The Color of Death (25 page)

“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 that 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?”

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.

Sir John was deep in whispered conversation with Constable Brede and Constable Perkins. Though I wanted greatly to know the subject of their conversation, the three were so absorbed that I simply could not bring myself to eavesdrop in a crude and common way. I kept a respectful distance and simply burned with curiosity. It was only at the end of it all that I managed to hear anything worth hearing.

Mr. Perkins had broken away from the other two and was heading for the street door, when he turned and called back to them: “You may count on me, of course. But sir, tell me, when do you wish me there to start?”

“A little earlier than Mr. Brede, I think,” said Sir John. “Perhaps an hour, if you don’t mind, Mr. Perkins. I must arrange a few things first.”

“I don’t mind at all. I live quite near.”

“That, of course, is why you were chosen,” said Sir John.

“And not my fierce nature? My lion’s heart?”

“That, too, certainly.”

Both men turned away, laughing. Nor did Mr. Brede stay a moment longer than was necessary. Taciturn by nature, he mumbled no more than a few words, bobbed his head to the magistrate, and headed after Constable Perkins out the door to the street.

“Now you, Jeremy,” said Sir John as he waved in my approximate direction.

“I, sir? How did you know I was here?”

“Oh, I had a notion you were about. I hoped you would be, in any case.” As I came closer to him, he fumbled down into his voluminous coat pocket and fetched up a letter; sealed tightly it was, so that there seemed little chance of peeking inside. “This is a most important letter,” he continued, holding it out to me, “which I dictated to Mr. Marsden when you were out wandering about St. James Park with that chambermaid.”

“But sir, I — ”

“Oh, never mind. You’re being teased, lad. Can’t you tell?”

“I suppose so, sir,” said I. (Overearnestness was ever a fault of mine.)

“Very well, I wish you to deliver this immediately.”

I took the letter and saw that the name writ upon it was that of Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice.

“You’ve been there often, and know the way,” Sir John continued. “The most important thing, however, is to get this to him swiftly, before he leaves for Old Bailey. But this,” said he, drawing out a letter from his other pocket, “may be delivered afterward. It is, as you see, addressed to the provost marshal at the Tower of London. He will not have an immediate reply for you, but Lord Mansfield will — a simple yes or no. All that understood?”

I took the second letter. “Perfectly, Sir John.”

“Then off with you, lad.”

Indeed I did know the way. I had brought letters so often to the grand house in Bloomsbury Square that I could find my way wearing a blindfold — though I should never make such a claim to Sir John. And though it was quite early, I must say that I enjoyed the brisk walk up Drury Lane and beyond. I even found myself looking forward to the duel at the door with Lord Mansfield’s arrogant butler. Thank God, thought I, that I had had the presence of mind to wear my best coat that morning.

The butler, whose name was Egbert, answered my insistent knock a bit tardily, but answer it he did. He stood in the doorway, blocking my path, as if he feared that my intent was to push past him and into the residence. He was tall, over six feet, and he seemed to enjoy looking down at me.

“You again,” said he. There was no evidence of emotion to be seen in his face, certainly no sign of pleasure at my visit.

“Yes, it is I.” With a smile upon my face, I responded most pleasantly to his baleful look. “I have a letter for Lord Mansfield from Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

“What does your letter concern?”

“I know not, for I did not take it in dictation, and I would not tell you in any case, for what it concerns comes under the heading of official court business.”

“Hmmmph,” said he, something in the nature of a belch it was, and yet it sounded, too, like a bit of a cough.

“Is Lord Mansfield still here?” I asked. “Or has he left for court?”

“Oh, he is still here. Give me the letter, and I shall deliver it to him.”

“I fear I cannot,” said I. “There is an answer requested.”

“The usual thing, eh? Well,” said he, throwing open the door and stepping aside, “come ahead then. His Lordship is at breakfast for the moment. Do not interrupt him longer than is necessary.”

I followed the butler at a respectful distance until a thought occurred to me. Then did I catch him up by moving forward at a jog-trot.

“Sir,” said I to him, “may I ask you a question?”

“You may.”

“Have you recently added to your staff a maid of the name of Pinkham?”

The butler looked back at me over his shoulder. “I am in charge of the staff,” said he. “I do all the hiring. I can assure you that no maid named Pinkham, nor anyone else, has been added to the staff for years.”

“Thank you.”

He conducted me to a surprisingly small room at the back of the house. It drew light through its eastern-facing windows. It occurred to me that this breakfast room may have been a later addition.

Lord Mansfield, wearing a robe, still in his nightcap, looking for all the world as if he had just staggered from his bed, looked up from a bowl of country porridge and squinted distrustfully at me.

“Ah,” said he, “it’syou, is it? Sir John’s lad. Got a letter for me, have

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you/

“Yes sir, I do.” Wherewith I produced the letter and presented it to him.

“He wants an answer, does he? He usually does.”

“A spoken yes or no will do, he says.”

“Hmmm.” Only then did he break the seal, open the letter, and start to read. As he did, he began blinking his sleep-weighted eyes and rubbing them vigorously until he had them wide open. At the same time he sat up straight in his chair and shook his head in a gesture of bewildered astonishment. He held the letter open before him for such a length of time that I was sure that he had taken the trouble to read through it twice. At that moment, I would have paid dearly to know the contents of the letter I had given to Lord Mansfield.

When at last he lowered the letter, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You may tell Sir John, yes — emphatically yes.’ “

“Thank you, Lord Mansfield, I shall, of course, deliver your message.” I bowed and started for the door.

“Joseph,” said he to the butler, “show this young man out and return here immediately. We have much to discuss before I leave for court this morning.”

My route to the Tower of London took me near the office of Mr. Moses Martinez in Leadenhall Street. Because no limit of time had been put upon me, I thought I might look in on him. There was, after all, a chance that he might have heard something from Amsterdam regarding the jewels stolen from Lady Lilley. Or was I perhaps a bit too optimistic? It was less than a week that I visited him on Sir John’s advice to ask his aid in the matter. In any case, I proceeded up the street which led past the imposing home of the East India Company, then beyond to the more modest building wherein Mr. Martinez maintained his chambers, and his living quarters, as well.

Again, I was ushered swiftly into his chambers by a young assistant. (I had but to mention Sir John’s name.) Mr. Martinez stood, welcoming me politely, yet he wore on his face a curious and slightly confused expression as he waved me to a chair.

“Was there some other request from Sir John?” he asked in a somewhat tentative manner.

“Uh, no sir,” said I, “but I was wondering if any word has come from Amsterdam. I know it hasn’t been very long since — ”

“Longl Young man, two letters were posted only Wednesday. They may not even have arrived yet. I would remind you that Holland is some distance away.”

“I … I know that, sir. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” I rose from the chair where I had sat, feeling quite mortified of a sudden at my own impatience, my inability to allow things to happen in their own time. No doubt I had caught a bit of that same sense of excitement that seemed to have possessed Sir John that very morning. “In truth, Mr. Martinez, Sir John did not send me — not today. Coming here was my own idea. As you may have heard, there has been another robbery, and I simply hoped for the kind of information that might move the investigation along at a swifter pace. Again, forgive me.”

By the time I had concluded this speech, I had retreated to the door, bowing frequently, and was about to leave in a great rush before Mr. Martinez could say another word. Yet he spoke out before I could make good my escape.

“Stay! Stay!” said he. “As a lad, I was like you myself. I could not tolerate the pace at which the world went — always too slow, never swift enough to suit me.”

He waved a finger in the air rather sententiously; I was reminded of a schoolmaster, or a vicar, perhaps.

“As I say,” he continued, “I remember having the same sort of feelings that you have today, and because I remember so well, I will tell you something that may be of interest to you.”

“Oh, tell me, please do.”

“It was something that happened yesterday which indeed made me wonder. There is a man known to me by reputation — his is a bad reputation. He was pointed out to me a year ago on the streets of Rotterdam, and a good many colorful stories were told me of his nefarious enterprise in Europe. It should be said, by the bye, that his criminal pursuits constituted his second business, for he presented himself as a successful trader in ordinary goods — compasses, lenses, linens — the sort of thing the Dutch are known for.”

“He was Dutch, then?”

“Oh yes, did I not make that clear? He did well enough in his first line of trade that he managed to keep secret his second line.”

“Which was … ?”

“He dealt in all manner of stolen goods.”

“Jewels? Paintings?”

“That and much more.”

“And you saw this same man here in London, did you?”

“It was but one day past.”

“What is his name, sir?”

“Oh, I could not tell you that.”

Why ever could he not? He had good as described Mr. Zondervan of St. James Street to me. And now to withhold his name? That made no sense. Yet I told Mr. Martinez nothing of the kind. I had learned there were subtler ways of handling a reluctant witness.

“Then, sir, you must dictate a letter for Sir John in which you tell him all that you have told me about this man with the addition of his name. I shall wait in the next room, so I shall be none the wiser, and you may double-seal the letter tight so that I may not peek inside.”

“That would do no good,” said he. “I cannot divulge the name, not even to Sir John.”

“I honestly do not understand,” said I. “Do you not trust Sir John?”

“Of course I do. And for that matter, I trust you, too.”

“Do you fear retribution from this nameless trader?”

“I fear no one.”

“Then, sir, please make it clear to me why you refuse.”

Mr. Martinez nodded, then said nothing for a good long moment as he considered the next step to take. At last he proceeded.

“Are you a Christian?” he asked me.

“Well, I … I try.”

“And you know that I am a Jew, and I, too, try. Our two religions have much in common. Among the most important: We worship the same God, and we live by the same rules of life.”

That last was a bit obscure to me. “Sir?”

“The Decalogue,” he explained.

“Sir?”

“The Ten Commandments.”

“Ah yes,” said I, “of course.”

“One of these Commandments — it is the ninth — prohibits the bearing of false witness. It tells us not to say of another what we know to be false. In commentary, this has been extended to mean not only must we not speak falsehoods, we must also say of another only what we know to be the truth. Now, concerning the man of whom I spoke, it may well be that all I told you of him was true, yet I cannot be certain. I do not know it from my own experience, therefore I have withheld his name that I may not bear false witness against him.”

I followed his reasoning, and I admitted to myself that it was sound reasoning. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to attack it.

“But sir,” said I, ” you said that the man in question is Dutch. Surely that provides a considerable hint to his identity.”