As I stepped into the room and closed the door, I felt the eyes of both girls upon me. There could be no doubt that the looks I received from them were of the accusatory sort. I wondered at this, for I could think of naught that I had done to offend either one. I felt a strong impulse to get away as quickly as ever I could. Toward that end, I bobbed my head in greeting and made swiftly for the steps which led to Sir John’s bedroom. Thus I hoped to escape whatever trap had been laid for me: Get in and get out quickly, and say as little as possible. But I hesitated at the bottom step. Would Lady Kate be in her bedroom, or …? I decided that I had better ask.
When I put the question to them, I was informed by Clarissa in quite frigid tones that Lady Katherine had been called to the Magdalene Home. Before she could say more, I thanked her and rushed up the stairs and into the bedroom shared by master and mistress, in search of Sir John’s sling.
It was, to be honest, an untidy room. Clothes — most of them Lady Kate’s — were tossed about on the chairs; a frock hung from the open door of the wardrobe; and the bed was unmade. It was plain that the two in the kitchen, whose duty it was to tend to this room, had so far neglected it. Ah well, it was Sunday; much could be forgiven on a Sunday — though it took a minute or two. I located the makeshift sling that Mr. Donnelly had arranged for Sir John’s left arm, the sling which Sir John seldom wore except in the surgeon’s presence. I found it hung over the bedpost. With it in hand, I ducked out of the room, careful to close the door behind me, and made my way down to the kitchen. I hoped to get past the two girls before they could engage me in argument, controversy, make accusations, or otherwise impede me on my way back to Sir John.
Vain hope. I had not even reached them at the table when Annie bounded out of her chair and pointed her finger at me. Then, with an angry face and a voice all choked from weeping, she said, “It was you, Jeremy!” I stopped. Still she pointed. She was like some storybook witch pronouncing a curse.
“It was I who … whatV I asked in all innocence.
Clarissa rose to stand beside Annie; I noted that she was near half a head taller. “I think you know very well,” said she to me, nodding solemnly.
“I know nothing of the kind,” I yelped in frustration. “What is it that you say I’ve done?”
“It was you led us down Little Jermyn Street so that that horrible fat man might look upon Robert and tell his horrible lies,” cried Annie.
“I may have done, but I had no such dark design in mind. I had no design at all!”
“So you say/’ said Clarissa with what seemed suspiciously like a sneer. (Why did she always seem so eager to believe the worst of me?) “Annie swears that your usual route is along Pall Mall, as it is hers.”
“Well, there you have the why of it,” said I. “I was tired of walking the same old route, bored with it. It’s as simple as that.”
“It’s not simple at all.” Annie stamped her foot. “Mr. Burnham may die because you were bored with it.”
Then I spoke out stupidly in exasperation: “Well, if he dies, it will be his own fault. It will be a form of self-murder, suicide, if you will.”
“Jeremy!” Clarissa squawked, “How can you say such a thing?”
For a moment I wondered at that, too. Nevertheless, I attempted to justify myself: “I say that because he has only to tell Sir John where he was on the night in question to be free of suspicion.”
“He has told where he was. Why will you not believe him?”
“Because,” said I, “he lied.”
“How can you say that?” Annie demanded.
“Because I caught him in the lie.”
“So it is your word against his?” said Clarissa. “You wish to see him convicted so that you may shine in Sir John’s eyes as having closed this case by yourself. Is that it?”
“No!” I shouted. “I wish him only to tell the truth, as Sir John does. We support him. Yet unless he tells the truth, he will convict himself. And that, to me, is a form of suicide.”
Annie raised her hand most dramatically. Then did she speak out in a manner equally dramatic: “That matters naught to me,” said she. “I care not that he has lied. It would matter not to me if it were proved that he had truly robbed that disgusting fat man. All that matters to me is my love for him.”
Oh dear, thought I, this is sure to be difficult. “If all you suggest were true, he will be convicted,” said I, trying to reason with her. “But … but … well, if he is, Sir John would certainly recommend transportation. The judges usually follow his recommendations in such circumstances.”
“Then I shall follow him wherever he is sent — just to be near him.” She walked slowly to the steps which led upstairs; to her room, presumably
“And if — though there is little chance of it — if he is sentenced to death?”
“Then I shall join him in death. I cannot live without him.” She started slowly up the steps — a tragic heroine. Or perhaps Ophelia — she was acting a bit mad, or so it seemed to me. As she disappeared, I turned to Clarissa with a look that must have expressed the bewilderment I felt.
Clarissa, for her part, had a tear glistening in each eye. “Did you hear her?” she asked. “Was that not the most beautiful, the most romantic speech ever anyone did speak?”
I sighed. “Yes,” said I — for how could I say what I truly thought? “I suppose so.” And with that, a deep sigh did escape from me.
I fled the kitchen before Clarissa could comment further, descending the stairs three at a time, and jumping to a halt when I reached the ground floor. I looked about and saw that the strongroom was empty and that Mr. Fuller was nowhere in sight. This meant that Sir John was questioning Mr. Burnham as he might a common criminal — that is, with a guard present. I approached his chambers quietly — yet I needn’t have, for Sir John’s voice, seldom truly soft, seemed to thunder forth from the room at the end of the hall. I doubt that any of the three men present there could have heard my step had I stamped my feet the entire distance. Yet I did not wish to be heard. I took a place on the bench outside the open door.
It was, after all, Sir John’s purpose to intimidate Mr. Burnham, to break down his resistance, to reduce him — if possible — to a quivering mass of porridge. I had heard and seen him do as much to many a footpad and cutthroat. Villains who would fight to the death when cornered would, under his relentless badgering, simply crumble completely; a few of the worst had even burst into tears. I fully expected Sir John to work the same sort of destructive transformation upon Robert Burnham; the only difference I anticipated was that rather than a confession, in this instance, an alibi was sought. I pitied the victim in advance. My regard for Mr. Burnham was such that I had no wish to be physically present at his humiliation; my curiosity, however, forced me to listen.
To my surprise, however, the tutor was made of stronger stuff than ever I had expected. Sir John’s usual mode, in situations of this sort, was to begin in a reasonably friendly manner and gradually to grow sterner and more severe, to feign anger, and finally, to rage forth in accusation and demand the truth. Far more often than not, it was given him. Because of my delay upstairs with Annie and Clarissa, I seemed to have missed his opening, for by the time I arrived, he had moved into the second, more severe, phase. Sitting on the bench with no view through the door, I could well imagine his glowering countenance as he asked: “When did you learn to ride?” “Do you enjoy it?” “Have you continued riding while here in London?” “You say you go out ‘occasionally, ‘ but surely two or three times a week and always on Sunday would be described as more frequent than ‘occasionally,’ would it not?”
Mr. Burnham had been rather forthcoming up to that point, but w r hen Sir John asked to know where he went on “these occasional rides which took place three, even four times a week and always on Sunday,” he was answered with absolute silence. “Who do you see?” Silence. “What is the purpose of these rides?” Silence.