The Color of Death Read online

  Now, The Key was located hard by Covent Garden at Chandos Street and Half Moon Passage. Since much of Maude’s work in the kitchen was done in the small hours of the morning, and since she was at heart a rather adventurous sort of girl, she came to make it a habit to trip over to Tom King’s notorious coffee house in the Garden at the time most of those in the great city were arising. Most of them, let it be said, though not all — for the streets around Covent Garden were home to a great number of thieves, gamblers, whores, and villains of every sort; and Tom King’s coffee house was their last gathering place of an evening.

  At first she came as a mere observer, and indeed there was much to observe. Though the show put on by the patrons was far more entertaining than many seen at Drury Lane, it was sure to be a bit bawdier than any that could be presented there. As she went to Tom King’s so often (and it became known that she was the cook who had changed the fortunes of The Key), she was soon drawn into their games and diversions, known as “Maudie, the girl from Sussex.” And, eventually, she met a young man there and formed an attachment of sorts. He did not properly court her, but he teased her in an affectionate way, told her jokes and wild tales, and took to accompanying her on her walks from the coffee house back to The Key. There were days and nights, sometimes whole weeks, when he disappeared without notice, but he would reappear without explanation; and each time she would welcome him back unquestioningly, for he brightened her dull life considerably.

  Then, one day, it all ended quite without notice. During one of his periodic absences, a regular there at Tom King’s, a clever little thief, who had adopted the name Tollibon Lucy, offered her sympathy to Maudie. When asked why sympathy should be due her, it was explained that her Johnny Skylark, which was the name by which she knew the young man, had been apprehended by the “Beakrunners,” and would be going up that day before the “Blind Beak of Bow Street.” But why? What had he done? “Didn’t you know your Johnny-boy was a thief?” asked Lucy. “And he ain’t judt a thief, but a proper village hustler, a regular prince among thieves!”

  That day, she left her assistant in charge of the kitchen and went off to the Bow Street Court, that she might be present at the appointed hour to see her Johnny-boy go before the solemn magistrate to be bound over for trial in the criminal court at Old Bailey. She learned a number of things about him that day. First of all, she heard his true name read out by the court clerk: It was John Abernathy. Then did she learn the extent of his known crimes: They were many, and varied, and included every sort of theft from burglary to highway robbery; most, however, were the sort in which Johnny Skylark would lead a band of armed men into the house of a rich man or a noble and steal all that could be quickly gathered up. There were, however, no charges of murder against him, and for that she was especially grateful. But finally, too, she found out that she was not the only one who had for him a special fondness: There was, in fact, a whole chorus of female sympathizers who wept bitterly to see him in chains and applauded him bravely when he was sent before the magistrate. Young Mr. Aber-nathy seemed, however, greatly angered at the poor blind magistrate, and seemed to blame him for all his troubles. In fact, he made some sort of threat when he was sent off to Newgate Gaol to await trial.

  Maude Bleeker was quite devastated by the experience, for at heart, even with years in London, she was still a country girl, provincial, and rather simple. She returned to The Key and offered her notice; days later she went back to her mother at Squire Leonard’s great house outside Robertsbridge. She arrived just in time to take part in preparations for the wedding of Justine Leonard, the squire’s only child, to Thomas Trezavant. (It was a step up for Justine, for though not himself a noble, her groom had close ties to a noble family; Squire Leonard paid dearly for that rise — and would continue paying.) For the most part, Maude’s contribution to the grand occasion was in the form of a great outpouring of her famous scones and tarts. Mr. Trezavant, though not nearly so large as he became, was well on his way. The man had a sweet tooth, and he declared Maude’s baked sweets the best he had ever tasted. When he heard that she was presently at liberty and was given a fine character by the squire, he hired her instanter, and she followed the bride and groom to their new residence in Little Jermyn Street.

  And so, some years after her first journey to London, Maude Bleeker got what she had previously sought: a position as cook in one of the great houses. This, of course, pleased her, but there was bitterness, too, in her return, for there would be no Johnny Skylark there to welcome her back. She was saddened by that, but at the same time she felt betrayed by him: the extent and nature of his known crimes shocked and frightened her; the women who had shouted their sympathy so loudly to him had intimidated her. Maude wanted only to put him out of her mind. She never went to Tom King’s coffee house to ask what had become of her Johnny Skylark. She assumed, quite reasonably, that he had been hanged at Tyburn, and was never given any reason to think differently until the night before.

  “And among the robbers you recognized the man you knew as Johnny Skylark?” I interrupted, thinking to urge her forward.

  But she was not to be hurried. She took a deep breath and continued her story, telling how upon that night she had, of a sudden, heard a great thunder of footsteps on the ground floor above and could not suppose what was happening above stairs. Then, starting up the steps to find out what she could, she was nearly knocked over by a half-dozen of the staff chased by two black men who prodded them down at cutlass-point. Her two kitchen slaveys were routed out of bed to join the rest. Then came another of the robbers from up above and delivered a little speech to all those who had been packed into the little kitchen, assuring them that all would be safe if they kept quiet and be patient “whilst me and my fellows go about our business.” If, on the other hand, any on the household staff attempted to resist or escape, they would surely be murdered on the spot.

  “Wad that himl” I demanded — indeed, I fairly shouted.

  “Who?”

  “Why, Johnny Skylark — John Abernathy, whatever you wish to call him,” said I. “Its of him you’ve been talking the last quarter hour, is it not?”

  “Course it is,” said she, “and course it was him. I just wanted you to know how I came to reco’nize him after all those years.”

  “How many years was it?”

  “Over ten. Was it so long?” She reflected, looking back upon her life, searching for milestones. “No, longer — it was close on twelve years past.”

  “How did you recognize him? What was it convinced you?”

  “Well, I b’lieve it was his voice,” said she. “I’ve a good memory for them, and when he first started speakin’, I was lookin’ off in some other direction, and when I heard the first word or two, I said to myself, ‘Here now, I know that voice.’ And just as anyone might, I turned to it to see who it belonged to. It took me a moment because of the way he had changed, but I’m sure it was him, for you see, I came to know him well.”

  “The way he had changed?” I repeated. “In which way had he changed?”

  “Well, course he was older, and that may account for all else. But he looked cold to me, cruel — and that was never him before. He was a warm person, a lovely, funny sort of man.”

  “I see.” There was something specific I wished to hear from her, yet I knew not how to get it, short of putting words in her mouth. And I knew, having heard Sir John interrogate so many, that such would never do. As she had told her story, a number of approaches had occurred to me — but I had rejected all. At last, I decided to put it to her in the plainest manner possible: “Mistress Bleeker, would you tell me please if John Abernathy, who was known to you as Johnny Skylark, was a white man or a black man?”

  Reader, she gave me the queerest look ever had been sent my way, as if she thought me just escaped from Bedlam. Then, surprisingly, she started to laugh. “Now I know what you mean,” said she, once she had calmed down a bit. “It’s that silly dark paint he wore that you’re talkin’ abo
ut, now ain’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Well, that didn’t fool me, not one bit. Once you know someone well as I knew my Johnny, then a bit of paint ain’t going to fool you. No, he was white, all right — white as you or me. Mossman, the porter, he said that all of that crew — least all he’d seen — were got up in that same way and may not have been real black men at all. But Crocker, she thinks the one cut her nose was a true African.”

  So it seemed that the household staff had discussed the matter in detail amongst themselves. That, I feared, could be dangerous to Maude Bleeker, and perhaps to Crocker as well.

  “You were standing quite close to him, I take it.”

  “Close enough to reco’nize him. Near as close as I am to you right now.”

  “Do you suppose you were close enough that he might have recognized you?”

  She took that under consideration. I could do naught but wait. At last she did shake her head indicating the negative. “No,” said she, “there was no sign of reco’nition from him. I doubt he even saw me, though I was right in front of him. Even if he had …” She lowered her gaze. “I’m much stouter than I was twelve years ago. Two or three stone can make a great difference in a person’s appearance.”

  “Even so,” said I, “it would be wrong to bandy his name about.

  Indeed, I would not discuss it further with members of the staff. The robbers have murdered once, you know.”

  That ended my interrogation, such as it was. I told her that I, or perhaps Sir John, might return to ask more questions of her. Or, on the other hand, she might be invited to Bow Street.

  Yet there was something more. I spoke up just as she was leaving, and she turned back to me in the doorway to the pantry.

  “May I ask one last question?”

  “Ask it,” said she.

  “You may have helped us considerably in the investigation with what you’ve told me,” said I. “Why did you do it?”

  “I ain’t thought about that too much,” said she. “But it seemed like the only thing to do. When I heard what Johnny had done — all the stealing, and now the killing — well, I didn’t see how I could hold nothing back.”

  “Thank you,” said I, “but do be careful.”

  I was let out the back door, five steps up from the kitchen to the garden. To me it was apparent that Maude’s friends wished to keep Mr. Collier ignorant of my comings and goings. They were suspicious of him. Perhaps I should have been, too, but that afternoon I had spent in his company was sufficient to convince me that he was no real danger to me or to any of the staff. He seemed at worst simply a nosey old fellow of forty: envious, fearful, ineffectual. Wrong he may have been to make such unseemly haste in applying for Arthur s position, but I knew him to be desperate, despite the bold words he had spoken when last we had met. He knew no other way of earning his bread except butlering, and so when the opportunity came, he grabbed for it, not giving damn-all for Arthur, nor for anyone else. I supposed that I could not greatly blame him for it.

  Marching on to Mr. Bilbo’s residence in St. James Street, I reviewed my purpose in going there. Deep down, I felt I had been sent by Sir John on a fool’s errand. If Bunkins and the coachmen were certain to lie to me, what then was the purpose of asking them at all about Mr. Burnham’s activities the night before? According to Sir John, by closely examining their lies we might reach the truth. That seemed a dubious premise to me.

  I allowed myself these rebellious thoughts, for I felt that my questioning of Maude Bleeker had yielded the most important facts yet uncovered in the investigation. I was quite filled with my own success as an interrogator, never considering that I hardly had any right to claim it. After all, I had been sent by the porter to hear what she had to say, had I not? It had been her wish to tell me what she had experienced, and what she had seen, was it not? And why had I been summoned, why had I been told so much? I had sense enough not to believe the reason she had given. It was far less likely that she should have been prompted by that great list of crimes of which he had presumably been guilty, than that she was inspired by a desire for revenge against her betrayer. Yet, whatever her motive, she had made us a great gift. That was the truth of it; nevertheless, I had convinced myself that I had drawn the information from her most cleverly, that I had managed somehow to trick it out of her.

  And so did I come to that house in St. James Street, which I had known by an odd set of circumstances* since my first days in London. I hopped up the three steps to the oaken door, as beautifully paneled as any in St. James, grasped the heavy knocker, and rapped four times. Waiting, I heard steps beyond the door; then they ceased, but contrary to my expectations, the door did not swing open. Still I waited. I rapped again and again, and again heard the shuffle of feet on the other side.

  *These circumstances are described in the first of my memoirs of the investigations of Sir John Fielding, which was titled Blind Justice.

  Then came a cry of annoyance: “Awright, awright, give me but a moment, and I’ll have the door open. I’m puttin’ on m’hat.” The voice was female, and again there was something about it which suggested I should know its owner. No, it was not Nancy Plummer, nor did I believe it was Mr. Bilbo’s cook. Had he taken a new paramour?

  At last the heavy door moved, ever so slowly at first, then more swiftly until a young lady of about twenty was revealed; she was dressed for the street.

  “Who are you, and who do you wish to see?” She blurted it forth breathlessly and quite indifferently. Yet she took note of me of a sudden, as I did of her. She stared, and I stared back.

  “I knows you,” said she, frowning. “You’re … you’re …”

  “And you,” said I, “you’re — now I have it. You’re Mistress Pinkham.”

  “So I am. And you’re the lad was with the Blind Beak when he asked me all those questions, ain’t you?”

  “Why, indeed I am. Jeremy Proctor is my name. Sir John and I were both most indignant when we heard that Lord Lilley had discharged you, along with the butler. Sir John particularly requested that no action against you be taken until he had the opportunity to talk with you again.”

  “Lot of good that did.”

  “Where have you been? I searched St. James up and down looking for you and Mr. Collier that we might have our talk.”

  “Well, I been right here. Nancy Plummer and me been friends for years, we have.”

  “Has Mr. Bilbo taken you on here?”

  “Onto his household staff, you mean? Oh no, he has so few, and I’m more of a lady’s maid, anyways. I just been stayin’ here in one of the spare beds.”

  “I never thought of asking after you here,” I admitted. “I come here so often I was sure I would have heard it from Mr. Burnham or Jimmie Bunkins or from Mr. Bilbo himself.”

  “Well, this is where I been. But it ain’t where I’ll be much longer.”

  “Oh? How is that?”

  “I been looking for employment, and it seems like I found something at last.”

  “Excellent, Mistress Pinkham. Would that be in London, or …”

  “Cert’ny in London. I couldn’t live long nowhere else,” said she with great certainty. “Might be some stayin’ in a great house in the country, though. Can’t say as I’d mind that.”

  “Oh, indeed not!” said I, presenting her with a cheerful smile.

  She, for her part, returned the smile. There followed an awkward pause. “I must be going. I’ve an appointment with my new employer,” said she, starting forward, expecting me to step aside.

  I held my ground and would not let her round me. “Where may we reach you, Mistress Pinkham? Here? Or perhaps at your new place of employment? We must have that talk, I fear.”

  “Well …” She looked left and right, obviously eager to be gone.

  “I could meet with you here, or perhaps at your new employer’s. Who is the new master, by the bye?”

  “Uh … it ain’t certain yet that I got employment.”
>
  “I’m sorry. I must have misunderstood,” said I. “But where would that be? Where will you be employed — If you are employed?”

  She sighed. “Bloomsbury Square.”

  “And your employer will be … ? “

  “Lord Mansfield.”

  “Thank you. I shall be some time here, and I expect that you will be back here long before dinnertime. We shall have our talk when you return.”

  She looked at me rather queerly then, as she might if I were a rabbit blocking her path and snarling menacingly when she sought to pass. I, however, made no further move to block her way. I stepped aside and allowed her by; more, I even offered a slight bow as she passed.

  Once inside the house, I closed the heavy door after myself. Standing there in the hall, I felt quite like an intruder. I was not there by invitation, nor would I be entirely welcome if my purpose were known. Still, I had a task to perform, and fool’s errand or no, perform it I would as well as I could.

  I was near enough to the closed door of the classroom so that I could hear Mr. Burnham’s voice intoning some lesson in geography to Bun-kins. (Where was Van Diemen’s Land? I had no idea.) I would not, could not, interrupt them. It would be best for me to go direct to Mr. Bilbo, in order to inform him of my presence in his house, and state bluntly just why I had come. It would not do to go tiptoeing about the house, asking questions behind his back. Thus, having made a firm decision, I set off down the long hall to look for Mr. Bilbo where he most likely would be found.