“Have I aimed us aright?” asked Sir John.
“Straight as an arrow,” said I.
His stick waving, slightly extended, he found the gate and rattled the bars sharply. A man appeared, so ill clothed and in need of shaving that I at first took him to be a prisoner; yet he was the gatekeeper.
“Well, look ye here, it’s Sir John Fielding come to pay a visit,” said he. He produced a ring of keys and jammed the largest of them home. “Bring us a guest for the keeping, did ye?”
With a shock, I realized that he referred to me. Was this to be my punishment for hooking up Lucy Kilbourne’s bare back?
“By no means,” said Sir John, relieving me greatly. “We are come to confer with one sent to you two days past: Dick Dillon by name.”
“Well, we’ll look him up on the list and have you with him quick- like. One thing about the Sheriff’s Hotel, we always know where our guests is staying.”
The gate was thrown open, and we entered. We were brought to the gate house where the list was produced and the name of Benjamin Bailey’s attacker found. A warder was summoned as our guide. He, only slightly more presentable than the gatekeeper, led us across a considerable courtyard and into the gaol proper, joking all the way as he chided Sir John for failing to fulfill some supposed quota. “How can you be so remiss?” said he quite boldly. “Us poor fellows depend on such as you send us for our livelihoods!” Then he cackled loudly, as though he had made a great jest.
Sir John was not amused. “Though it may be so,” said he, “I would that it were not.”
The warder continued cackling and giggling as he led us into the darkness. Ah yes, dark it was, the only light apparent coming from a few candles stuck here and about, and a torch at the end of the corridor. Though cloudy without and no sign of sunshine, it took me many moments to adjust my view to the all-pervading murk inside. And once the scene was visible, I wished that it was not, for along one side behind iron bars was a great common chamber of inmates, male and female. A few rushed to look upon us. Others lay inert on pallets against the wall. But the most ignored us, continuing their talk and browsing about among themselves, inured to indifference by all that did not directly affect them. And poor wretches they all were, clamoring for attention, moaning their woes, and snarling and laughing in a way that made both seem the same.
Hands were thrust through the bars at us as their owners begged at us for coins. Money, as I was later instructed, was all that mattered in Newgate. One or two grabbed at my coat. I shrank back in fear, making my way in a creep along the wall. The candlelight flickering on the contorted faces lent an aspect not quite human to them. Sir John was recognized. His name was called, importuning and in simple greeting, and once with a curse. Yet he plunged on, acknowledging none, driven as I was by the desire to get past this incarcerated mob.
But the smell, dear God, the stink of it! Any barnyard I’ve been in has smelt better, for there is something about human ordure that is more offensive to the nose than that of any other animal. Nor was that all, for added to it was an effluvium of decay that made me wonder, upon reflection, if some of those sleeping along the wall might not be dead; and if dead, how long.
“What you got here,” said the warder, once we were past, “is your common felons—them as is serving short terms or waiting trial on lesser charges. Some waits a long time, it seems.” This seemed to be said for my instruction, for it was given me with a wink and a cackle. We had come to the spot where the torch burned. From it, a dark flight of stairs led to a level above. “The Master Felons Ward is up these stairs. They is all waiting trial on capital offenses. Your man Dillon is there.”
With that, he pulled a candle from his coat pocket and lit it from the torch. Holding it aloft, he began his ascent and we behind him, I taking up the rear.
“There’s not so many in this section,” the warder called out, “and they’re a quieter lot. Something to be quiet about, Fd hazard.”
We emerged at the next level where it was not only quieter, but also a bit lighter. A torch burned; there were candles about, and there was also light streaming in from outside through two narrow windows placed together halfway down the corridor. This gave me a better view of those beyond the bars. There were perhaps a dozen there, among them two women who stood together in idle conversation. Two men sat against the wall, staring vacantly at some distant point. The rest were grouped together, sitting on the straw-scattered floor, drinking from cups, talking in low tones amongst themselves.
There had been but a single warder stationed on the floor below. The Master Felons Ward merited two. Our man went over to one of them and informed him of Sir John’s mission. Dick Dillon’s name was called out, twice and loudly. At last a man in the group, one with his back toward us, bestirred himself, pitched himself up to stand unsteadily on his feet, then staggered over in our direction.
A foolish smile of triumph spread over his slack features. “Well,” said he, “it’s the bleak, I mean the beak, I mean the blind beak. Ain’t this an honor to be visited here by the magistrate himself!”
“You’re drunk,” said Sir John.
“That’s as concerns me and not you, ain’t it? I had my turn before you, and once was enough. So if I chooses to imbibe myself a bit of gin from the Newgate taproom, it is my right to do so and no matter of yours.”
“Perhaps I can make it my matter. Perhaps I can have your gin taken away.”
“Not likely, not as long as I got money to pay.”
“You could be relieved of that.”
“Let them try.”
With a bit of effort, Dillon pulled himself up to his full height, which was considerable, made two fists before him, and growled down deep in his throat as he looked from one warder to the next. And then he laughed.
“Warders?”
“Yes, Sir John?” said the two in chorus.
“Be gone. I would talk to the prisoner in private.”
They looked at each other, frowning. One of them shrugged. The other, our guide, removed his tricorn and scratched his head.
“If we are to do that,” said he, “I must ask you. Sir John, to step back a good arm’s length from the bars, for I must remind you it was you put him here.”
“No, warder,” said Sir John, stepping back as requested, “he put himself here, but now we have matters to discuss, and they are not for general knowledge.”
“As you say. Sir John.” He seemed a bit reluctant.
But the two removed themselves some considerable distance away. Sir John then turned in my direction.
“Jeremy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have they gone? Can they hear?”
“I would say that if you talk in your present voice, they cannot hear.”
“Now, you, too, must step back, for the advice that was given was well given.”
I did as he directed, and having heard, he nodded. Dillon once more growled, and once more he laughed.
“You do well to laugh in your situation,” said Sir John.
“I ain’t such a bad sort.”
“Perhaps not, without a cutlass in your hand. This was, after all, your first arrest.”
“Damned if it weren’t! And that little whoreson-bastard cheated at cards, or I’d not gone after him as I did. I did no murder on him, though he fair deserved it.”
“So you consider yourself unjustly here?”
“Yes, in a manner of speakin’, your magistrate, so I do.”
“Even though you lied at the time of your arrest?”
Dillon took great offense at that. He stretched out far through the bars, grasping at air, arms flailing at the two of us. Yet we were both just beyond his reach. At last he relaxed and drew back his long, strong arms.
“Dick Dillon don’t cheat at cards, and he don’t lie,” he declared. “Did I not give my rightful name? My place of abode?”
“True enough,” said Sir John quite mild, “but in the arrest report you gave yourself as unemployed.”
“And so I am! Or so I was.”
“Oh? What was then your relationship with Lord Richard Goodhope?”
There was a pause, a silence from Dillon, when only a moment before the exchange between them had been most lively. When at last Dillon spoke up, he seemed to be choosing his words as carefully as his gin-addled brains allowed.
“I was his former footman,” said he to Sir John. He added, with pride, “I did all the heavy hauling.”
“That’s as it may be,” said Sir John, “but when were you last paid by him?”
After that question, Dillon seemed to withdraw somewhat inside himself. There was much to be learned from his face as he stood before us. He worked slowly from defense, to suspicion, to hostility. “Yes, your magistrate,” said he, “I sees what you’re about. And you’ll not trap me. No, you’ll not trap Dick Dillon.”
Sir John persisted in his line of questioning: “You left his employ quite suddenly. What was the reason?”
“You are tryin’ to get from me for gratis what I shall only sell dear,” said Dillon. “We talked of this in your court. I wish transportation. I own I got information of interest to your magistrate. But I peach on no one, give no story to you or to anyone, unless it is I got a firm promise of transportation.”
“Life on the plantations can be hard,” said Sir John.
“I’ll take my chances, so I will. And I prefer it to the other.”
“As would any man,” agreed Sir John. “But hear me through on this, Dick Dillon, for your very life may depend upon it. No magistrate can give absolute warrant that his recommendation will be followed, yet I have given my recommendations for leniency in the past, and they have never been ignored. I promise you faithfully, Dick Dillon, that I, John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, will pass to Lord Mansfield, chief justice of the King’s Bench, my recommendation for transportation, rather than hanging, if you, in turn, provide me with material information dealing with the death of Lord Goodhope. What say you to that?”
“What say I to that? I says, can you put it in writing?”
“There is no need. My word is my bond,” said Sir John. “But something I must add to what I have already said, and it is this: Your information, whatever it may be, must be directly forthcoming, for the inquiry continues apace and may soon be concluded. I expect it to be. Should what you have to give come late, say, at the time of your trial before the King’s Bench, then there will be no need for it, and no need for me to make any recommendation whatsoever. Is this clear to you?”
Dillon glowered at Sir John. “Clear,” said he. “Yes, it’s clear.”
“I have but one question for you before we go further. Does this information you have to give directly involve you in the matter of murder? For if so, I must say in all fairness, I cannot help you. So you see? I plav right with you. I lay before you the limits of my power. Now how say you?”
“I was not involved in no murder. I never committed no murder.”
“I accept that,” said Sir John. “You may then proceed.”
An interminably long moment followed, in which Dillon fought with himself and who knew what adversary. Again, in his face the conflict was clear. But there was what I had not read before, something of fear: strange to see in a man so large and powerful. At the last moment he seemed about to vield, but at last he shook his head.
He then spoke: “Sir John, at this moment my wits is fogged with drink. Your offer is a fair one, I vow, but I must have time to think on it sober. Will you give me that?”
“What works on you so?” asked Sir John. “What have you to fear?”
Dillon looked about him, as though pondering the possibilities. “Dick Dillon fears naught,” said he, his voice dropped to a whisper. “He only needs time to consider.”
Sir John sighed abruptly. “I will give you time,” said he, making no attempt to hide his annoyance, “but only the rest of this day and tonight. In the morning I shall send two constables to bring you to the Bow Street Court. We shall talk in my chambers. You had best come prepared to speak to the matter at hand. When you have given your testimony, whatever it may be, you will be transferred to the Fleet Prison.”
Having thus had his say, he bellowed out loudly, “Warder! We are ready to return.”
Dillon watched us go, saying nothing more, his eyes near as heavy-lidded as one asleep, yet watchful withal. Though he had pleaded drunkenness, he now seemed sober.
The warder who had brought us hence now led us back, pausing at the stairs to relight his candle. Descending, I took the position behind him and felt Sir John’s strong hand on my shoulder. We two said nothing between us, but the warder was as talkative as ever.
“He’s a hard case that’n. What’s his name?” He paused a moment, but when no response was forthcoming, he continued. “Ah yes, Dillon, so it is, Dick Dillon. I remember it from the list whence you sought him out. He bullies the others inside something terrible, he does. He takes coin from the men and uses the women most shameful. It’s his size allows him to do it. They’re all against him inside.”
At that point, I reflected that Dillon seemed to be drinking in a reasonably convivial manner with that group of men above. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was just as the warder said.
“I don’t suppose you got much out of that’n. Thinks he’ll beat the hangman, he does. Just watch your step now, Sir John. We’re coming to the end of the stairs.”
Then, having reached the level floor, the warder stepped back and blew out the candle.
The clamor raised by the common felons was not near what it had been earlier. In any case, having been once afrighted by them, I was better prepared and kept a steady pace to the exit. But the smell was as bad as before. My attempts to breathe shallow benefited me not at all. It was not until we found ourselves in the open air of the courtyard that I was able to fill my lungs without befouling them.
The warder walked with us to the gate, making no further effort to engage us in conversation. “I’ll just leave you here. Sir John. The gatekeeper approaches, and I see a hackney parked beyond,” said he then.
“May I inquire as to your name?” asked Sir John.
“My name? Why …” He was somewhat flustered by the question. For a moment he seemed almost to have forgotten the answer. “Why … indeed, my name is Jack Wilson, and it was my pleasure to serve you, Sir John.”