The Color of Death

by Alexander, Bruce

  “It was I who … whatV I asked in all innocence.

  Clarissa rose to stand beside Annie; I noted that she was near half a head taller. “I think you know very well,” said she to me, nodding solemnly.

  “I know nothing of the kind,” I yelped in frustration. “What is it that you say I’ve done?”

  “It was you led us down Little Jermyn Street so that that horrible fat man might look upon Robert and tell his horrible lies,” cried Annie.

  “I may have done, but I had no such dark design in mind. I had no design at all!”

  “So you say/’ said Clarissa with what seemed suspiciously like a sneer. (Why did she always seem so eager to believe the worst of me?) “Annie swears that your usual route is along Pall Mall, as it is hers.”

  “Well, there you have the why of it,” said I. “I was tired of walking the same old route, bored with it. It’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s not simple at all.” Annie stamped her foot. “Mr. Burnham may die because you were bored with it.”

  Then I spoke out stupidly in exasperation: “Well, if he dies, it will be his own fault. It will be a form of self-murder, suicide, if you will.”

  “Jeremy!” Clarissa squawked, “How can you say such a thing?”

  For a moment I wondered at that, too. Nevertheless, I attempted to justify myself: “I say that because he has only to tell Sir John where he was on the night in question to be free of suspicion.”

  “He has told where he was. Why will you not believe him?”

  “Because,” said I, “he lied.”

  “How can you say that?” Annie demanded.

  “Because I caught him in the lie.”

  “So it is your word against his?” said Clarissa. “You wish to see him convicted so that you may shine in Sir John’s eyes as having closed this case by yourself. Is that it?”

  “No!” I shouted. “I wish him only to tell the truth, as Sir John does. We support him. Yet unless he tells the truth, he will convict himself. And that, to me, is a form of suicide.”

  Annie raised her hand most dramatically. Then did she speak out in a manner equally dramatic: “That matters naught to me,” said she. “I care not that he has lied. It would matter not to me if it were proved that he had truly robbed that disgusting fat man. All that matters to me is my love for him.”

  Oh dear, thought I, this is sure to be difficult. “If all you suggest were true, he will be convicted,” said I, trying to reason with her. “But … but … well, if he is, Sir John would certainly recommend transportation. The judges usually follow his recommendations in such circumstances.”

  “Then I shall follow him wherever he is sent — just to be near him.” She walked slowly to the steps which led upstairs; to her room, presumably

  “And if — though there is little chance of it — if he is sentenced to death?”

  “Then I shall join him in death. I cannot live without him.” She started slowly up the steps — a tragic heroine. Or perhaps Ophelia — she was acting a bit mad, or so it seemed to me. As she disappeared, I turned to Clarissa with a look that must have expressed the bewilderment I felt.

  Clarissa, for her part, had a tear glistening in each eye. “Did you hear her?” she asked. “Was that not the most beautiful, the most romantic speech ever anyone did speak?”

  I sighed. “Yes,” said I — for how could I say what I truly thought? “I suppose so.” And with that, a deep sigh did escape from me.

  I fled the kitchen before Clarissa could comment further, descending the stairs three at a time, and jumping to a halt when I reached the ground floor. I looked about and saw that the strongroom was empty and that Mr. Fuller was nowhere in sight. This meant that Sir John was questioning Mr. Burnham as he might a common criminal — that is, with a guard present. I approached his chambers quietly — yet I needn’t have, for Sir John’s voice, seldom truly soft, seemed to thunder forth from the room at the end of the hall. I doubt that any of the three men present there could have heard my step had I stamped my feet the entire distance. Yet I did not wish to be heard. I took a place on the bench outside the open door.

  It was, after all, Sir John’s purpose to intimidate Mr. Burnham, to break down his resistance, to reduce him — if possible — to a quivering mass of porridge. I had heard and seen him do as much to many a footpad and cutthroat. Villains who would fight to the death when cornered would, under his relentless badgering, simply crumble completely; a few of the worst had even burst into tears. I fully expected Sir John to work the same sort of destructive transformation upon Robert Burnham; the only difference I anticipated was that rather than a confession, in this instance, an alibi was sought. I pitied the victim in advance. My regard for Mr. Burnham was such that I had no wish to be physically present at his humiliation; my curiosity, however, forced me to listen.

  To my surprise, however, the tutor was made of stronger stuff than ever I had expected. Sir John’s usual mode, in situations of this sort, was to begin in a reasonably friendly manner and gradually to grow sterner and more severe, to feign anger, and finally, to rage forth in accusation and demand the truth. Far more often than not, it was given him. Because of my delay upstairs with Annie and Clarissa, I seemed to have missed his opening, for by the time I arrived, he had moved into the second, more severe, phase. Sitting on the bench with no view through the door, I could well imagine his glowering countenance as he asked: “When did you learn to ride?” “Do you enjoy it?” “Have you continued riding while here in London?” “You say you go out ‘occasionally, ‘ but surely two or three times a week and always on Sunday would be described as more frequent than ‘occasionally,’ would it not?”

  Mr. Burnham had been rather forthcoming up to that point, but w r hen Sir John asked to know where he went on “these occasional rides which took place three, even four times a week and always on Sunday,” he was answered with absolute silence. “Who do you see?” Silence. “What is the purpose of these rides?” Silence.

  Then did Sir John take it upon himself to explain in quite reasonable terms why it was in Mr. Burnham s own interest to answer these questions in order that he might establish an alibi for himself to counter the accusation put against him by Mr. Trezavant.

  “You see,” said he to him, “we know that your tale of remaining at home that night and running about the house to read bits and pieces of Mr. Goldsmith’s book to all who would listen was simply a fabrication got up quickly to satisfy us. You insult us with such poppycock, sir, for you see, we know that you went out riding in the late afternoon and did not return until near midnight. That was how you spent the evening in question, was it not? A long ride to some undisclosed location, to visit some undisclosed person for some undisclosed reason. You see, sir, why you must tell us what we wish to know? Without the missing facts, it all sounds a bit like a child’s tale, does it not? Tell us what we wish to know, Mr. Burnham. Your very life may — ”

  Here Sir John had broken off, for he heard the door to Bow Street slam shut and footsteps begin in the hall.

  “Uh, that will be all for the time being, sir,” said he. “Mr. Fuller, return him to the strongroom, if you will.”

  “You wish me to persuade him my way?” the jailer asked.

  “No, it’s a bit early for that. I’m sure he will cooperate before extreme measure need be taken. Jeremy? Are you here? Come in and help me get into that thing, will you?”

  It was a long walk from the street door to Sir John’s chambers — and a good thing, too, for I had no sooner managed to guide his arm into the sling and get it over his head than did the familiar figure of Mr. Donnelly appear in the doorway, a smile upon his face and his bag in his hand. “Well, Sir John, Jeremy,” said he, “I congratulate you. You just did manage to get the thing on, did you not?”

  Mr. Gabriel Donnelly’s visit to change the dressing was short and unmemorable, except for a warning he issued to Sir John. “Let me tell you, sir,” said he, “that if you do not take the wearing of t
hat sling seriously, then that arm will bother you for the rest of your life. There can be no doubt of it.” Though Sir John dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, Mr. Donnelly’s words proved prophetic.

  When the surgeon had departed, I expected Sir John to send me to Mr. Fuller that he might bring back the prisoner. In fact, I went so far as to suggest it to Sir John. He considered the matter for a moment, then shook his head in the negative, a dour expression upon his face.

  “No, I think not,” said he. “I’ve explained his situation to him. And while he showed no willingness to respond to my questions in any substantial way, I think perhaps after he has spent the night in the strongroom, in the company of whatever the night may bring, he may be a bit more talkative.”

  “But Sir John,” said I, “what was this matter that passed between you and Mr. Fuller about ‘extreme measure’? Surely you’re not — ”

  “Going to torture Mr. Burnham? No, I daresay we are not. We thought only to put the possibility in his mind. That should give him something to think about, eh?” He pondered the situation further. “No, I believe that what I should most like from you, Jeremy, is a report upon what happened to you in the area of St. James today.”

  And so I told him, deleting most of what passed between Crocker and me, saying simply that the outing yielded nothing. He responded with a shrug. I told him, however, that I had learned the significance of Mr. Robb’s mention of the King’s Carabineers.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  “Well, I found out, to my surprise, that Arthur Robb had served with the regiment some time before.”

  “Truly? A butler who was once a soldier? That is indeed most singular. Ah, but Jeremy? “

  “Yes, Sir John?”

  “I fear I must correct you. You said — if I may quote you back to yourself — that you had ‘learned the significance of the butler’s mention of the King’s Carabineers.’ But really, you’ve done no such thing.”

  “I haven’t?”

  “Indeed no. All you learned was the regiment’s significance to him. What we have yet to discover, and perhaps never will, was why he mentioned it when you asked him what he saw when he opened the door and made it possible for the robbers to enter the Trezavant residence. Why did he mention the King’s Carabineers? And what significance did they have to him in relation to the robbery?” He paused at that point and rubbed his chin. “You see my point? Interesting, eh?”

  “Well,” said I, “perhaps he saw someone who reminded him of — ”

  “No,” said he, interrupting, “guessing won’t do. It simply won’t do in this case. But … perhaps that bit of information will ultimately be of use. Now, however, Jeremy, I trust you can set me to rights on that question of Frank Barber’s escape from the mob which pursued him. I fear he carries with him a reputation for exaggeration and self-promotion.”

  Needing no more explicit command than this one from Sir John, I set about to do just that. I was determined to tell the whole truth in this instance because Frank had made such a botch of it. This was in spite of my certainty that Sir John would disapprove of the part played by firearms in my tale. And so I told it just as it had happened, pistols and all. Nor did I scant the key role played by Constable Patley in driving away the mob.

  “You say that he saved both you and Frank Barber?”

  “I would say, Sir John, that that would not be overstating the mat-ten

  “And then he did simply disappear before you could thank him properly?”

  “That is correct, sir,” said I.

  “And you did not see into which house he went?”

  “Well, no, but I suppose he could have drifted down to Pall Mall.”

  “Not likely, though?”

  “No, not likely.”

  “Hmmm. Still, I must say I’m glad to hear a good report on this fellow Patley: something, at any rate, to counter the bad things I have heard up to now. But answer me this, lad.”

  “Yes sir, whatever you wish to know.” (I knew very well what he wished to know, and I dreaded what lav ahead.)

  “Are you in the habit of carrying loaded pistols with you wherever you go on the streets of London?”

  “Oh, by no means, sir.”

  “Then how did it come about that you happened to have them with you during the afternoon in one of the grandest sections of London?”

  “It was that the night before Mr. Baker had given me pistols for my protection on the way to St. Bartholomew’s.”

  “Ah well, it’s true that the area round St. Bart’s and the Old Bailey is not a good one. But tell me, why did you not return these firearms upon your return? “

  “Because Mr. Baker had gone off duty, sir.”

  “Ah, so he had. You did not return till morning. Had quite a row with Kate about that, did you not?”

  “Well, I … I …”

  “You could have turned them in to Mr. Fuller, could you not?”

  This question was perhaps the most difficult of all to answer. Perhaps foolishly I resorted to evasion. “I could have, yes,” said I, “but I feared he might disapprove of my earning loaded pistols about and lecture me on the matter.” (The truth was, reader, that I disliked Mr. Fuller and had decided to have as little as possible to do with him.)

  “Well,” said Sir John, “perhaps you thought I approved of carrying loaded pistols about?”

  “No sir, I — ”

  His voice rose as he plunged ahead: “Indeed, I do not approve, though it is true that on certain occasions, when special duties were required of you, I have allowed, even specified, the wearing of pistols that you might frighten away interferers. Do you need to be lectured on this subject, Jeremy?”

  “No sir.”

  “Well then, let us consider that you have learned your lesson and taken it to heart, and let us thank God together that you neither killed nor maimed anyone in that unruly crowd. I admit that since you had the pistols at hand, you made good use of them.”

  “Yes sir.” Hearing that, I brightened considerably.

  “.And Jeremy? One more thing.”

  “What is that, sir?”

  “Do try to get along with Mr. Fuller, won’t you? You needn’t make a friend of him — just get along with him. That is all that is required of us in our dealings with most of those we see daily.”

  Having promised Sir John that I would do my best to do just that, I left his chambers and, seeking Mr. Fuller, found Mr. Baker. In the hours that I spent after my time with the magistrate, it had grown dark. Just as Mr. Fuller came earliest in the morning, Mr. Baker was first to arrive at night. And so, as it happened, I returned the pistols to him.

  He took them with a smile and a chuckle, and immediately he asked, “Which is the one needs cleaning?”

  I looked at him queerly. How could he have known, after all?

  Seeing the puzzlement written upon my face, he made the matter clear: “I happened to meet that fellow, Patley, on the way over, and he told me all about what you’d done — holding off a mob with a pair of pistols. I’d say you had some bollocks on you, lad.”

  I blushed at his obscene flattery, yet I wondered, had he heard the whole story? “Did Mr. Patley tell you his part in it?” I asked.

  “Why no, what was that?”

  Whereupon I told him all: how, when I was faced with the choice of shooting a woman or being overcome by the mob, Mr. Patley stepped forth and sent her packing along with the whole wild bunch of them; and then, how he disappeared before I could so much as thank him.

  “He did all that?”

  “He did indeed.”

  “I’m glad to hear he’s up to some good at last. The constables had about decided they’d rather have one-legged Cowley back again. Slow he may have been, but willing he was. This man Patley is about the un-willingest ever was.”

  “I’ve made a promise to myself to judge less severely,” said I. “I’ve no right.”

  “None of us has, I suppose,” said Mr. Baker.

 
“I regret to say I even put that little prank — locking the cellar door — on Mr. Patley. As it turned out, the guilty party was none other than Mr. Fuller. He owned up earlier today.” Then did I add a bit inconsequentially, “He acted a bit odd about it, though.”

  “Odd?” said Mr. Baker, looking a bit sharp at me. “How odd? What do you mean?”

  “Well,” said I, “it was the way he apologized — more than was necessary, it seemed to me.”

  “That’s as I thought you meant,” said he. “I think I know how that came about. I was off with Mr. Bailey, and Fuller was just leaving, and we were all by the Bow Street door. That was when I first heard you beating on the other side the cellar door. I remember it well, for I was interested in what Bailey was saying. It was about you, so it was. He was talking how Sir John was reading law with you, and he wagered that you would be the next magistrate of the Bow Street Court. That struck me as most interesting, it did — and it must’ve struck Fuller the same way, given him something to think about on the walk home. Must’ve decided he did the wrong thing, lockin’ you up, don’t you think?”

  EIGHT

  In Which Sir John

  puts Mr. Trezavant

  to the test

  It has been my observation that one may trudge along for days, even weeks, in a sort of fog — that is, with no real sense of direction, nor any feeling of having accomplished anything. And then one day you wake up, and all that is changed: You know somehow that things are falling into place; the tempo of the day increases; you feel yourself able to make associations and connections which before had been hidden to you.

  I felt that change on the following morning, and I’m sure that Sir John felt it, too. Where he had kept largely to himself during previous days, he now strode about meeting the Bow Street Runners as they returned, one by one, from their night duties. He had been up early, earlier than I, and he had found his way downstairs well before his usual time. As soon as I had the fire going in the kitchen and some bread and butter inside me, I was down to see what I might do to help.