The Color of Death

by Alexander, Bruce

  As it happened, my good friend Jimmie Bunkins was nearest when I rapped hard upon the door with the brass clapper. It was his face that appeared as the heavy door swung open. That meant that class was done for the morning, which in turn justified the timing of my visit.

  “Ah, chum,” said he, “shove your trunk inside. Come! Come! Come! Let me be the first to ask ye. How’s your cove fare?”

  “Sir John? Oh, he’s right as rain. Moves his smiter well now.”

  (Be not intimidated, reader, for if some of the words recalled and quoted above seem unfamiliar, they are no more than bits and pieces of “flash,” the cant of the London underworld. Indeed, Bunkins had been a member in good standing of Covent Garden’s great legion of thieves until Mr. Bilbo took him in and bettered his lot. Bunkins simply invited me in and inquired after Sir John’s condition. I replied that he was doing well and could move his arm without difficulty now.)

  Then did I hear the harpsichord jangling from the drawing room, and a moment later Annie’s voice joining in. It was another Handel oratorio. She had been humming something like it around the house for the past few days. Now, however, with Mr. Burnham’s accompaniment and her voice at full, I was given some true idea of the sound of the anthem as it would be heard with full chorus at the Academy of Ancient Music. I was most favorably impressed.

  “Keeps gettin’ better, don’t she?” said Bunkins with an approving nod. “That moll can really lip a chaunt.”

  “She can,” I agreed. “Will they be much longer?”

  “Don’t think so. They been at it a while already.”

  “Well then,” said I, “I’ve something to jaw with you proper.”

  “And what might that be, chum?”

  “I need to know if in those days when you were a scamp you came across a fellow named Walter Travis.”

  Bunkins frowned a moment in thought, then gave a firm shake of his head. “No, I can’t say as I did.”

  “That might not be his true name.”

  “Well, then it could be just any cod.”

  “I know, but listen. He was about ten years older than you and me, a big man, six feet or more, and he was on the scamp himself. He’d put in a spell at Newgate.”

  “Well, that brings it down to a few hundred.”

  “All right, this may help. Travis came out of the clink and went into service.”

  “You mean like a butler?”

  “Not so grand as that — just a porter — but at a big house belonging to a lord, no less.”

  “Would this be the cod who got himself killed at Lord Lilley’s the other night?”

  “The very same.”

  Bunkins scratched his jaw. “Now you’ve given me something to work with,” said he. “A scamp workin’ for a duke — I’d say that’s rare. That’ll give me something to go to my old partners in crime and jaw about — sort of thing they’d remember. With him dead and gone, they’d have no reason to keep a dubber mum. What do you want to know about him?”

  “Well, his proper name, for one thing, and if he was in on the sacking of the duke’s down the street. And if you can get that, maybe you can also get the names of those who did the sacking.”

  “Oh, I doubt I can get their names. I don’t know no snitches, and if I did, I got nothing to trade, if you follow me.”

  “Yes, I follow. If you can get anything at all I’ll be grateful.”

  And there we left it. No further discussion of Walter Travis (whatever his true identity) was needful. And besides, the sound of the harpsichord had ceased, and Annie’s sweet voice had stilled. There was naught but the murmur of voices in conversation coming from the room down the hall.

  “They’re done,” said Bunkins. “Want to take Annie back with you?”

  “Probably,” said I, “if she wishes to come. But I’ve a message from Sir John for Mr. Burnham.”

  “Come along then, chum. No time to deliver it like the present.”

  Following Bunkins down the hall, I sought the proper words to use to present Sir John’s invitation. I realized that if I were to offer it in a casual manner, he might choose to come at his leisure — hours later, a day later — or, knowing Mr. Burnham, perhaps not at all. On the other hand, if I put the matter to him with too great a sense of urgency, he might shy away, thinking perhaps that Sir John held him suspect as one of the robbery crew. Mr. Martinez, whom Sir John has known for years, leaped to a similar conclusion, and probably because of the crude manner in which I put the matter to him. You must be discreet, I instructed myself, yet not too discreet — direct but not blunt.

  In short, I instructed myself well. The question I asked myself later was why I had not followed my instructions.

  “Uh, Mr. Burnham,” said I, approaching him with a smile upon my face, “I have an invitation to extend to you from Sir John.”

  “Why, what a pleasant surprise,” said he, returning my smile. “What is the nature of the invitation? Is it for dinner? For supper?”

  “Neither, I fear. He wishes you to come to him after his court session is done.”

  “To ask me a few questions?”

  “Well … yes. I suppose he will do that.”

  “About the recent robberies which were supposedly done by men of my color?”

  “Uh … some questions about that, and some questions about other matters of a more general nature.”

  “Hmmm,” said Mr. Burnham, considering the matter. “Have I a choice?”

  “Of course,” said I. “You may come or not, as you wish. But Sir John wishes earnestly to speak with you, and since, because of his wound, he cannot come to you, he hoped you might come to him.”

  “If that is the case, then I should be most happy to come.” He said it with a great dazzling smile, thus relieving me considerably.

  Of our return to Bow Street, there is but one event worthy of report. It so happened that we chose a route which led us down Little Jermyn Street and past the Trezavant residence. Was it my thought to do so? I hope it was not, for had we but taken another route, we should have thereby avoided a good deal of trouble and a bit of suffering, as well.

  We went down the broad walkway, the three of us — Mr. Burnham to the outside, I to the inside, and Annie between us. As I recall, we talked of a number of matters along the way, and I believe that as it happened we were discussing the robbery which had taken place on that very street. I noted that just ahead of us a hackney was stopped before the Trezavant house. I called the attention of my companions to this circumstance, and we fell silent as we approached the place. And it was a good thing that we did so, for just as we were about to pass, the door to the house opened and out came Mr. Thomas Trezavant. He moved ponderously down the stairs, shifting his great weight with care from one step to the next until he reached the bottom. There he planted his feet firmly and looked at us as we walked by. In my haste I have written that he looked at “us.” Not so. He stared openly and in a most hostile manner at Mr. Burnham and at him alone. Even when I attempted to divert Mr. Trezavant’s attention by greeting him in a bright and friendly way, he stared on, acknowledging me only with a grunt.

  Not a word passed among the three of us until we were well out of earshot. But then Annie broke the silence, saying, “Did you ever see such a look as he gave you, Mr. Burnham? If looks could kill, you’d be lying dead before his front door.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Burnham. “He seems to have blamed the entire race for his misfortune.”

  We talked of it a bit more as we walked on, but by the time we reached St. James Square, we were on to more pleasant matters. Though I cannot speak for the other two, I had quite forgotten the incident by the time we reached Number 4 Bow Street. There Annie left us, climbing the stairs to the kitchen as we continued on to meet Sir John in his chambers. Mr. Burnham was openly interested in the area named by Sir John the “backstage” of his court — and particularly was he fascinated by the strong room. He scrutinized the two prisoners inside in such a way that he seemed to b
e wondering what felony they might have committed to have brought them to such a place. I greeted Mr. Marsden, the clerk, and Mr. Fuller, the jailer, politely and with a smile. Mr. Marsden returned it in kind; Mr. Fuller, who seemed to have cultivated a dislike for me, merely scowled.

  Sir John was standing behind his desk when we passed through the open door to his chambers. He extended his right hand in a gesture of friendship.

  “Ah, Mr. Burnham, is it you?” said he as the tutor took his hand and shook it warmly.

  “It is I, Sir John, right enough,” said Mr. Burnham. “And quite flattered I am at your invitation. How may I help you?”

  “Do sit down.” He gestured at the chair which he knew very well was placed just opposite him beyond the desk. Delaying a moment, he settled into his own chair, leaned forward, and said in a serious manner, “You may help me, sir, by answering a few questions.”

  “As you like, Sir John, anything at all.”

  “Mr. Burnham, I have a friend named Moses Martinez, who is a Jew. When I have questions regarding the Jews, individual or in the aggregate, I ask him. But as you know, I have now had a troubling matter involving those of the African race put before me. Since I know no one but you of that race, I’m afraid I must turn to you for such information as I need.”

  “That seems quite reasonable.”

  The two men made an interesting study in contrasts. Sir John, straining forward, his fingers intertwined; and Robert Burnham, relaxed, almost casual, as he leaned back in his chair and waited for the magistrate’s questions. It struck me then that perhaps Mr. Burnham was not taking the occasion with sufficient gravity.

  “How has it come to pass that there are suddenly so many Africans here in London? Oh, and by the bye, how many are here? Have you any idea? “

  “I have it on good authority that there are roughly fourteen thousand of us in England, and surely, most are in London.”

  “Oh, so many? But no doubt you’re right,” Sir John agreed. “And London is probably where most are.”

  “Still,” said Mr. Burnham, “I would take exception to your use of the word ‘suddenly’ I would wager there have been black faces here ever since English ships began sailing around Africa to reach the Orient. Two centuries, at least.”

  “Yes, but there is a contradiction even in the presence of Africans in England. They are, or were, slaves, and slavery has been banned in England since the thirteenth century.”

  Mr. Burnham jumped forward in his chair, eager to make his point: “Exactly! A contradiction! And it is on that contradiction that the argument rests for the freedom of them all. It is on that contradiction that I argued my own claim of freedom to my father.”

  “Oh? That’s a story I must hear,” said Sir John. “That is, sir, if you’ve no objection to telling it.”

  “None at all, for it is in itself a good example of certain aspects of this confused situation.”

  “Pray proceed.”

  “I came to London as many, or perhaps most, of those of my color have come in this century. Which is to say, we were brought here by our white masters. I was different from all but a few in that my master was my father, and he raised me as a son and not as a slave. I was as well-educated as anyone could be in Jamaica, and when my father married an English widow with children of her own, I served as their tutor. I had them all reading by the age of seven.”

  That last he said quite proudly, and there he paused, a smile upon his face, as if reflecting upon his first days as a teacher.

  “And then?” prompted Sir John.

  “And then,” said Mr. Burnham, “we all traveled together from Jamaica to London. My father’s business was to secure a loan with which to expand his holdings in the Caribbean. He had become a rich man and wished to become richer. He had no difficulty securing the loan, but in the course of my stay here I became acquainted with the contradiction we have been discussing. I went to my father and informed him that since we were in a land in which one human being’s right to own another was not recognized, I would be within my rights to demand my freedom. He was taken aback and a bit hurt to learn that I wished my freedom in London — and not in Kingston, as he offered. But once he became convinced that this was my desire, he had a document of manumission written out by a lawyer and settled a not inconsiderable sum upon me.”

  “You are fortunate to have such a father,” said Sir John.

  “Indeed I know that — and he knows I know, for we write once a month, exchanging news and our views upon the great matters of the world. It may interest you to know that, in principle at least, he is opposed to slavery.”

  “It interests me, but it does not surprise me. Many of those who engage in immoral practices justify themselves saying that it is naught but economic necessity forces them to do so. They often declare that, given their preference, they would be in a more respectable line of endeavor.”

  This was said by Sir John in a rather cool manner. Mr. Burnham had no immediate response. He threw a glance in my direction, the first he had given me since he had begun his talk with Sir John. I had seen him previously in profile, and now for the first time in full-face; he did not look happy.

  “My father is a moral man,” said he at last.

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. But you also said he was a rich man, did you not? I believe your phrase was, ‘he was a rich man who wished to become richer’ — and I’m sure he has. But not so rich as to free all his slaves.”

  “Perhaps someday he will,” Mr. Burnham said suddenly, in an almost defiant voice. But he continued in a more reasonable tone, “I used my own story simply as an example, Sir John. Others of my color have claimed their freedom as I did, and have been shipped back to Jamaica in irons, or have been sold outright to another master, right here in England. Still others, knowing their ambiguous legal situation, have simply kept silent and run away at the first opportunity.”

  “Yes, and there have been cases before our courts which have treated aspects of this … this contradiction we have been discussing. There is, in fact, a case before the Lord Chief Justice that — ”

  “As I well know,” interrupted Mr. Burnham eagerly. “The Somerset case* may indeed put an end to slavery here and in the colonies.”

  I sensed the excitement in him regarding this matter of law. He was not alone in this. All London was talking of it during that spring of 1772.

  The two had sometime earlier exchanged their conversational attitudes. Mr. Burnham now sat forward in his chair, fully absorbed in the matters they discussed. Though similarly absorbed, Sir John had adopted a more relaxed style; leaning as far back as he might, rubbing his chin in a considering manner.

  Far down the hall, I heard the door to the street slam shut. Had someone departed? Entered?

  “It may be so, as you say, that this trial will determine a great deal,” said Sir John. “But knowing Lord Mansfield as well as I do, it may well be that it is decided narrowly upon the facts of the case. He does not believe in deciding great social and political issues in a court of law.”

  There were heavy footsteps down the hall. Though the Lord Chief Justice often made his entrance in just such a way, the pace of the footsteps — slow and deliberate — was not his. Sir John frowned at the anticipated interruption.

  Mr. Burnham, also frowning, spoke up in response: “Well, sir, all I can say is that I hope that you are wrong.”

  Then did Mr. Marsden’s voice come to us as he attempted to intervene. He offered to announce the unknown guest. Yet the footsteps continued plodding heavily toward the magistrate’s chambers.

  At last the visitor appeared, barging through the door as he pushed aside Mr. Marsden, squeezing in. It was a figure of great proportions. Indeed it was Mr. Trezavant, dressed just as he was when we had passed him earlier, yet a good deal more florid in the face, breathing heavily as he stood for a moment, surveying the room.

  “Sir John,” he began — but got little further.

  “Mr. Trezavant, is it you? What have
you to discuss that is of such importance that it cannot wait for my clerk, Mr. Marsden, to announce you.’

  *More of this later, reader.

  That should have intimidated him, but it did not. He held his ground, and he continued in a loud voice, near shouting at us across the room: “I came here to tell you that I saw your young assistant consorting with a criminal, but now I understand better. He has brought the fellow to you, has he not? Has an arrest been made? Are you interrogating the culprit?”

  “Sir, you make no sense at all. I have no notion of what you mean — no, not the slightest.”

  “Why, I saw these two in company with a young woman as they passed by my home in Little Jermyn Street. I could hardly believe my eyes.”

  “Please make yourself clear.”

  “This man, the African, him it was who led the band of thieves who robbed my home of its treasures, assaulted me, and caused my butler to collapse in an apoplectic attack.”

  Having made the accusation, he pointed across the room at Mr. Burnham, just so there should be no mistake. “I demand that he be held and bound over for trial. I will see this man hanged, or know the why and wherefore of it. Sir John,” he said, fairly shouting it out, “I leave this up to you.”

  FIVE

  In Which Mr.

  Burnham Tells an

  Unconvincing Story

  After he had quite stunned us all, Mr. Trezavant turned round and stamped out of the magistrate’s chambers (thus exhibiting a sense of the dramatic that I had not known he possessed). In his haste, he bumped Mr. Marsden aside once again. The clerk stared after him in a most puzzled manner.

  “Sorry about that, sir,” said he. “I just couldn’t hold him back.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Sir John. “That fellow has been a trial to me from the moment I met him.”

  As the clerk disappeared, Mr. Burnham rose from his chair in a manner I could only describe as cautious and addressed Sir John: “And what about me? Shall I, too, think nothing of it?”