The Color of Death

by Alexander, Bruce

  “I do believe Zondervan hopped out whilst my horse was trapped among the coaches at the theater and unable to move, for when I came up to the coach, stopped the driver, and looked inside, he just plain wasn’t inside.”

  Then, before I could get so much as a word in, Lieutenant Tabor made a remark which puzzled me greatly.

  “You were never good in pursuit, were you Patley?” said he with a sneer. “As I recall, you eventually lost the track of those escaping prisoners even before it was properly laid down.”

  What prisoners? How could you lose a track before it was left? What history did they share ?

  “To put it simple, Sir John,” said Mr. Patley, ignoring the lieutenant completely, “I lost that man Zondervan.”

  I could hold back no longer: “Sir, I believe I know where he is.”

  All four faces turned toward me. Patley grasped me by the arm.

  “Where? Tell me where.”

  “Just about to the ship by now,” said I. “If you — ”

  Patley released me suddenly with such force that he near threw me down. Then did he leap beyond the lieutenant and grab away the carabin from one of the troopers, who was too surprised to respond.

  He shouted at me: “Come along! Show me!”

  Having made the sighting and announced it, I felt I could do naught but show him what I had seen. We ran out to the end of the wharf together, with the lieutenant, the trooper, and Mr. Bailey calling after us.

  “There,” said I, pointing out across the water at the Dingendam. “You see? They’ve already thrown the ladder down.”

  And it was indeed true: A rope ladder dangled over the side of the ship. It appeared to me that one of the waterman’s passengers had already climbed aboard, since only one remained in the boat, and he now prepared to ascend the ladder.

  I attempted to call this to the attention of Constable Patley, but he paid no attention whatsoever to me. He was setting up to take his shot, dropping down into a kneeling posture, resting an elbow upon his knee that his hand might support and steady the barrel. He seemed so completely prepared to shoot that I was quite taken by surprise when he bellowed forth a warning: “Stop or I shall shoot!”

  Indeed the man on the ladder did not stop. He began, rather, to scramble up the ladder so recklessly that it began swinging wildly back and forth against the hull of the ship, making it an apparently impossible shot.

  Or so I thought. Mr. Patley thumbed back the hammer on the cara-bin, took the slack from the trigger, and then squeezed. The man upon the ladder halted, simultaneous with the shot. For a long moment he simply hung onto the wooden rung above him. Then his grip relaxed, and he fell back into the river. He made no motion to attempt to swim, nor to float. He simply sank.

  Mr. Patley rose and turned, just as a crowd of troopers, constables, and the principals of the earlier drama gathered round him. He handed the carabin to its owner, thanking him somewhat ironically for the use of it. And to the lieutenant he said: “Maybe I were not much at soldiering but I could always shoot.”

  There was no reply.

  Sir John, there with the rest, declared that he could hear the sound of the capstan turning. “The anchor is aweigh. They will be off and down the river before you know it, Lieutenant Tabor. I advise you and your men to mount up and be off. You’ve a long ride ahead of you.”

  “Yes sir, I agree,” said the lieutenant, and with a shouted order, he sent the troopers back to their horses. Then, about to depart, he offered his hand to Constable Patley. “Good shooting, Corporal. I was always certain of your skill.”

  Then, at another command, the squad mounted in unison, and Tabor led them away in a brisk canter.

  “Where are they off to?” asked Mr. Bailey.

  “To the Gravesend Customs Station,” said Sir John. “I put them on notice that a Dutch ship full of contraband goods might be coming their way tonight. The lieutenant and his men are riding on ahead to inform customs that they might send a Coast Guard vessel to blockade their way at the mouth of the Thames.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you, sir?”

  “I’ve tried,” said Sir John. “Indeed I have tried. But Mr. Patley, I do wish you had exercised a bit of restraint.”

  “Oh? How was that, sir? I shouted a warning.”

  “I heard you, and that was as it should have been, but it would have been so much easier to sort all this out if I had Mr. Zondervan to question.”

  “Oh, you may have him yet, sir. That weren’t Zondervan I shot out there.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “Ah, no sir. It was John Abernathy.”

  “You’re sure of that, Mr. Patley?” I’m sure.

  TWELVE

  In Which Matters

  are Explained and

  Annie Brings Good News

  “Didn’t you realize the nature of the situation, Jeremy? I thought that you did. Mr. Patley was my spy. Indeed, yes, right there in that den of thieves.”

  “Why, then I was of no use to you at all, was I? That is to say, all that running round St. James Street, questioning witnesses at Trezavant’s, I might just as well have gone out instead and picked daisies in the park.”

  “Oh, by no means,” said Sir John to me. “You brought me an abundance of good information from your investigations.”

  It was one day past that great evening on which so many prisoners were taken and so much evidence gathered. Mr. Zondervan and Captain Van Cleef had been brought back from Gravesend by Lieutenant Tabor and his men. The Dingendam was in quarantine and its crew held in detention. Sir John had emptied the strongroom at his court session and sent Mr. Collier and the captain to the Fleet Prison, and the rest off to Newgate. (“Good enough for them,” he declared.) Trials at Old Bailey would take place as soon as dates could be set.

  As for myself, I rejoiced less about this outcome than I should have. I sulked and skulked around Number 4 Bow Street through the day, thinking that all had been accomplished without my help. Late that afternoon, Sir John, as he did so often, correctly perceived my state of mind, called me into his chambers, and went directly to the point.

  Yet I had still to be convinced. “Could you be more specific?” I asked him. “If there was such an abundance of good information, it should be easy to supply an example or two.” (Perhaps since Sir John forgave me these occasional bouts of priggish self-conceit, you, reader, can also find it in your heart to do so.)

  “I can do that easily,” said he. “Let us take as an instance the trap we were able to lay for the robbers at Lord Mansfield’s residence. That was done largely through information you provided.”

  “Oh? How … how was that, sir?”

  “You will recall that when you went off to Mr. Bilbo’s to check Mr. Burnham’s story with residents of the house, you were discouraged because you felt it was quite inevitable that they would lie to protect him. Do you remember what I told you then?”

  “Well … yes. I believe you advised me to pay strict attention to them, because it is often only through the lies that we can get to the truth — or words to that effect.”

  “Very good,” said he. “I’d no idea you listened to me so closely. Now think, Jeremy, who did you run into there, evidently quite unexpectedly?”

  “Why, it was Mary Pinkham,” said I, surprised at the memory.

  “Indeed, and what did she tell you?”

  “That she was going to seek employment.”

  “Where?”

  “Why, of course! How could it have slipped my mind? At Lord Mansfield’s in Bloomsbury Square.”

  “And next time you saw her, that’s where she was.”

  “Acting as one of the robber band.”

  “Right you are! But you checked her story later, and found she was not employed there and had not even applied. I foresaw that and reasoned that since she was under suspicion as the distressed female who persuaded the butler to open Trezavant’s door, she had likely heard Lord Mansfield’s residence in Bloomsbury Sq
uare mentioned as the next place to be robbed. That was enough for me to seek Lord Mansfield’s permission to place two men in his house to guard it.”

  “Constables Perkins and Brede.”

  “Exactly! You took the letter to Lord Mansfield yourself. I couldn’t allow the Lord Chief Justice himself to be robbed so rudely. If I had done, it would have been an insult to the entire legal system. So I posted Perkins and Brede there, even though I had no proper idea of when the attack might come. Yet you helped supply information there, too.

  “I did?”

  “Certainly. Do you recall when you went off to fetch Mr. Donnelly to look at the girl’s body out in back of Trezavant’s?”

  “Yes, of course I do. I had to wait, for he had been at a dinner parry at Lord Mansfield’s home.” Then, remembering, I added excitedly: “Mr. Zondervan was there, too. In fact, he drove Mr. Donnelly home in his coach. When I told you about it the next day, you became quite interested and sent me to invite him here for a talk.”

  “Ah yes, and while you were there, you noted the intense activity in the house, which seemed to you quite like preparations to move the household — and householder. And you thought the move would be very soon, that very evening perhaps. You also heard Mr. Patley somewhere in the house, and that frighted me a bit. But he, by the bye, had confirmed your suspicions and believed that an early departure was planned.”

  “Why ‘early,’ Sir John?” I asked.

  “Well, yes, why indeed? Because, you see, that letter you brought me from Mr. Humber contained some very interesting information. First of all, it told me that there was indeed a ship which seemed too heavily insured for the cargo that it carried — at least that which was listed upon its manifest. It was a ship of Dutch registry, the Dingendam, which was to sail on the 21st for some part in the North American colonies — Boston, I believe it was.” He smiled broadly just then. “That’s right, Jeremy, that is today’s date. In other words, taking the tide, as they did last night, put them out of port a day earlier than the time of departure they had registered with the London port authority. Oh, and yes, perhaps most interesting of all, the owner of the Dingendam was listed as a Mr. Hans Zondervan. That confirmed your guess from Mr. Martinez’s clews — a very clever guess, I might add.

  “Let me see, now, where was I? Ah yes, when Zondervan arrived — you know, I never did find out how you persuaded him to come.”

  “I described you to him as a rather pathetic “sort, one who would be happy to have a visit from one in the great world.”

  “Excellent! We were then wonderfully in harmony,” said he, “for I, in my role as an eccentric old codger, drew from him the names of a few of those in the great world at whose grand houses he had dined — how he was received with his silly Dutch tales, et cetera. And among those who entertained him thus were Lord Lilley and our friend, the coroner, Mr. Trezavant. In other words, he had scouted these houses and decided what they might have that would be worth stealing. Since he had just visited Lord Mansfield and charmed the great company present, and since both you and Mr. Patley agreed that Zondervan was preparing to leave a day earlier than we had been advised, I decided that the raid upon the home of the Lord Chief Justice had to be that very evening — and it was.”

  This was, I admitted to myself, a very full accounting. And it was apparent that indeed I had played an important part in the gathering of information, but nevertheless …

  “Now, that is but one instance. There were others,” said Sir John. “Do you wish to hear more?”

  “Well … no,” said I hesitantly. “I wonder only why you did not apprise me of the importance of these bits of information when I brought them to you? In short, why did you not keep me better informed?”

  He fell into a troubled silence. I could tell that there was something he wished to say, but could not quite put into words. Yet I would hear it from him, and so I pressed him on the matter.

  “Do you not trust me, sir, to keep your confidence?”

  “Oh, but of course I do,” he declared hastily. “It is just… well, let me tell you a story.” Then, taking a breath, he began: “It was when I was about your age and a midshipman in the Navy. We were part of a squadron sailing about the Mediterranean showing the colors. We put in at Naples which, traditionally, has been a friend to England. To demonstrate this, the Duke of Naples sent to us a troop of entertainers who performed right there aboard ship. There were acrobats and jugglers, all of them most expert in their skills. Yet none could be called a true artist, except for one: a magician. Now, I know not why it should be — perhaps it may have something to do with the Neapolitans’ talent for thievery — but it is said that they produce the very best magicians in the world, though one does hear tales of great wonders done in the Orient. I am well aware that there is no such thing as true magic. It is all illusion and sleight of hand. Still, when it is done with great knowledge, talent, and ability, it does approach true artistry. And the magician who entertained us that day in Naples possessed all those qualities: He was a true artist. He spoke not a word during his performance, which made it all the more mysterious. The man may have been mute for all I know. Yet I had no trouble understanding when he pointed to me, seated in the front row, and beckoned me up there beside him before them all, captain and crew. He brought forth a broad-brimmed hat and gestured that I might put it on. That I did, and found it was much too large. It covered my eyes completely, and there was much jollity at my expense, but I minded not a whit, for it was just such a happy occasion. In any case, he showed me and showed all the rest that apart from its size, it was a perfectly ordinary hat. Then, sent back to my seat by him, I sat and watched him do something quite marvelous. He turned the hat upside down and covered it with a cloth. Then, after making a few passes over it, he removed the cloth, reached into the hat, and pulled out … a rabbit!”

  (Reader, I myself had by that time seen the same trick performed two or three times on a Sunday in Covent Garden, yet it was the first and last time Sir John had witnessed it, and even as he spoke of it, he seemed rather awestruck by the memory.)

  “Jeremy,” said he, resuming upon a lighter note, “I have told you that story for a reason, for ever afterward I have attempted to astound others as that Neapolitan magus astounded me. To put it another way, I love to pull rabbits from a hat! I love to gather all the bits of information, to shift them about, reorder them, and so on until I come up with an astounding solution, the proper solution, the only solution. But to astound, I need an audience — and you, Jeremy, are my audience. If I kept you informed every step of the way, there would be no surprise, no astonishment, no rabbit out of the hat. Or far worse, if you knew all, then you might reach the solution before me; then I would be the one astounded. Not only would I then lose the pleasure of pulling the rabbit from the hat, I would also be embarrassed in the bargain.

  “Then …” I hesitated, “then I would say that it is all something of a game to you. Is that not so, sir?”

  He thought hard upon that and seemed about to deny the conclusion I had drawn from what he had said. In fact, he did begin to shake his head from side to side, but then he stopped, pursed his lips judiciously, and said: “Perhaps like a game, though not really quite that. Let us call it, rather, a very serious game.”

  I was not altogether sure what he meant by that, but I did not think that this was the proper time to ask him. It would be best, I thought, to remove myself that I might consider the matter by myself. I rose from the chair where I had sat during our long conversation and made ready to depart. Then did one last question occur to me.

  “Sir,” said I, “if Constable Patley was your spy there in the enemy camp, how did he manage to ingratiate himself to such a gang of cutthroats?” Then, remembering poor Crocker, I added, “Yes, literally that: cutthroats.”

  “He did that by convincing them he would be their spy in our camp,” said he. “But it is a good deal more complicated than that, and thereby hangs a fascinating tale. You would do b
etter to ask him yourself.”

  I climbed the stairway to our kitchen, aware that it was late enough that I must stoke the fire for Lady Katherine. She, of course, had taken Annie’s place as cook until such time as another could be found. The idea of replacing Annie gave me a heavy heart indeed. How could she be replaced? She had become as one of the family — and a more important member than either Clarissa or I, for she fulfilled a far more fundamental function. What could Lady Kate’s secretary or Sir John’s assistant do that could match cooking, baking, and filling bellies with good things to eat? A well-fed family is a happy one.

  As I came to the top of the stairs, I heard voices, women’s voices, from beyond the door. Thinking them to be Clarissa’s and Lady Kate’s, I saw no need to knock. I threw open the door and walked right in. What I saw made me believe for an instant that I had somehow stepped back a day, a week, or even a year in time, for there at the kitchen table, laughing and chattering as sisters will, sat Clarissa and Annie. They turned to me.

  “Annie,” I shouted. “You’ve come back!” She jumped from her chair and embraced me, and even went so far as to plant a kiss upon my cheek.

  “Yes,” said she, “but only for just this one evening.”

  “Oh Jeremy,” sang Clarissa, now also upon her feet, “you’ve no idea what wonderful news she has. Tell him, Annie, tell him!”

  “Yes,” said I, “by all means, do tell me. You must!”

  “Well, you, of all people, will remember what sent me to school to learn to read.”

  “Of course, it was that performance of Othello at the Drury Lane. I remember well how we all trooped down afterward to congratulate Mr. Garrick.”

  “Then I,” said she, “made bold to tell him that he would one day welcome me in his company.” She paused — for dramatic effect, I suppose — then did she sing out most gleefully: “And that is what he has done!”