Though the butler was absent, I saw no need to wait for him to open the door for his master. I hauled it open and pulled it back. Quite heavy it was, too.
“Good God, where is Charles?” asked Mr. Zondervan more or less rhetorically.
As if in answer came the sound of running feet, then appeared the butler, jog-trotting for all he was worth.
“Too late, Charles, this young man has usurped your position, I fear. He opens the door with great authority.”
“Sorry, sir, I was delayed in back there with the porters.”
“Ah well, the coach will no doubt soon appear.”
“At any moment, sir.”
And indeed in the very next moment it did come, rattling, rumbling, clop-clop-clopping into view. The driver reined in the four horses before the house, and the footman was down in a trice to throw open the door to the carriage. Mr. Zondervan strode past me and was already down the steps before he turned round to look for me.
“Come along, young man — unless it is that you would prefer to walk.”
“By no means, sir,” said I and ran in pursuit.
I have no idea how at that moment I happened to remember, nor what trick of the mind then came into play, but it was precisely then, as I scrambled up and into the interior of the coach that I realized whose voice I had heard in the vestibule. It belonged to none other than Constable Will Patley, the most recently recruited of the Bow Street Runners.
In the event, the meeting between Sir John and Mr. Zondervan was something of a disappointment — or so it seemed to me. The two got on famously. Whereas I expected Sir John to launch into a merciless interrogation of the Dutchman, all I heard from the magistrate’s chambers was the sound of laughter. How could he be taken in by him in such a way?
Later it occurred to me that my expectations were rather unrealistic. After all, what more had he to rely upon than my suspicions that Mr. Zondervan was indeed the ruthless Dutch trader that Moses Martinez had described to me in such peculiar fashion? (And later, much later, I discovered that he had a good deal more than that to rely upon — but I anticipate somewhat.) Leave it that having done my part in persuading Mr. Zondervan to visit Sir John, I expected for insufficient reason that some great result would come from the meeting. And so in my frustrated state, I felt relieved when at last I detected sounds indicating the Dutchman’s imminent departure; chairs scraped across the floor as their occupants rose; the laughter ceased; their voices deepened in cordial farewell.
As both men appeared at the door to the magistrate’s chambers, I rose from the bench nearby. Sir John summoned me to them.
“Jeremy,” said he, “would you accompany this gentleman to his coach?”
Then did the gentleman in question make his final farewell in phrases so fawning and insincere that I now find that I have expunged them totally from my memory. All I can now recall is that I suddenly experienced a profound wish to gag.
I fought it off, however, and in respectful silence conveyed our guest to the door, and through it to the street. There he paused before his waiting coach and offered me a smile.
“I wish to thank you, young sir. I spent a very pleasant hour with your Sir John Fielding. I found him a charming old character, not in the least impeded by — how did you call it? — his affliction.”
We said our goodbyes, and I, once more feeling my gorge rising, retreated swiftly through the door. When I reached Sir John, I found him once more at his desk and chuckling still.
“Jeremy, come in, come in,” said he. “What did you think of him — this fellow Zondervan? Very amusing, very entertaining, couldn’t you say/
Well, you certainly seemed to find him so,” said I, a bit cross. “I’ve seldom heard such laughter come from this room.”
“I believe I laughed as much at our situation as what was said.”
“And what was the situation?”
“Each of us was trying to convince the other that he was different from what he might seem.”
“I don’t quite follow,” said I.
“Quite simple. He seemed to me to be rather large — at least tall. Have I got him right so far?”
“You do, yes.”
“And there was a bit of vanity crept into his voice, in spite of himself. And so I should say he is rather handsome, or fancies himself so. Altogether, he thinks himself superior to the rest of us. Did you see some of that?”
“I did,” I said. “I’d say you have him to the life.”
“And yet that tall, handsome fellow who believes he is one of nature’s noblemen comes before me and seeks to convince me that he is nothing more or less than a jolly Dutchman. And I, at the same time, do my best to convince him that I am naught but a … a …”
“A charming old character?”
“Right you are! A codger, an eccentric, a …” He stopped. “But whence came that ‘charming old character’ phrase?”
“Where indeed!” said I. “From Mr. Zondervan, just as he departed.”
“Perfect!” he gloated, all but rubbing his hands with glee. “But I bested him! He let drop a few things he would not have said to one he held less in contempt.”
I judged from this that Sir John held him seriously suspect. This, then, was the time to bring forth the observations I had made while in the house in St. James Street. I proceeded to do so, describing the empty picture gallery and the cloth covers thrown over the furniture, the general air of a household in transition.
“There was a good deal of hammering and sawing, and the sound of boxes dragged about,” said I. “The butler claimed that it was no more than spring housecleaning. Nevertheless, I am certain that they were preparing to make a move.”
“Yes, well, most interesting, I must admit.” He said it in that musing, dismissive manner that quite drove me mad.
And so I vowed that I would present the next bit of news I had for him in such a way that he would be unable to dismiss it in his usual manner. I thought how I might engage his interest.
“Sir John,” said I then in a tone of great importance, ” you will never guess who was there at Zondervan’s residence.”
“You are right, Jeremy, I will never guess that, for as you know — or should know by now — I do not indulge in such childish practices as guessing. Now, if you have something to tell me, by all means do so. You have my complete attention.”
“Do you wish me to tell you, or no?” I fear I sounded quite petulant, for I was rather distressed at that moment.
“I have said so, have I not?”
Having gone thus far, there was naught for me to do but continue. And so I described to him where I was when I heard Constable Patley’s voice, and how I heard it; which is to say, as a song without words. Sir John did indeed listen carefully, and when I had done, he seemed for a few moments to be at a loss for words. On such rare occasions, it was difficult to divine just what he might be thinking.
But then he shrugged rather grandly, and I could tell that he had decided to deal with it as lightly as possible. “Ah well, those old houses, you know,” said he, “they play tricks upon your ears. If you had stood in some other spot, the same voice might have sounded exactly like Clarissa’s or even mine.” At that he laughed abruptly, as if the very idea were so outlandish that it amused him greatly.
“I do not believe, sir, that Mr. Zondervan’s house is particularly old.”
“Ah well, some of the new ones also have such faults. But let us get on to more serious matters, shall we? I have here a letter that must go out by today’s post. In your absence, Mr. Marsden took it in dictation for me. Will you take it to the post coach house, Jeremy?”
We had done with our sparring. “Of course I will, sir.”
He pushed it from its corner across the desk toward me. I reached over and took it, turned it over, and saw that it was addressed to the chief customs officer, Gravesend, Kent. Below that, written in red, as Mr. Marsden so often liked, was the single word, “urgent.” I could not suppose, nor even imagine, what matter Sir John might have with the chief of customs down at the mouth of the Thames. But I would ask no more questions. I would simply go where I was sent, and do what I was told, like a good errand boy.