“Oh, I was, and I am,” said he. “I thought him quite marvelous in that last matter, the one to do with the whore. He quite took her accuser apart, did he not?”
“As you say,” said I, stepping ahead to lead the way through the door to the court’s “backstage” area — the strongroom, the armory, Mr. Marsden’s alcove with its files and boxes of court records, et cetera. To all of this my young colleague gave close attention. I ushered him swiftly to the room at the end of the hall. The door stood open to us. I knocked upon it, identifying myself and my companion, and Sir John bade us enter.
“Sir,” said I, “may I present Archibald Talley?”
“You may, Jeremy, and pleased I am to meet your young friend.” Sir John rose and offered his hand, which was taken and shaken politely by young Talley. We were then invited to seat ourselves, and the two of them began to talk.
Theirs was a pleasant conversation rather than one of true substance. The visitor praised to excess the magistrate’s handling of the Nancy Hawken case, Sir John, for his part, made little of the matter, insisting that all credit was due to her. “I daresay,” said he, “that formula she stated — how did it go? — she offers her time and consent and nothing more — that should prove worth remembering, don’t you think?” He mused silently for a moment, then added: “I think it interesting how many matters, even criminal cases, turn on questions of contract — just as this one did.” Being blind, Sir John could not then see the look of near bafflement that appeared on Talley ’s face. Yet correctly interpreting the lack of response from him as signifying lack of understanding, he tactfully changed the subject of their discussion.
“Benjamin Talley is your uncle, is he not?” asked Sir John. “You have begun reading law with him, have you?”
“I have, sir.”
“By all reports, he is a good Chancery judge. I have heard naught against him. And there are few — perhaps none — of whom that can be said.”
“He also has a high opinion of you, sir.”
“That is always good to hear, “ said Sir John in a manner somewhat complacent. (He was a man who knew his own worth.) “But tell me, what is your object in reading the law — that is to say what plan have you for your future? Your uncle might be of assistance in procuring a judgeship for you, but that can be only much in the future. You will need courtroom experience — as a barrister, I assume?”
“Oh, I suppose so, yes.” This was said with a singular lack of enthusiasm. “But neither, really, fits into my plans as a course I wish to follow.”
“Well, what, then?”
I, too, wanted to know, reader, for I had ever assumed that Archibald Talley’s interest in the law was like unto my own, and to me the law had always meant the courtroom — the drama of it, the combat. I was naturally curious regarding his plans and wondered why I myself had not before heard of them.
“I’ve my eye set on Parliament,” said Talley in a manner most confident.
“Ah, you have, have you?” Was there something challenging in Sir John’s tone? Yes, indeed there was.
“In general, my father is behind me in this, yet he insists I have some means of supporting myself in the event that I’m not successful. Oh, I quite agree that what he insists upon is the prudent course — but reading law is, you must admit, rather a dreary business.
“Oh, it has its rewards for those of a certain turn of mind,” said Sir John. “But do tell me how you plan to make your beginning in politics. Will you simply announce your interest to the world? “
“Well, the beginning should not be so terribly difficult, for Papa has promised to buy me a good, safe Tory seat just as soon as one becomes available following my majority. But after that, says he, I shall be on my own. It will be my responsibility to hold on to it ever after.”
“And if you fail in that, you have always the law to fall back upon. A judgeship, perhaps? In a pinch, I suppose you might even accept an appointment as magistrate.”
“Oh, I doubt that should be necessary,” said Talley with a smile. “Once I’ve made my entry into politics, I intend to remain.”
“Well, then,” said Sir John, rising of a sudden from his chair, “I applaud your sense of purpose but offer a word of caution. Be not too certain of the future, for fate has a way of offering us willy-nilly that which we least expect. So was it in my life, and so it may be in your own.” Then, with a nod, he added, “Pleasant as this has been, young Mr. Talley, I fear I must put an end to our chat. I have letters to dictate, and Jeremy is, as you may know, my chief scribe. In my blindness I depend upon him greatly.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Archibald Talley, fairly jumping to his feet. “You must forgive me for overstaying my leave somewhat. I was quite fascinated by our conversation. And I do thank you for allowing me to attend your magistrate’s court. I found it” — he hesitated — “most entertaining.”
“Hmm, well, thank you, I suppose. Jeremy, will you see your young friend out?”
As I did so, I found myself brooding upon that word “friend” with which Sir John had described Talley and his relation to me. My young friend? Was he truly? I was sore embarrassed by what he had said in the course of their conversation, and indeed before. He had not only denigrated Sir Johns position as magistrate, he had also spoken dismissively of the law as a profession. I certainly believed and had heard from others that Sir John deserved better than what he had gotten — yet he was no ordinary magistrate: He had made the heart of London safe, and, with the help of the constables who made up the Bow Street Runners, had kept it so; he had been knighted; his powers of investigation and interrogation were such that even Judge Benjamin Talley was made aware of them. And, well, as for belittling the law, that seemed to me pure folly, and I must tell Mr. Talley so sometime. In fact, I determined that I must discuss a good many things with him. But I knew that this was not the time. I felt it best to get him out the door as quickly as ever I could.
It was easily done. Though he blattered on as I led him to the door which led to Bow Street, he seemed to expect no response from me to anything he said, so content was he to listen to the sound of his own voice. As it happened, when we parted at the door, he wished me a simple “good day” and made his way quickly out into the street.
I then hastened back to Sir John.
Tapping on the door I had left open, I called out to him that I had returned and asked if he wished now to dictate the letters. I confess that I was somewhat taken aback at the vehemence of his reply.
“Jeremy I give neither a farthing nor a fart whether we write the letters now or later. What I want from you, lad — and want most immediate — is a promise from you that you will not ever again bring that. . that puffed-up, self-satisfied child of privilege into my presence again.”
“Why, sir, you have it,” said I. “In truth, I believe I was as pained by him as you were annoyed.”
“Mind you,” said he, “I do not forbid you to see the fellow. That is your affair — though why or how you should expect to learn anything in the company of such a blockhead I cannot suppose.”
“Blockhead, sir?”
“Indeed! He had no understanding of my remark regarding contracts. Surely you, Jeremy, saw what I was getting at. “
“Yes, Sir John. The two of them — Mr. Pyle and Mistress Hawken — had entered into a contract of sorts, yet each had differing notions of the terms of the contract.”
“Bravo! Put right to the point. I daresay that fellow Talley has given no thought to contracts whatever. Perhaps his uncle has not yet mentioned them to him.” At which point he loosed an abrupt laugh before continuing: “Then was I unwise enough to ask about his ambitions and plans in the law — and what did I learn? That the law is not sufficiently entertaining to hold his interest. It s politics. Ah, wouldn’t it be so?”
“Who is his father that he may buy for him a seat in Parliament? I didn’t know they were for sale.”