The Color of Death Read online

  ALSO BY BRUCE ALEXANDER

  Blind Justice

  Murder in Grub Street

  Watery Grave

  Person or Persons Unknown

  Jack, Knave and Fool

  Death of a Colonial

  The Color of Death

  Smuggler’s Moon

  An Experiment in Treason

  The Price of Murder

  Rules of Engagement

  For Harold Bordwell

  ONE

  In Which a Letter

  is Delivered

  and a Shot Fired

  By the end of that day in 1772, a concatenation of events would have begun which would alter considerably the circumstances of life there at Number 4 Bow Street. We had no notion of that, however, as we sat together like a proper family at breakfast. Annie, the cook, had baked a fresh loaf, and we ate it warm with rashers of bacon and lumps of good country butter. The mood was festive. It was seldom, after all, that the five of us were together at the table so early in the day. More frequently, we came one by one, ate what was conveniently at hand, and headed off along our separate paths. On that morning, however, Lady Fielding was to attend a meeting of the board of the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes, a charitable enterprise which she herself had brought into being. Her preparations for this event had lasted well past the usual hour of her departure for the Magdalene Home. Nevertheless, there was then time for her to converse with Sir John; to give the day’s orders to Annie and me; and to tease her secretary, Clarissa, the orphan who Sir John had taken on as his ward that she might be saved from the Lichfield poor house.

  Rising, she took one last gulp of tea and waved to me to show that she was ready to leave. It was my task, reader, to precede her down the stairs to the street in order to make sure that a hackney coach would be waiting at our door for her. And so I proceeded. Just as I left the kitchen, however, I heard Clarissa ask what she was to do during the rest of the day.

  Lady Fielding did then reply: “Why, the duchess will have luncheon following the meeting, you may be sure of it, and who knows what will follow that! In short, I may be gone the entire day, and so you may spend it as you like. It is yours, my dear Clarissa.”

  I heard no more, but what I had caught thus far was quite enough, thank you. I knew full well that though given the day’s freedom, Clarissa would be expected to enjoy it in my care. At thirteen, she was considered by Lady Fielding far too young to walk the streets of London, even in the daylight hours.

  And so it proved to be. Returning, I was hailed by Sir John and asked to sit down. I reluctantly took a place beside him, fearing the worst.

  “You saw Lady Fielding off in a hackney?”

  “Oh, I did, sir.”

  “But she gave you no specific idea of the time she might return?”

  “No sir, I’m not at all sure that she knows, Sir John.”

  He sighed. “Probably not.”

  I had the feeling that he was temporizing, simply marking time until he found the opportunity to address a topic he would as soon not discuss.

  “I wish there were a way she could inform us when she was ready to return. Then I might send you to fetch her back.” He paused. I wondered if he wished some comment from me. But no, he pressed onward: “Simply put, I wish that the streets were safer.”

  “Yet,” I objected, “Mr. Bailey and all the constables have made all but a few corners quite safe at night.”

  “That’s just it, you see, Jeremy. I suspect that in some quarters it has become riskier by day than at night. Robberies in daylight have become a particular problem. I have included in the new budget a request for two extra constables. If I’m refused, then I fear I shall have to transfer two of the night men forward to days.”

  “Is it truly so bad, Sir John?”

  “Bad enough,” said he, “that I must ask you to watch over Clarissa on this, her day of liberty.”

  Ah, there it was, thought I. And I could not but admire how skillfully he had maneuvered me to the point where his request seemed both reasonable and necessary. Well, no doubt it was. That, however, did not persuade me to like better the task of playing nursemaid to one who seemed by nature discourteous, cantankerous, and more generally disagreeable than anyone else in my circle of acquaintance. That she was intelligent and clever I would not dispute. Nevertheless, her intelligence and cleverness seemed most often to be used to prove me wrong and embarrass me.

  “Your silence tells me that you are less than delighted by my request.”

  Though blind he may have been, Sir John saw more with his other four senses than I could with my own keen eyes. How could he learn so much from a moment’s pause, a mere hitch in time?

  Sir John Fielding had been magistrate of the Bow Street Court for near twenty years and had gained a reputation among Covent Garden greengrocers as a fair and just arbitrator of their disputes; even criminals of the district seemed to think him evenhanded. So I could hardly say that I was then surprised when he undertook to set things right with me. I believe that in effect he wished to persuade me now to volunteer for the task for which I had just been drafted. He would do this by convincing me that what in any case had to be done was just and noble and at the same time quite generous of me.

  “You know,” said he in a quiet, reasoning tone, “she thinks quite highly of you. You seem to be something of a model to her.”

  “Clarissa? Surely not, sir!”

  “Indeed it’s true, Jeremy. She greatly admires the single-minded way that you have applied yourself to the study of law.”

  “Oh?” said I, making a question of it as I considered the claim. I knew that Sir John would not lie regarding such a matter, and so I accepted it that Clarissa had praised me. But even better was it to realize that she could only have formed her opinion from what she had heard from him. He must first have spoken well of me.

  “Now, I admit that she is a willful girl,” said he (which did surprise me somewhat). “She will express her opinion on every matter and argue beyond reason that hers is the right one. Yet, I believe you might teach her to be different.”

  “But sir,” I protested, “I have tried — and often. I reason with her, and it does little good.”

  “Put in another way, you argue with her. You attempt to correct her, to point out her errors. Is that not so?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Then leave off that in the future. Try teaching not by precept but by example. Behave toward her as you would have her behave toward others. You must try to be an elder brother to her.”

  “An elder brother?” I echoed his words in what, I fear, was a rather dubious manner.

  “Why yes,” said Sir John. “Should that be so difficult to imagine?”

  “Perhaps not if I apply myself to the task.”

  Thus, it came about that not much more than half an hour later, Clarissa Roundtree and I, Jeremy Proctor, both of us dressed in our best, were on our way to call upon Samuel Johnson. When Clarissa learned that sometime that day I was to deliver a letter to that distinguished personage (actually no more than an invitation in the form of a note, which I had penned for Sir John the day before), she immediately forsook any plans she may have had and asked if she might accompany me. Indeed she asked so politely that I wondered if perhaps Sir John had not had a few words with her as he had with me. Whether or not this were so I never discovered.

  If I seemed especially hostile to Clarissa at this time, when earlier we two had apparently reached a reconciliation of sorts, it was because she had only recently dismayed and angered me with what I must admit was not much more than a prank. Ever since she had come to stay at Number 4 Bow Street she had been in close company with Lady Fielding — companion and “secretary” to her. I
have permitted myself the use of upside-down commas, for I had always been dubious as to the nature and extent of the secretarial help which she provided.

  It must have been considerable, however, for Lady Fielding declared she had no notion of how she had managed earlier without her; in particular she praised her skill as an organizer. Further proof had come on a Sunday not long before when, with nobody about below on the main floor, Clarissa took it upon herself to alter thoroughly the filing system which Mr. Marsden, the court clerk, used. (It should be made clear that though he may have used the system, he did not invent it; his predecessor, Mr. Brogden, had done that.) Next day there was no little confusion as the court clerk attempted to fathom what had been done, yet when Clarissa confessed and explained the principle upon which she had reorganized the files (names, and not dates alone), Mr. Marsden declared her system superior and applauded her efforts.

  However, he regretted that he had not the time to learn it thoroughly, and so he put me forward to Sir John as file clerk. That came as an additional duty — one in addition, that is, to serving Sir John as amanuensis, doing the buying for the household each day in Covent Garden, and running every conceivable errand for the court. When, I wondered, was I to find time to read for the bar? Besides, tending the files was not merely onerous, it was also slightly embarrassing. What healthy young lad would wish to be a file clerk? When I expressed myself in this regard to Clarissa, she did little more than snigger — hence, my hostility toward her.

  Yet as we two tramped along in silence, I thought once again of what Sir John had said about acting as an elder brother to Clarissa. I thought I knew what he meant by that, but I was not absolutely sure. In my experience, elder brothers were as often cruel to younger sisters as they were kind. But Sir John, of course, was urging me to be protective, instructive, and friendly to her. All that, I suppose, was within my power. Still, if he were suggesting that I offer her brotherly love, then that surely would be quite beyond me. Why, even if she were to —

  “Where was it that you said he lived?” Clarissa asked, interrupting my ponderings as she had often enough done before.

  “Johnson’s Court,” said I.

  “Just imagine, having the street where you live named after you. That would indeed be fame.”

  “So it would be, but I fear it is a distinction that Mr. Johnson has not yet achieved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Johnson’s Court it was called before he moved there, and so it will be known when he departs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am,” said I a bit smugly. “I would not make such a statement unless I were certain of my facts.”

  She gave me a hard look but said nothing. Our destination lay just off Fleet Street. We made our way there along the Strand. The crowd in the walkway, men and women on their way to their day’s labor, bumped and jostled us so that we could not move much faster than a shuffle.

  Pressed toward me, she asked in something more than a whisper, “Have you been there often?”

  “Where?”

  “You know where! To see Mr. Johnson.”

  “Often enough.”

  “What is he like?”

  “Why … that is … well …” How could one describe Samuel Johnson? He was, perhaps, unique, but … “Well, you know, in his manner he is not unlike Sir John — that is, in his deliberate style of speech, and their voices, too, are somewhat alike.”

  “Deep?”

  “Johnson’s is the deeper.”

  Then did I laugh, startled by the picture that flashed before my inner eye. It was quite like that of Mr. Johnson, yet it was one of a man a bit younger, and even more corpulent. The laugh was one of surprise only, for that face brought with it the deepest associations of unhappiness.

  With all this I had received a frown from Clarissa. “What has struck you as funny?” she asked.

  “No, not funny — nothing of the kind. For an instant, I saw a face from the past resembling Johnson — a deacon in my village named Kercheval. When my father …” I hesitated. “When my father died, Mr. Kercheval came for me to take me to the magistrate who would determine my future.”

  “Your future was the parish workhouse,” said she. “You may be sure of that.”

  “I must have supposed it, for at my first opportunity I broke away from Mr. Kercheval and ran away fast as ever I could.”

  “And where did you go?”

  “Why, here. To London.”

  “And how did you come to meet Sir John?”

  I had never told her the tale of my arrival in London: how I had been duped by a thief-taker and brought, falsely accused, before the magistrate’s court at Number 4 Bow Street, and how Sir John Fielding saw through this cruel deception and sent the conspirators on their way. Why had I withheld this from her? Was I too proud? Did I feel it would lower me somehow if the truth were known?

  Well, whatever the reason, since we had by then passed along the Strand with Temple Bar in sight, and Johnson’s Court lay not so distant, I decided it was time to tell. The version she heard as we moved on, still buffeted by the crowd, was somewhat abbreviated — a summary, more or less — but the important facts were there. And by chance, when I had concluded, the turn for Johnson’s Court lay just ahead.

  “Why then,” said she, having heard all, ” you came to Bow Street much as I did.”

  “Indeed,” said I. “Had you thought otherwise?” I eased her round the corner into the quiet of the Court.

  “I don’t know what I thought. You seemed so well settled that I — ”

  When Clarissa failed to finish the sentence, I pointed toward Mr. Johnson’s door and guided her in that direction. “We’re here,” said I.

  “What? Oh, I …yes, of course.”

  I gave three stout thumps upon the door, and we did not wait long, for almost immediately came the sound of footsteps beyond. The door opened, and for a long moment I said not a word. Expecting to see Miss Williams or one of the other members of the household staff, I vas surprised — taken aback, one might say — to see the face of a black man: young, smiling, and quite confident. He looked at me encouragingly, nodded, and waited for me to speak.

  Clarissa stepped in then, saving me from further embarrassment. “We have come to see Mr. Johnson,” said she.

  “Ah, well, is he expecting you?” His voice was pleasant enough and authentically that of a Londoner. But was there, perhaps, the hint of the island lilt to it that I heard from time to time in Mr. Burnham’s speech? Perhaps, and perhaps not.

  “No, but I have with me a letter for Mr. Johnson from Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court,” said I.

  “I’d be happy to give it to him. You may leave it with me and consider it delivered.”

  Would this be another contest of the wills of the kind which took place each time I delivered a letter to the Lord Chief Justice? I hoped not, indeed I did.

  “I should be happy to do that,” said I to him, “but Sir John would like it read, and an immediate answer given — if at all possible.”

  “Oh, it is possible,” said he, throwing open the door, “but you must wait a bit, for he is not long risen. Come in, come in, both of you, and we shall sit together and talk. I would like to make your acquaintance.”

  Clarissa and I exchanged glances, and then, smiling, we entered. He led us into a small sitting room where I had previously waited upon occasion for the great man. Indicating a place for us on the settee, he took a chair by the door and asked our names. He introduced himself to us as Francis Barber.

  “However,” said he, ” you may call me Frank.”

  “We have not met before,” said I. “Have you recently joined Mr. Johnson’s household?”

  “No, it would be better said, I recently rejoined the household. I’ve been away at school, you see.”

  “Which school?” I asked, half expecting that I might be told that it was Oxford or Cambridge, for he was of a proper age. But would a blac
k man attend one of the great universities? I thought not.

  “It is a school run by a Monsieur Desmoulins, who is a Frenchman.”

  Clarissa leaned forward eagerly. “And did you learn French from him? I should like to learn that language. It is a most beautiful tongue.”

  “Oh, it is, right enough, and I did learn a bit of it, but I fear I had my hands full with Latin. And I must say, Greek was quite beyond me. They seemed useless to me. When would I meet an ancient Roman or Greek whom I might speak with?”

  Clarissa and I, both autodidacts, agreed most emphatically, for such as we were, utility was all. (While I cannot speak for Clarissa, I know that today I would be less likely to dismiss those dead languages as useless.) But when he went further and declared all education “beyond plain reading, writing, and sums” to be excessive and unnecessary, then we were forced to demur.

  We argued with him on that point quite heatedly for some minutes; he maintained that the six years that he had spent under the tutelage of Monsieur Desmoulins was not much more than time wasted, and we maintained that it was not. Clarissa said that Frank Barber himself was proof of the efficaciousness of Monsieur Desmoulins s schooling. She declared him as gentlemanly as any fellow one might meet in St. James Park.

  Then, did he reveal himself to me as somewhat vain. He preened a bit, striking a pose with his head tilted just slightly toward the light. “Oh,” said he, “do you really think so?”

  “Of course we do.”

  “Well, thank you for saying so.” His self-conceit, such as it was, seemed quite childishly innocent.

  At that, and with a great bustle of authority, a stout-figured woman, well-known to me, appeared of a sudden in the doorway, scowling down at Frank — on the occasions I had encountered her here before, she seemed always to look displeased.

  “Mr. Johnson would like to see you, Frank,” said she. “He is now come down for breakfast.” Then, having delivered her summons, she turned about and left as noisily as she had come.

  Rising, he waited until he had heard the last of her, and said, at not much above a whisper, “That’s Miss Williams. She doesn’t like me — no, not at all.” He himself started from the room, but turned back to us and declared, “I’ll tell him you’re waiting to see him.”