting Officer. Mr. Inskip was well pleased with his trip to London. Once again he was the timid old fellow I had met at the coach yard. Upon parting company with us at the hostelry, he said, “I hope I was of some help to you.” Sir John assured him that he had been, and then remarked to me as our hackney pulled away, “I wonder what got into the fellow.”
But all of that was now past. As Clarissa set the table properly and Annie served up the meal, Sir John seated himself beside Lady Fielding, and I made ready to take my place. Then came a knock upon the door which led to the stairs and the ground floor below, Sir John bade me open it, that he might know what prompted this interruption.
That I did and found Mr. Benjamin Bailey, captain of the Bow Street Runners, awaiting on the other side.
“Who is it?” called Sir John from the table. “Who is there?”
“’Tis I, sir,” said Mr. Bailey. “I’ve news I thought you ought to hear.”
The magistrate sighed deeply. “Give it me, then.”
“One of them from the Globe and Anchor just come by to tell us they got a corpus there in one of the rooms, looks like he killed himself.”
“By what means?”
“Hanged himself, he did.”
“Would he happen to be registered as Lawrence Paltrow?”
“That’s the name the porter gave.”
Sir John rose from the table. “Well, come along, Jeremy. We must see that Eli Bolt, or whatever his name be, does not play the same trick on us a second time.”
TEN
Our arrival at the Globe and Anchor coincided precisely with the departure of Mr. Inskip from the place. He seemed quite taken aback to find us there at the entrance to the hostelry.
“Good God,” said he. “Have you further need of me?”
“No, no, Mr. Inskip,” said Sir John, “nothing of the kind. We’ve some business inside to attend to.” All this was spoken as I tried to push past him, with the magistrate trailing close behind.
“But perhaps I could be of assistance?”
“No, no, go, sir, and enjoy the play. Visit Mr. Garrick afterward.”
“Oh, may I?”
“Yes, goodbye!”
Only then did the tutor give way and allow me to squeeze by, with Sir John clasping my shoulder and Mr. Benjamin Bailey bringing up the rear. I glanced back and saw him staring after us.
“Have we escaped him at last?” Sir John asked me once inside.
“It would appear so,” said I.
“I thought I would have to set Mr. Bailey upon him to get us past. Imagine his dismay to see his victim of the afternoon a supposed suicide. It would quite crush him, I’m sure, for he seems a good man.”
“But a hard master to his scholars.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “Mr. Bailey?”
“Yes, sir?” The chief constable stepped forward and threw back his shoulders, all but saluting. “Come with us and search for the killer. Perhaps we may discover the room of this Bolt, or Bolton, or whatever his name be. It is, of course, quite unlikely he would still be about, having committed murder, but it would be worthwhile to search what had been his room. The next place to look, I suppose, would be the docks, any ships setting sail for the North American colonies, that sort of thing.”
A well-dressed but distraught-looking young man had approached us meantime and, wringing his hands in a gesture of despair, he addressed us: “Ah, Sir John, thank God you’ve come. I must assure you that nothing of this sort has ever happened here before, sir. This is a most respectful hostelry.”
“So I’ve been given to understand. But tell me, sir, who are you?”
“Oh. Oh, yes, of course, forgive me. My name is Templeton, and I am night manager here.”
“Very good, Mr. Templeton, and was it you who found the body?”
“I. . why, of course not. It was the porter called the situation to my attention.”
“The porter, was it? Then I should like to speak with him.”
“Uh. . yes, of course. Right this way, please.”
And so saying, he did lead us up a staircase which was not nearly so grand as one might expect in such a place. On the floor above, in a corner alcove somewhat removed from the rooms which opened to the hall, we encountered the porter, who sat, polishing shoes.
“Mr. Bailey,” said Sir John, “is this the fellow who came to Bow Street to report the corpus which had been found here?”
“No, sir, it ain’t.”
“I sent the kitchen boy to you,” said Mr. Templeton. “It was easiest to spare him. Uh, will you be needing me further? I ought really to return to my duties downstairs.”
“We may wish to speak to you again, but as for now, you may go. I do ask, however, that you take Constable Bailey with you, that he may learn the room of Eli Bolt.”
“Eli Bolt, sir? I know of no one by that name who — “
“Elijah Bolton? This fellow of whom I speak goes by a number of different names.”
“I fear not, Sir John — unless one with such a name came to be registered during the day.”
“Well, if that be the case, Mr. Bailey has a description of the man. Perhaps between the two of you, there can be some agreement on just who he is and what name he is using. He is suspect in a matter of homicide.”
“Oh, dear me,” said Mr. Templeton, “suicide and now this.”
“Go with him, Mr. Bailey. Explain matters to him.”
The two departed, leaving us alone with the porter, who continued to rub away at the shoe he held tight in one hand.
“What is your name, sir?” Sir John asked.
“Alfred Simmons,” said the porter as he continued to buff the black leather; he barely raised his eyes to the magistrate. There was something insolent in his manner. “What will you from me?”
“Your full attention, for a start,” said the magistrate. “Leave off that brushing, stand up, and address me respectfully, as you did in my court five years past.”
“So you remembers me, do you? I’m surprised at that.” He laid aside shoe and brush and rose to his feet.
“Yes, I remember you quite well, but I also recall that you went by the name of Simon then. Albert Simon, was it?”
“It was, but you brought ruination upon that one, and I had to alter it a bit.”
“It was you ruined your name, and not I, sir. Lucky for you that you restrained yourself and stole no more than a pound. It was your respectful attitude and your convincing promise to make restitution and never again to steal that won you a light sentence.”
“A light sentence served in Newgate is heavier than most men can bear.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“But should you wonder, sir, though I changed my name a bit, I kept my promise. I paid back the pound as soon as I was able, and I’ve not stole since.”
“Glad I am to hear that, particularly since here you are in a situation in which you have ample opportunity for theft.”