“Thank you, Annie. Go along now.”
And with a nod, she took her leave.
I carried the tray up to his bedroom, where I found him on the chamber pot, purging himself of his night water. When he had done, he stood, dropping his nightshirt, and collapsed back into bed.
“Did you sleep well, Sir John?” I asked.
“I suppose I did,” he replied rather impatiently. “For one in my condition it is sometimes difficult to tell.”
“Oh? How is that, sir?”
“Without sight, how can one be absolutely certain whether one is dreaming, or having conscious thoughts?”
I mulled that in my mind as I set the tray down and proceeded to adjust his pillows so that he might comfortably sit up in bed.
“Is it so difficult to distinguish between the two?” I asked.
“Sometimes it is,” said he.
I waited, expecting him to elaborate upon that statement (which to this day puzzles me), yet he did not. So I lifted up the tray table and placed it before him. Upon it, I placed the document which I had drafted and written the night before.
“What is that which you have put there?” He reached out and touched it suspiciously. “Am I now reduced to eating paper?”
“No sir.” I laughed in spite of myself. “It is a letter written in your style. I should like you to sign it, sir.”
“And only then may I have my breakfast?”
“Of course not, Sir John. Here, I’ll put the tray before you now — bread, butter, four rashers of bacon, tea.”
“No, wait,” said he in a manner rather sharp. “Am I allowed to know the contents of this letter?”
“Certainly. It is a letter from you to Mr. Saunders Welch — ”
“Perhaps,” he said, interrupting, ” you had best read it to me.”
And that I did, clearing my throat and reading aloud. “Dear Mr. Welch: As you may have heard, during the discharge of my duties, I suffered a gunshot wound in the shoulder night before last. Yesternoon I conducted my magistrate’s court as usual, but was warned against continuing this by the attending physician, Gabriel Donnelly. And so I fear it is necessary once again to request your help. I ask only that you hear the criminal cases that would ordinarily be heard by me. The rest I shall simply delay until such time as I am once again in possession of my full strength and can resume my duties. Please give your answer in the space below. I remain yours, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Well,” said he, “this is interesting, is it not? I had mentioned my occasional difficulty in distinguishing between the waking and sleeping states. But there are always clews that help me to know. For instance, now that you have read this letter to me, I know that I am dreaming.”
“What’s that, sir?” Was this one of his tricks?
“Indeed, dreaming! For I know very well that in my waking hours I told you just yesterday that I would continue to hear cases at the Bow Street Court. I remember declaring to you the importance of demonstrating to him who shot me that what he did will in no wise interrupt the dispensation of justice. I thought I put that rather well, didn’t you?”
“Why, yes, but — ”
“Now, I know, Jeremy, that you are far too bright a lad to forget what you are told from one day to the next — ergo, I must be dreaming! Only in a dream could circumstances be altered so radically.”
He was making light of me, playing me for a fool. In my boyish way I resented that. Yet far more did I resent his reckless treatment of himself. Did he not know how important he was to us all? What would we do without him? How could London spare him?
“Yes,” said I, ” you made that speech about not interrupting the dispensation of justice, then you went to your courtroom, heard a few cases, then promptly collapsed.”
“I did not collapse,” he replied. “I merely suffered a passing spell of lightheadedness, as I made clear at the time.”
“But why not allow Mr. Welch to take your cases? It is his duty to do so. He should have come to you yesterday and made the offer.”
“Why not indeed! I’ll tell you why. He is, first of all, a bad judge, a poor magistrate, and no more than a few hairs short of corrupt. He would rather fine a murderer than free an innocent man, for there might be money to be squeezed from the innocent.” I had never heard him talk about another in such strong language, certainly neither judge nor magistrate. But there was more: “And as for your last point, Jeremy, you are correct — he should have made the offer. But he did not, which shows us what sort of man he is. That gives me another very good reason to continue to hear cases at Bow Street.”
“And what is that?” By this time the two of us were fair shouting one at the other.
“It should be obvious: Because he did not volunteer, it would be completely inappropriate for me to ask it of him. I will not beg from one such as he.”
“But … but … but …” I sputtered and fumed, yet there was no more to be said. I, at least, could think of naught. “All right,” said I. “Consider the letter withdrawn. The matter is closed.”
With that, I picked up the tray and delivered it to Sir John. “Your breakfast,” said I as I slammed it down before him.
“Would you pour my tea, please?” said he, apparently once more as unperturbed as when I first entered the room.
I mumbled some sort of assent and did as he asked. Once I had done, I set about buttering his bread.
“It was well writ,” said he.
“Pardon? What was?”
“The letter to that fellow, Welch.”
“What? Oh … that … well … thank you.”
“My objections had to do solely with its content.”
“Yes, of course, I understand.”
“Well, I hope you do. I do hope I’ve made my reasons clear. But sit down, won’t you, Jeremy?”
I grabbed a chair and pulled it over to beside the bed. As I seated myself, I noted that he had begun to munch upon his breakfast, a chunk of buttered bread in one hand and a rasher of bacon in the other. I waited until he had swallowed. Only then did he speak.
“First of all,” said he, “about that theory which you voiced last evening.”
“Yes sir?”
“Interesting, truly interesting, but I believe you are but half right. Where you err, I think, is suggesting that that huge theft was planned and executed solely — or even chiefly — to bring me forth as a target. Their haul from Lord Lilley’s was far too rich to be considered a mere exercise for such a purpose.
“But to me, it seems,” he continued, “that you are quite right about the rest. Which is to say, whoever organized this robbery — and there is something familiar about the manner of it — was certainly eager to use it to bring me there. I agree that he who reported it was probably sent there specifically to make sure I came. Well, I did come, and we know the result. And so I must ask you to stand again, pistols by your sides, through today’s court session.”
“I will. I’ll be there.”
“And what had you planned in the way of furthering the investigation?”
What indeed? I had given some thought to it — though perhaps not sufficient, so intent was I upon dissuading Sir John from sitting his court as usual. But I put before him what had occurred to me.
“Well, sir,” said I, “two avenues of investigation seemed possible, but I fear I know not how to pursue them — not in any practical way, that is. The first would be to find out what I can about Walter Travis, the man who was left dead by the robbers. If he had a criminal past, as Mr. Burley suspected, then knowing more of him might lead us to those who killed him — and perhaps tell us why.”
“A reasonable assumption,” said he. “I’d talk to Mr. Marsden about that. Though Travis is no doubt an alias, Marsden may have heard some stories about who left criminal pursuits for a life in service. The novelty of that would assure that it would be circulated up and down Bedford Street. A good story is long remembered. Oh, and talk to Mr. Bailey, too,” added Sir John. “He got a look at the fellow, did he not?”
“He did, sir — and I’ll do all that you suggest. But about that second avenue I mentioned …”