The Color of Death

by Alexander, Bruce

  Not even Mr. Johnson spoke, and he bore the reputation of one who talked during and through dinner — snuffling and snorting, chewing and gulping — all the rude noises of eating. When he had done, he sat for a moment immobile, in a sweat, his knife in his right fist and his fork in his left. Then did he summon forth a great belch, which so surprised Clarissa that her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a giggle; he paid no mind to her.

  “I have never eaten a better roast beef better cooked,” said he. “Tell me, young lady” — addressing Annie — “there is a different taste, something new to me. What have you done to it?”

  Annie reluctantly drew her eyes away from Mr. Burnham and gave a demure smile to Mr. Johnson. “How generous of you to say so, sir,” said she. “In answer to your query, I use garlic quite freely. That, no doubt, is the source of the ‘different taste’ to which you referred.”

  “Garlic …“he mused. “That is a foreign condiment, is it not?”

  “Not foreign to my kitchen,” said she with a bit of a twinkle.

  He chuckled appreciatively and Mr. Burnham quite gawked at her, no doubt taken somewhat aback at her choice of words and perfect enunciation. (Neither Clarissa nor I were in the least surprised at Annie, however, for we had often heard her carry on in this way for hours at a time; this was a role she had created for herself.)

  “Perhaps you would like Jeremy to carve you another serving,” proposed Lady Katherine.

  Mr. Johnson agreed that he would and asked that I also give him a bit more pudding and dripping. As I filled his request, he quite gladly accepted the offer of more claret from Sir John. I hastened to pour that, as well.

  Once the silence had been broken, conversation began. All that it took was a question, and that was supplied by Mr. Burnham.

  “Mr. Johnson,” said he, “what think you of the Somerset case, which is now before Lord Mansfield?”

  “What do I think? Why, sir, I think a great deal. At the very least it would mean freedom for one black man, and at most it could mean the end of slavery in all our British colonies.”

  “Indeed?” said Lady Katherine. “As much as that? How do you think it will be decided, Jack?”

  “In some way between the least and the most,” said Sir John dryly.

  Mr. Burnham persisted in his address to Mr. Johnson: “I myself am particularly interested in the case because in some ways it matches my own experience.”

  “Indeed? How interesting. Tell me more.”

  (Since you, reader, have already been given to know the circumstances of Mr. Burnham s manumission, it might be more valuable to learn, or be reminded, of the facts of the Somerset case of which they spoke. James Somerset was a black slave, owned by a man named Stewart in residence in Massachusetts. Stewart took Somerset with him to England, and here the slave remained in a state of forced servitude for two years, and then ran away. When he was recaptured, Stewart was angry and vengeful and so did hand over the slave to a sea captain named Knowles, who was to sail to Jamaica and sell Somerset there. Presumably, Knowles and Stewart would split the profits from the sale. But as it happened, there were witnesses to Somerset’s recapture, and they signed affidavits to the nature of it; these were used to obtain a habeas corpus, which Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice, himself issued. Knowles did fight the habeas corpus with an affidavit of his own, which put the blame upon Somerset for seeking his freedom. Lord Mansfield set a court date and vowed to hear the case himself. The matter came to the attention of Granville Sharp, an active abolitionist; he appointed an attorney to represent Somerset in his suit for freedom, and the case went to trial. It was in process at the time of this discussion.)

  Having heard Mr. Burnham out, and learned the details of his liberation, Mr. Johnson took a moment to consider. Then did he give it as his opinion that, in all truth, the only connection he could see between the Somerset case and the tale he had just heard was that both had taken advantage of their presence in England to claim their freedom.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Burnham, “there is the contradiction in English law: How can slavery be prohibited here, while in English colonies it is permitted, though all the other laws of England are there strictly enforced?”

  “And how can it be,” said Mr. Johnson, “that when a black man or woman travels from, let us say, Jamaica to London, he or she is not, as one might suppose, subject to the laws of England?”

  “But in some curious way,” said Mr. Burnham, continuing the thought, “remains defined in his state by the laws of the land he left behind. Exactly!”

  Samuel Johnson said nothing for a considerable space of time. Rather, he sat masticating with the same deep seriousness that he had shown some minutes before as he chewed his way through his first serving of Annie’s roast of beef.

  Clarissa, who sat cross the table from me, looked first at him and then at me, signaling to me with her uplifted eyebrows that she feared that something might be amiss with our distinguished guest.

  Perhaps fearing the same, Mr. Burnham leaned forward and asked most politely, “What would you be thinking now, sir — that is, if I might ask.”

  “Oh, you may ask, certainly you may, sir. I am not one who is noted for keeping his thoughts to himself — no indeed.” He hesitated but a moment, and then came out with it: “I could not but note among the details of James Somerset’s background that he was held as a slave in Massachusetts by that Scotsman who brought him to England.”

  “And what of that, sir?”

  “Why, do you not see the irony in that, however unintended it may be? It is those ‘sons of liberty’ in the North American colonies who yell loudest for freedom that are most avid in protecting their putative rights to keep slaves.”

  “Indeed sir,” said Mr. Burnham, ” your point is well taken. There is, to be sure, a certain inconsistency there, to say the least.”

  “To say the least,” echoed Mr. Johnson in firm agreement. “I read from time to time of the continuing flow of Negroes northward to Canada where slavery is not tolerated, and in truth, I applaud them. I have heard of slave rebellions on various islands in the West Indies. None has succeeded to my knowledge, and I call that a pity.”

  There came from Lady Katherine the unmistakable sound of a sudden intake of breath, which expressed her shock at Mr. Johnson’s declaration. Yet there was an even greater shock to come.

  Mr. Johnson rose from his place and lifted his glass to the table.

  “I propose a toast,” said he, “to the next insurrection of slaves in the West Indies that it may succeed.”

  Mr. Burnham was on his feet in an instant, as were Annie and Clarissa, their glasses raised high. Only Sir John, Lady Katherine, and I retained our seats and left our glasses on the table. Though she, I think, had made her feelings clear in this matter, I know that I remained seated simply as a gesture of solidarity with Sir John, who would plainly decline to join in the toast offered by his guest. Nevertheless, the toast was drunk, the glasses were returned to the table, and all resumed their places. There were sheepish looks and downcast eyes.

  Even Mr. Johnson who, one would guess, had never experienced embarrassment in his life, regarded Sir John with a little uncertainty.

  “I hope, Sir John, that I have not offended you,” said he.

  “Not in the least, Mr. Johnson.”

  “I could not but notice that you did not join in the toast I offered.”

  “No, I did not.”

  “May I ask why, sir? I am eager to know.” And indeed, as he thrust his great head forward, he did appear eager. He even laid aside his knife and fork that he might give full attention to Sir John.

  “To put it bluntly,” said Sir John, “my position as magistrate would not permit it. A magistrate is, in a modest way, a judge, but he is also responsible for keeping order. And let me tell you, Mr. Johnson, and you, Mr. Burnham, that I place great value upon order.”

  “Ah, Sir John,” said Mr. Burnham in a most schoolmasterly manner, “but do you value
order over justice?”

  “No, I grant you, sir, that with reference to the matter at hand, there can be no doubt that a great wrong has been done to the Africans who have been taken from their homes, transported across the sea, and sold into slavery, and wrong it continues to be. But I believe it will be rectified soon or eventually — though not by revolt, insurrection, nor by rebellion, or other violent means. I am opposed to such. They offend my sense of order. And more important, they have unpredictable results and seldom accomplish the goals intended. More often than not, they lead to chaos and a situation worse than the one which precipitated the violence. In short, I oppose such means because they do not work. They harden the hearts of those in power against the very injustices they were meant to remedy. No, great injustices are best treated by legislation or in the courts. And such benevolent attention is most likely to be given when order prevails. Thus I stand on the side of order.”

  While I half-expected the table to burst into applause at his concluding words, I heard, rather, a discreet clearing of the throat from Mr. Burnham and light coughs from Mr. Johnson. I wanted dearly to know what, if anything, could be said in rejoinder to such words. Nevertheless, I had to leave the table. From a time just after Mr. Burnham’s question to Sir John until that very moment, I had heard a series of knocks upon the kitchen door, insistent yet respectful. I could not further delay responding. Excusing myself hastily, I muttered something about “the door” and ran off to the kitchen.

  I threw open the door and found Benjamin Bailey there. He, I knew, would not come knocking with something frivolous to report. (For that matter, none of the Bow Street Runners would have done so — not even the latest, Constable Patley.)

  “I’d begun to wonder if there was anyone up here,” said he.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Bailey. We’ve guests. Sir John was addressing the table, and I didn’t want to leave whilst he was speaking.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t’ve wanted you to do that,” said he, clearly appalled at such a notion.

  “What have you to report? I’ll pass it right on to him.”

  “A yes, well, it’s most peculiar, it is, but there’s been another robbery. “

  “Same district? Same robbers?”

  “That’s the part that’s most peculiar. It’s the same house as the last.”

  “The same house? The Trezavant residence?”

  “Yes,” said he, “oh yes, but it wasn’t the same robbers — not the Africans, anyways. Or at least there wasn’t any sign of them this time. No, the lady of the house, she just went to look over her jewels — and they wasn’t there where she kept them. They was gone.”

  “A burglary?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody seems to know when they were taken- — or by whom.” He stopped at that point and frowned. “One of the servants is missing, though.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know. One of the footmen ran to tell me, then went back to the house before I could get any more from him.”

  “Well,” said I to him, “just give me a moment. I’ll tell Sir John, and then get my hat.”

  As it came about, however, the trip to the Trezavant residence was made in a coach well-packed with passengers. Not only did Mr. Bailey and I sit left and right upon the padded bench in the cab directly behind the driver, but Mr. Burnham sat between us as well, still bitterly complaining that he would not be allowed to accompany all into the Trezavant house. Across from us three sat Mr. Johnson and Sir John, filling their bench seat completely.

  Sir John had jumped to his feet when I informed him of the odd circumstance of the theft in Little Jermyn Street and declared himself fit enough to lead the investigation. Then did Mr. Johnson rise and claim a place in our party. Yet when Mr. Burnham attempted to do the same, he met strong resistance from Sir John.

  “Do you not see,” said the magistrate, “that it would be a slap in the face to bring into Mr. Trezavant s home the very individual who was the cause of his humiliation earlier in the day? “

  “It would be a good lesson for him,” Mr. Burnham declared.

  “It might indeed,” said Sir John, “but neither you nor I is the one to teach it to him.”

  All the way to the hackney coach waiting in Bow Street, he held firm against Mr. Burnham’s protests. And even when we reached our destination and dismounted from the coach, there were grumbles still. Then and there Sir John silenced him.

  “Mr. Burnham,” said he, “please go home. You are but a street and a few houses away from Mr. Bilbo’s residence. Is that not so? Sir, I regret that our evening was cut somewhat short. Even more do I regret that it was necessary to detain you in Bow Street for near two days, but had you been more forthcoming …”

  “I now regret my choice of action, sir.”

  “Good. Then you will be less likely to repeat it.” Sir John thrust his hand out in Mr. Burnham’s general direction. “Come, let us press flesh and part on the best of terms. You are welcome in Number 4 Bow Street at any time. Visit me next week on some afternoon, and we shall continue our discussions.”

  Mollified and reconciled, he grasped Sir John’s hand and pumped it vigorously. Then, taking his leave of Mr. Johnson, he blessed the occasion that permitted their meeting for this first time. For his part, the lexicographer assured him there would be other such occasions in the future. With that, after exchanging bows all about him, Mr. Burnham headed down Little Jermyn Street toward St. James.

  “An odd fellow, don’t you think?” commented Mr. Johnson as he watched Mr. Burnham’s form dwindling down the street. “A prickly sort, yet at the same time rather unsure of himself.”

  “Oh, but intelligent,” said Sir John. “You have my word on that.”

  “And a gifted teacher — or so I hear from Frank Barber.”

  It struck me as strange to hear the two men assess Mr. Burnham so. I wondered what they might say of me if I were absent.

  “Well,” said Sir John with a sigh, “let’s inside, shall we? The sooner we begin, the sooner we’ll have done. Give the door a good, stout knock, Mr. Bailey.”

  That he did, beating a tattoo upon it with his club. None within could have failed to hear.

  “Very good of you to allow me to accompany you,” said Mr. Johnson. “I have long wondered what transpired at such nocturnal sessions as these.”

  He seemed ready to go on in this vein, but there came voices behind the door raised in argument. One of them — unmistakably that of Mr. Collier, the butler — objecting sharply to … what? Then a stronger, deeper voice, also familiar: “Oh, enough of that!” Locks were thrown; bars were drawn; the door came open at last. And there stood Constable Patley, with Mr. Collier cowering behind.

  “Ah, I knew it was you,” said the constable, throwing the door wide and stepping back. “This little mousie” — tapping Mr. Collier upon the shoulder — “feared it was the Africans come back, but I was ready for them if it was. He waved his club. “Come along inside. I got the two of them ready to talk to you, Sir John.”

  Once inside, the door shut behind us, Sir John turned to Mr. Patley. “Two?” said he. “You say two? And who are they?”

  “It’s the Mister and the Missus.”

  “Ah, very well. We meet her at last, eh?”

  “It’s an experience you’ll easily survive, sir. But this way, right through here.”

  Our party moved swiftly down the long hall. I realized before we reached the door that the Trezavants awaited us in the room always referred to as the “library.” When at last we reached it, Sir John paused and signaled us to stand close round him.

  “Now, Mr. Bailey and Mr. Patley,” said he softly, “I should like you to go below stairs and talk with all who will talk to you. Who in particular do you suggest, Jeremy? “

  I took a moment to think. “I should say Maude Bleeker, the cook, and Mossman, the porter, would be best.”

  “Very good. You’ve got that, have you? Find out which of the servants is missing. Search the room
of that person. Meanwhile, one of you look outside the house for anything, anything at all, that may help us along.” Then did he pause for a moment, perhaps for effect, though more likely to satisfy himself that he had nothing to add to these, his instructions. “Alright then, off with you.”

  The two constables started off together, ready to begin their task.

  “Mr. Johnson? Shall we see what awaits us? Jeremy, give the door a knock.”

  Thus bidden, I gave it a few sound thumps and immediately opened the door for Sir John and Mr. Johnson, not wishing them to be beholden to Mr. Trezavant for an invitation to enter. Once both were inside, I pulled the door shut and rushed ahead that Sir John might place his hand upon my arm and thus be led forward through unfamiliar territory.

  Only then did I have a proper view of the master and mistress of the house. They were as unlike as they could be. The Mr. I have oft described as fat. Yet indeed those three letters — f, a, t — do no justice to the shape of the man; let us say, rather, elephantine or mountainous and thus begin the proper work of description. As for Mrs. Trezavant, all that I have said of him could be said of her in its antithesis. Where he was fat, she was thin (skinny even); if he was elephantine, she was serpentine; and if he appeared mountainous, then she seemed (what simile here? Perhaps, reader, if you have ever been inside a great cavern, this will do) stalagmitic.

  Not that this great contrast was immediately apparent to me, for both were seated behind that grand desk which so dominated its end of the room. Oddly, both were dressed for bed, though it was not near so late in the evening as that might suggest; they wore heavy robes and proper nightcaps.

  “Ah yes, Sir John,” said Mr. Trezavant, drawling in a most supercilious manner, ” you have come, have you? What a pity to have dragged you forth. We have no need in this instance of your investigative powers.”

  “Oh? And why is that, sir? “

  “Why, it is quite obvious who committed the theft. But ah” — he interrupted himself — -“I see that you have another with you.”