fever by the end of the day.”
Mr. Perkins gave me a wink and a nod, which I took to mean that I might leave now. I answered with a nod of my own.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said I to Mr. Parker, ”I’ll be on my way.”
With that and a bobbing bow, I left the room. It so happened, though, that the cowardly innkeeper was below, assembling the writing materials the surgeon had called for. He raised a hand to me, beckoning me to him ere I walked out the door. I went to him. Apparently he wished to tell me something, but knew not quite how to do it. He made a false start or two.
“Perhaps you could … I would like to explain … that is to say…” Then did he stop altogether and collect himself before proceeding. ”I would ask, lad, that you not judge me too harshly. What I told you is the truth, no less than if I’d given it under oath. Mind, I’m none too proud of my behavior, as I’ve described it to you. Nevertheless, I’d have you know that I was afeared for my very life. I vow that I’ve never been so close to death before. You do understand, don’t you?”
I knew not what to say. If he were asking for my approval, I would certainly withhold it. If he were asking for absolution-forgiveness-as those in the Romish faith are said to ask it of their priests, then I could not grant it, for such power had not been given me. Yet the innkeeper was asking for much less, was he not? He wanted only my understanding, and that much I could certainly offer him.
“Yes,” said I, ”I do understand.”
Then did he look me in the eye for the first time since he had beckoned me over. And quite at a loss for something more to say, he simply nodded.
Outside, I saw that there was light in the east and realized I had labored in a good cause the whole night through.
I wondered at the sense of exhilaration which I felt. Whence came it? It had been near twenty-four hours since last I slept-or perhaps even longer. Why was I not tired, exhausted by all I had seen and done? How long could I thus continue as fresh as I might feel had I just rolled out of bed? Though day was breaking, there was yet no one to be seen upon the street. So, since there was neither man nor woman to be seen upon High Street, I gave full rein to these exuberant feelings and began running down the street, my footsteps clattering down upon the cobblestones, my reflection appearing and disappearing in the windows of the finest shops in Deal. Then did I turn down King and up Middle Street. And of a sudden came the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Nay, it was more than a feeling, but rather an awful, frightening certitude. I slowed to a fast walk that I might hear better. And what was there to hear? Naught in that first hour of daylight but a woman’s voice, moaning and softly wailing. I went directly to Number 18, for there was not the slightest doubt but that these sad sounds did come from there. What I saw would be enough to rend any stout heart in two.
The door to the house was wide open, yet the space was filled by the body of Albert Sarton-plainly he was dead. Kneeling above and hugging his inert form to her as best she could was Molly Sarton; she sighed and sobbed in a manner so resigned that it seemed she might never stop. Sir John bent over her, his hands upon her shoulders. Supporting her? Certainly. Attempting to draw her away? Perhaps. I approached them slowly and uncertainly, oddly unwilling to let them know of my presence. It came to me then that, quite unexpectedly, I felt quite tired-truly exhausted.
SEVEN
For the most part, during the years I had known him, Sir John Fielding had been a man of placid disposition. Oh, he had bad days, of course, as any man will. He could grow cross or tetchy, or occasionally take offense when none was intended. Nevertheless, I insist that for a man of his position and time he was remarkably even- tempered.
The only true exception I must make to this is that period in Deal, of which I now shall write. From the time of Mr. Sarton’s murder until our departure from the town, Sir John seemed to be in a state of extreme anger. Even in his relations with Molly Sarton, the widow, which were of the most kind and cordial nature, there seemed some part of him beneath the surface which seethed with rage. It was as if he had on his mind one matter and one alone. He would break long silences with remarks such as this: ”An attack upon an officer of the court, even one so lowly as an ordinary magistrate, is an attack upon the law itself, which is the very structure which supports our society.” (I recall that being said in the course of the long coach ride from Gravesend, of which you will hear anon.) And he spent more than one sleepless night ruminating at length and aloud upon the perfidy of the ordinary people of Deal, that they would happily tolerate the smuggling trade and its attendant crimes so long as they shared materially in its benefits. Or, another favorite topic during these nocturnal rants: the evil of our immoral age, in which human life was given so little respect and taken with so little regard. ”Was it always so?” he would say. Then would he answer, ”Yes, alas, it was always so.”
He would boil over. He would fulminate. And in between such eruptions and explosions, he brooded furiously. His only remedy was work. It was by doing what had to be done-and more-that he managed to maintain some degree of equanimity. And only when, through cunning and clever planning, his work succeeded did he become, in some sense, his old self.
Putting aside the matter of comforting the widow, who was so utterly distraught that I thought for a moment she might never regain her composure, there was much of a practical nature which should be attended to by me. Sir John managed to persuade her to come away from the corpus so that I might move it and close the door.
“Go to the kitchen,” said he to her. ”I’ll join you there as soon as I am able. Please, Mrs. Sarton, it is the only way under the circumstances. You must see that, do you not?”
Reluctantly she rose and-in a voice husky with tears- managed an affirmative reply of some sort. Then, even more reluctantly, she started down the long hall. Unable to turn her back upon the dead body of her husband, she kept turning round as she went, as if to convince herself that what she had seen were really so-and yet hoping it were not.
Soon she was out of earshot. Sir John turned to me then, his face contorted by extreme emotion. Feeling for my hand, he found it, and squeezed it with such strength I near cried out in surprise.
“Now, Jeremy, you must describe to me the condition of the body whilst still it lies as it fell.”
That I did, beginning with its position, which was much further out upon the doorstep than I would have expected, face down, bent at the knees, with arms outstretched. Had he meant to attack his killer?
“His hands are empty?” asked Sir John. ”He has no weapon?”
“No,” said I, ”no weapon of any sort.”
“Look about the body to be sure.”
I did as he told me. ”No, nothing.”
“How is he dressed? For bed?”
“Oh, no, he’s dressed as he was when last I saw him- when we brought by our prisoners and informed him of the success of our operation.” Only then did I remember what I had come to tell. ”But Sir John, I came to inform you of the terrible-”
Somewhat chastened by his reproving tone, I lowered my voice. ”No, sir. He is in waistcoat and shirtsleeves.”
“I take it there is a candle burning in the small room to our right?”
“There is, yes.”
“You have been in that room a number of times,” said he to me. ”Tell me, is it possible to see who is at the door from inside it?”
“No, it would probably not be possible-from the window behind the desk-unless the visitor wished to be seen.”
