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  The Detections of Dr. Sam Johnson

  Lillian de la Torre

  MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  To Mr. F.A.K.,

  the onlie begetter of these insuing …

  CONTENTS

  1 The Tontine Curse

  2 The Stroke of Thirteen

  3 The Viotti Stradivarius

  4 The Black Stone of Dr. Dee

  5 The Frantick Rebel

  6 Saint-Germain the Deathless

  7 The Missing Shakespeare Manuscript

  8 The Triple-Lock’d Room

  Preview: The Return of Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector

  About the Author

  PROEM

  To the Candid Reader

  These mystery tales of an earlier day are not true. They are probable fictions, suggested by real personalities, places, and events of the Age of Johnson (1709–84), centering around the most towering figure of that age, Dr. Sam: Johnson himself, and narrated as if by his famous biographer, James Boswell. That none of her fictions will appear to outrage the inner truth of these great men or the age they lived in, is the earnest wish and belief of

  THE AUTHOR

  THE TONTINE CURSE

  (London & Bath, 1779)

  “There’s a curse on the tontine,” said the brewer’s wife, and wept.

  “Ma’am,” replied Dr. Sam: Johnson positively, “there’s a curse on every tontine.”

  Mr. Hosyer the portly brewer breathed hard through his jolly red nose. Mrs. Hosyer, buxom and motherly, buried hers in her kerchief and sobbed.

  ’Twas an unexpected prelude to what I had thought would be a purely legal confabulation. We sat in the dark-panelled inner room of Lloyd’s Coffee-house, awaiting the others of the Hosyer tontine. At the head of the table, smiling to himself and saying nothing, sat the Hosyer lawyer, Theophilus Sedge, a pleasing little man, as rosy and round as a winter apple.

  Seated next him, to support his legal opinion with my own, behold myself, James Boswell of Auchinleck, attorney and observer of mankind, being (I flatter myself) a not unpleasing personage with a swart complection, a long nose, and black hair tied back in the latest mode.

  By the mantel-piece, staring sombrely into the glowing coals, stood my penetrating friend, Dr. Sam: Johnson. The fire-light fell on his heavy, deep-cut features, softening the old scars of the King’s Evil. It glanced on his large bushy grizzle wig, and on the silver buckles of his square-toed shoes; it ruddied the plain brown stuff of his full-skirted coat; it glittered on his thoughtful light-grey eyes. Such was Dr. Sam: Johnson in the year 1779, being then seventy years of age.

  Looking up at him across the table, I congratulated myself once more that I, though a Scot, and some thirty years his junior, had by my address and assiduity won the friendship and confidence of this extraordinary man. To the universal respect accorded him as the literary dictator of London, was added the admiration I felt for his less bruited exploits as a detector of crime and chicane. Over the years of our friendship, I had watched him, fascinated, as he detected the Flying Highwayman, the maker of the Wax-Work Cadaver, and many other practitioners of fraud and felony; and I had long since inly resolved one day to record for posterity, not only the life, but the detections of Dr. Sam: Johnson.

  To this end ’twas ever my care to observe his proceedings, and still more, to be the cause of such further proceedings as might, by calling forth his powers, serve to enrich my record.

  Such an occasion, I knew, must be offered by this curious affair of the Hosyer tontine; and accordingly, at my urging, hither he was come to make one at the counsel table. Now, in his manly, resonant, positive voice, he was making abundantly clear his adverse philosophy of the tontine.

  “A curse on every tontine?” I repeated, willing to draw him out further. “How do you make that good?”

  “Consider, Mr. Boswell.” He took the chair nearest the fire, put his feet under the table, and squared himself to have his talk out. “Consider the very nature of a tontine. I say nothing to your Irish tontine; ’twill do as well, I suppose, as any other form of publick lottery. But permit me to characterize to you the vicious nature of a private tontine such as this one.”

  Lawyer Sedge, who had drawn up the Hosyer tontine in the first place, raised his frosty thistledown brows; but his smile was as bland as ever.

  “To make such a tontine,” pursued Johnson, “you gather together ten or a dozen infants of tender years—”

  “Twenty,” said the brewer.

  “Twenty infants of tender years. For each infant let the parent stake, say, one thousand pounds—”

  “Five thousand,” said the brewer.

  Dr. Johnson blew a soundless whistle through his pursed lips.

  “Whoo! You set the temptation high! Twenty infants at five thousand pounds—one hundred thousand pounds. Invest it in the funds—”

  “My brother has the handling of it.”

  “Put it out at interest, and leave it there until nineteen of your twenty die. Then the whole sum becomes the property of the survivor. To the gouty, toothless, sapless, gustless twentieth old man falls a noble fortune, say eight hundred thousand pounds, if it be true as they say that money at interest doubles every twenty years.”

  “My brother has already doubled the fund.”

  “Bravo, Mr. Hosyer! In what business?”

  “Ship insurance. My brother is one of the gentlemen yonder.”

  The brewer nodded his head toward the outer room of the coffeehouse, where the gentlemen of Lloyd’s sat at the bare scrubbed tables and wrote insurance on the ships that ply out of London. Johnson looked at the lined faces, bent over their ciphering or frowning in close converse or just staring.

  “A calling not without hazard,” he remarked, “especially with the reverses of the American war. Well, well, let your brother’s luck still hold, sixty or eighty years hence, some old gaffer, his relation, will be enriched with a princely fortune he’ll never live long enough to enjoy. And the medium of his enrichment will be death, Mr. Boswell—death to his brothers and sisters, death to his cousins, his neighbours, his friends. Between each child and that fortune stand nineteen lives.”

  Mrs. Hosyer shuddered violently.

  “And though no one of the twenty grow up so lost to virtue as to hasten his fortune by imbruing his hands in blood—yet consider what must be the effect of constantly wishing nineteen deaths? No, sir, there was never a private tontine but had a curse on it.”

  “If we but had back our ten thousand pounds!” cried Mrs. Hosyer. “It would stand between us and present ruin.”

  “No more o’ that,” cried Hosyer roughly. “The brewery will be very well.”

  “The tontine,” said Lawyer Sedge smoothly, “was made Michaelmas four years ago, at the house of Mr. Breed Hosyer the ship-broker at Bath. He having made a second marriage, desired thus to provide for the sons of his first. The families of the tontine …”

  I own I lost the thread. The families of the tontine had had ill luck, being swept by the small-pox, the colick, and the like.

  “Alack!” said Dr. Johnson, “how many of these little creatures perish in their innocence! They are but lent to us. If we can raise one in three, we may call ourselves fo
rtunate. Of twelve, Brewer Thrale has but four surviving.”

  “Of the tontine’s twenty,” said Hosyer grimly, “but four survive.”

  “But four!” cried Johnson aghast. “This is beyond the rule of nature! Who are the four?”

  “My girl Sally, and Sister Macklin’s Susan, and Mr. Sedge’s boy, and my brother’s heir.”

  “Pray, how has this come about?”

  “The curse,” muttered Mrs. Hosyer, and wrung her fingers.

  “Sir,” her husband began, “the children, them that lived through the small-pox, went on merrily enough, till a year gone we lost our eldest girl.”

  “By what means?”

  The Hosyers spoke together. He said:

  “An accident.”

  “She destroyed herself,” said the wife. “She destroyed herself for love. Her marriage portion was lost—” some hidden bitterness burst forth, “and when the match she desired was broken, so was her heart; she hanged herself in her garters.”

  “I had reverses,” muttered Hosyer pitifully.

  “I wish we had never heard of the tontine! I wish we had our ten thousand pounds back!”

  Hosyer looked baited. I thought how many times before he must have heard that whine. Sedge, still smiling, pulled forth a handsome repeater watch and looked from it to the outer door. A line between his frosty brows denied the smile.

  Mrs. Hosyer sniffed back old grief and took up what was clearly an oft-rehearsed tale:

  “We lost poor Annie in June. In July we went to Bath, to brother-in-law’s. Brother-in-law lives like a nabob. His wife is the relict of a lord—if he has the brass, she knows how to spend it—and high though she holds her head, he’s good to his own, and in the hot weather we were all there together.”

  Johnson: “All?”

  Hosyer: “All—my wife and I, Sister Macklin, Lawyer Sedge, and brother-in-law and his new wife, and all the children. There was five in the schoolroom and the rest in the nursery—” Mrs. Hosyer: “And in the stables Bob Hosyer, who at sixteen has set up for a rake on the nabob’s money, and if my Lady don’t ruin brother-in-law Hosyer, ’tis my belief Bob will.”

  Hosyer rebuked her with a look and went on in his heavy voice:

  “To be brief, sir, the schoolroom and the nursery had liberty to play in the grounds, and thence came the tragedy. They set sail on the millpond in a leaky old tub that foundered under them, and we were nigh to losing them all. My Sally, who is of intrepid mould, drew her cousin Susan to shore. Sedge’s Clem was cadging sweetmeats in the buttery, and Bob Hosyer was lounging with the grooms. Sister Macklin thought it a mercy that she was dandling the littlest ones in the morning-room. But of that boatload of seven, five sank, and rose no more.”

  Mrs. Hosyer looked back on the tragedy:

  “And we were like to lose Sally, for she lay like one dead till we nigh despaired of restoring her.”

  Hosyer: “’Twas that that saved her.”

  Johnson: “How mean you?”

  Mrs. Hosyer: “While the pond was dragging, the children got some spoiled food, it being very hot summer weather. They was taken with the gripes and the flux, and fast did it carry ’em off. Sally and Susan had none, being put to bed with a posset; Bob Hosyer lived, for he dined with his elders; and as to Sedge’s Clem, ’tis my belief that nothing can kill him.”

  Sedge acknowledged this compliment with a radiant beam.

  “Fourteen children,” concluded Mrs. Hosyer solemnly, “went down to Bath in July. Four came back. Is not this a curse?”

  “Ma’am,” says Johnson, “I devoutly hope so. Better a supernatural than a human agent.”

  “Be easy, ma’am,” says Sedge soothingly. “I grieve with the bereaved, ma’am, in these horrid mishaps; but I see in them nothing more than the grief that flesh is heir to. As to the boat, ma’am, a leaking skiff will sink, and a child that cannot swim will sink with it; and as to the gripes and the flux, ma’am, ’tis my belief the little ones had somehow got at my Lady’s white lead; for your sister-in-law’s unnatural white, ma’am, to speak plainly, and past question ’tis paint, and will one day carry her off like the late lamented Countess of Coventry.”

  “Psst,” hissed Hosyer, heralding by this undignified means the impressive entrance of Mr. Breed Hosyer and his consort, my Lady Rivers that was.

  Mr. Breed Hosyer would have been impressive in any gathering. He wore the finest of sombre stuffs, set off at the throat with a fall of cobwebby lace; his buckles were set with brilliants, and he wore a priceless ring on his finger. His face was thin and worn in an agreeable way, as unlike his brewer brother as possible. He handed his lady to an armed chair with studied courtliness.

  The nabob’s wife was an edged beauty, thin and very fair. Her unnaturally white skin was carmined over her sharp cheek-bones. She wore an enormous head, and patches. She arranged her laced ruffles, and inclined the towering wig a fraction off the vertical to the company in general.

  “Now, then,” said Breed Hosyer in a sharp voice that smacked of the City, “what’s to do here? Where’s Sister Macklin? If I can fetch my Lady from St. James’s, surely she can on with her pattens and step hither on time. No matter, brother, what’s the cause of this meeting?”

  Hiram Hosyer looked mighty put about at this abruptness, but he answered bluntly:

  “To break the tontine and part the money among the children.”

  I was surprized enough; I had never heard of the breaking a tontine once regularly entered into. But two of our members fairly rose from their places in horror—the lawyer and the broker.

  “Impossible!” they cried as one man.

  “Do,” says my Lady languidly, “break the tontine, Mr. Hosyer, and then you may make such a settlement upon my daughter as is right and proper for the child of the late Lord Rivers; for a dowerless female may hang herself these days, she can hope for no better fate.”

  “Unless she’s the relict of a lord—” began Mrs. Hosyer angrily.

  Breed Hosyer had recovered his suavity. Without paying the least mind to the glowering females, he leaned forward and addressed his brother patiently:

  “Look you, brother, ’tis beyond possibility. It strikes at the very basis of the tontine, if it may be abrogated at will. Sedge will bear me out.”

  The lawyer nodded.

  “As to parting the money, the loss will be extream, the blow to my credit worse, if in the present precarious state of affairs I must suddenly realize the funds of the tontine. Pray what is the urgent reason for this unreasonable request?”

  “The curse—the curse on the tontine—”

  “Tschah,” said Breed Hosyer in disgust. “Who has started up this old wives’ tale? I’ll not be a party to breaking the tontine for so foolish a reason. Be content, brother; Sally may one day have all, if—” he offered his wrist to his lady, and smiled back over his shoulder as they withdrew, “—if she lives so long.”

  Hiram Hosyer, purple, turned to Lawyer Sedge to expostulate; but the lawyer was looking at his watch, and in another minute he was gone.

  We found ourselves in the footway before Lloyd’s Coffee-house with the Hosyers. I was ready to be off; but Johnson lingered.

  “Ma’am,” says he, “this is a dire tale, and a powerful argument against leaky row-boats and summer victuals. But why, when it happened in July, is this a reason to break the tontine suddenly in November? What has happened since, to rouze your apprehensions?”

  The Hosyers exchanged glances. The brewer bit his lip.

  “Last night,” said Mrs. Hosyer in a low voice, “we had like to lost Sally with the gripes and the flux.”

  “And it not being summer,” said Hosyer, his eyes on his shoes, “and Sally being new-returned from a sojourn with my Lady her Aunt Hosyer—sir, I’m at my wits’ end. I cannot afford to break with my brother. What shall I do?”

  Johnson was frowning now.

  “The gripes and the flux are no uncommon ail. We must proceed with caution. I must know more of the sum
mer tragedies. Who set the children on to so perilous a voyage? Who supped in the nursery, and upon what dish? I must talk with Sally at once.”

  “Sir, ’tis impossible. Dr. Catnach gave us powders to make a draught to quiet her, and now she sleeps like the dead …”

  The last words seemed to linger on the air. The buxom wife turned pale. Her eyes and her husband’s met in a like apprehension, and by common consent they urgently beckoned a passing hackney-coach. Johnson mounted without demur, and I followed.

  As the Jehu plied his whip, a dishevelled dame clacked up on hurried pattens. She stood on the footway gesticulating after us.

  “Cicely Macklin,” said Mrs. Hosyer; and for all her drawn face she laughed.

  Sally was sleeping unharmed. We looked down upon her in the shadow of the tester. She was a beautiful child, budding to a seductive sixteen. I admired her peaches-and-snow complection, her perfect form beneath the counterpane. As we gazed the blue-veined lids fluttered and rose. Brilliant blue eyes scanned our faces, and for a flash a dimple shewed beside the pale, perfect lips.

  Though not impervious to the appeal of femininity, Dr. Johnson dared not spare her. He questioned her gently.

  “I found the boat launched,” she whispered, “and when I could not disswade the children from embarking, I went along for the preventing of mischief.”

  Her eyes darkened; she closed them.

  “I do not know who set them on.”

  “We must ask Susan Macklin, who alone of that unlucky boatload survives,” said I.

  Nor did Sally know aught of that misfortunate supper in the nursery, for she and Susan, bedded, had had posset from the nurse’s own hand.

  “We must ask the nurse,” said I.

  “The nurse is dead,” whispered Sally. “Save for Clem, every soul who ate at that table died.”

  “And what did you eat yesterday, my dear, at your Aunt Hosyer’s?”

  “What the rest ate.”

  “No comfits?”

  “I had a comfit of fat little Clem Sedge—but he ate thrice as many.”