The Color of Death Page 18

  “So all of them went out, leaving you alone?”

  “Me and cook is all that’s here.”

  “Well,” I said with a proper long face, “I’ve bad news for you. Arthur died during the night.”

  “Ah well,” said Mossman, “none of us expected he would last long, even in the hospital — maybe especially not there. St. Bart’s got a bad reputation, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Few comes out alive.” He stared glumly down at his shoes. “Were you there with him when he passed on?”

  “Well, I was, and I wasn’t,” said I. “The doctor who put him in the hospital told me to go if I wished to ask Arthur questions. I asked a few of him. But then, as I sat beside his bed and pondered his answers, sleep overcame me. I fear I slept through his last moments here on earth.”

  “Ah, but at least he knew there was somebody cared enough to sit beside him in that darkest hour. That must have been a comfort.”

  “Hmmm, well, perhaps.”

  Oddly enough, Mr. Mossman and I had been strolling the long hall as we talked. I thought perhaps he was leading me to the back stairs — but no. Once we reached them, he turned me about, and we proceeded together along the way we had come.

  “Arthur mentioned something rather odd,” I said. “He was not fully conscious, and so it may not have meant anything at all, but I wanted to ask you, was he ever in the army? “

  He stopped for just a moment, turned, and looked at me rather oddly. “Why, indeed he was. What was it he said?”

  Not wishing to be too explicit, “The name of a particular regiment came up, popped out of his mouth, as it were.”

  “Was it the King’s Carabineers?”

  “Why, so it was,” said I. “What do you know of it?”

  “That was his old regiment. You might not’ve thought it of him — old and frail-looking as he was — but he soldiered a good long while back in the forties. He was first in Europe, France, and that, and then up against the Pretender.”

  “And all of it with the King’s Carabineers?”

  “That’s right. It was a mounted regiment, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, and old Arthur, he could still sit a horse. I remember him showing off one morning down at the great house in Sussex. We was all amazed.”

  “Did he often see his former mates — go out and drink with them, et cetera?”

  “No,” said Mossman a bit regretfully, “when you work on household staff as we do, you’re not really free to do much of that. But each year they had a regimental reunion. He wouldn’t’ve missed that for any price.”

  “So he did keep in contact with some?”

  “Must have.”

  I thought upon that until we had reached the door to the street whence we had started. Before he could turn me round and start back down the hall again, I planted my foot and put a hand upon the doorknob.

  “I’ll trust you to pass the word on Arthur to Mistress Bleeker and the rest of the staff,” said I to him.

  “Oh, I will,” he promised. “You can be certain of it. They’ll be sad to hear he’s gone, but they’d all want to know.”

  I made to open the door, but it was much heavier than I had anticipated; I tugged without result.

  “Here, let me do that,” said Mr. Mossman, easing me gently to one side. “There’s a bit of a trick to it.”

  He gave the knob a great twist, pushed the door out, and only then pulled it back. It slid open quite easily.

  “Oh, by the bye,” said I, “is Crocker about? I’ve a question or two for her.”

  He looked at me then in mild surprise. “No, she went out for a stroll with a fella, but I thought you knew that.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “Why, because he’s one of yours.”

  “One of mine? I don’t understand.” He did truly have me puzzled.

  “No, no,” said he, “I meant that he was a constable. In fact, he’s the one arrived with you the night of the robbery.”

  Constable Patley, of course! He kept turning up, didn’t he? What had he to do with Jenny Crocker? “Ah, well,” said I, making an effort not to divulge the surprise I felt through the expression on my face, “he does not tell all.”

  “Few do,” said the porter, ever so philosophically.

  “When did they leave?” I asked.

  “Oh, hours ago.”

  “In that case, they should be back soon. I believe I shall wait in front for their return.”

  “You can wait here in the sitting room, if you’ve a mind to.”

  “No, I think not,” said I, “for I’ve a message for the constable. But thanks to you anyway.”

  With that I departed, though I walked no farther than the last of the three steps that led from the door to the walkway. And there I remained, waiting. In spite of what I had said about having a message to deliver to Mr. Patley, I had no wish to engage him in talk. I simply wanted to be visibly there so that I might embarrass him — if, indeed, that were possible.

  Indeed, I had not long to wait. Nevertheless, if I truly hoped to inflict upon Patley some degree of chagrin, I was to be disappointed, for when Crocker came, she came alone. As I watched her approach, moving along at a swift pace and looking the very picture of amused contentment, I realized there would be no confrontation, and I confess that I felt some degree of relief at that. I stepped out to meet her. She looked up in surprise.

  “Well,” said she, “ain’t you early!”

  “Not really,” said I. “You said the afternoon. I believe it’s now just about noon.”

  “So it’s very early afternoon.” She shrugged. “Well, right enough. I’m sure I don’t mind.”

  As we set off together, I mentioned my plan: “If you’ve a mind, I thought we might go to the Globe and Anchor on the Strand. It’s a very respectable inn with an excellent eating place within. I thought you might care for coffee and cakes.”

  “Ooh, coffee! It does make me tingle. But I’m for it so long as this place is truly respectable.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “Right enough then. A girl can’t be seen comin’ out of a place that ain’t.”

  “Oh, indeed. I quite understand.”

  And thus, chatting away like a pair of happy magpies, we made our way to the Globe and Anchor. She was prettier than I remembered — or perhaps I should say, even prettier. I recalled the full lips, the tilted nose, the curls, and the blue eyes with accuracy. But memory had not done justice to the rest of her — that is to say, to that part below her pretty neck. In particular was I struck by her shapely and abundant bosom. It was quite developed for one of her youth; as I judged her, she could not have been more than a year my senior. I was quite gratified when, somewhere along Pall Mall, she did slip her arm tight into mine in such a way so that my elbow was cushioned quite generously by her. I recall that we were talking of my last, recent visit to the Trezavant residence.

  “I was quite disappointed,” said she, “when I learned you’d come by and not searched me out.”

  “Ah well,” said I, “I was not there long. I was on my way to a house nearby.”

  “But you were there long enough to talk to Cook.”

  “Oh, so I was.”

  “What in the world would she have to say? She’s such a stout old cow — eats too much of her own cooking, she does.”

  “What did she have to say? Oh, nothing much, really. For the most part, she told me what you had already said.”

  “What was that?” she inquired with surprising sharpness.

  “It had to do with Mr. and Mrs. Trezavant, their rows, and all the rest. It seems that she grew up in the house that your Mrs. T. did, and wanted me to know all about her and her father and this matter of money between her and Mr. Trezavant.”

  “Oh, well, I told you all about that,” said she rather airily.

  “That’s as I said.”

  “Yes, so you did. Sorry.”

  (I realiz
e, reader, that what I told Crocker would be understood as a lie by most. Nevertheless, since I had cautioned Maude Bleeker against telling others her tale of Johnny Skylark, it seemed that the least I could do was follow the advice I myself had given her.)

  “And how are your inquiries goin’? Do you expect you’ll catch the robbers?”

  “Perhaps eventually,” said I. “At this point, however, we’ve not got much information — not near enough, anyway.”

  “Mores the pity/’ said she.

  “But for the time being, I should like to put those matters out of my mind and give my full attention to you — for you deserve it.”

  “La, sir, you flatter me so! You’re such a gallant!”

  (I could hardly believe that I should mouth such inanities, reader, but this surely was what Sir John meant by flirting — for it did, after all, seem to be working upon her.)

  We walked on. I could not but notice how those whom we passed on Pall Mall walk looked upon us. We must have made a handsome couple, I in my bottle green coat and she — well, I have done my best to describe her. She herself seemed aware of the impression she made. She seemed to walk even more confidently. Her pace picked up as she listened to further extravagancies from me; remembering such now causes me such embarrassment that I prefer to say nothing more of them.

  So came we, in any case, to the Globe and Anchor. It was, and no doubt still is, the finest hostelry on the Strand, and its dining room was renowned all over London. During the day — and on Sunday in particular — those from the better parts of Westminster could visit the dining room in couples for coffee and cakes. Yet it was not so well-known then as to be overcrowded so early in the afternoon. We were welcomed and brought swiftly to a table private enough for confidential conversation, yet not so isolated that I might suspect that we had been tucked away out of sight. No, we fitted in as well as any. The coffee and cakes were as good as could be gotten at Lloyd’s itself. Jenny Crocker seemed well-pleased by the place and my attentions. She admitted this was her first visit to the Globe and Anchor.

  “No,” said she, “I never been here before. Though I passed it many times on errands and that. Do you come here often?”

  “Well,” said I with a shrug, “not often perhaps, though I have been here before.” Which was not, strictly speaking, a lie.

  In general, I seemed to be succeeding in convincing her that, in spite of my apparent youth, I was a proper gentleman, or as she might have it, a “gallant.” Playing that role, I ordered our refreshments and, when they came, listened as she cooed and giggled with excitement describing the effect of the coffee upon her; she showed her appreciation of the Globe and Anchor’s cakes by eating more of them in five minutes’ time than I could have done in an hour. The burden of maintaining our conversation was upon me. I might have continued bestowing praise upon her, yet in truth, I could think of no more to give. With her silently chewing, the moment seemed ripe for me to introduce the subject for which I had been preparing her. However, just as I was about to do so, she said something through her mouthful of cake, which I understood so ill that I asked her to repeat it.

  “Do you — ” said she, then laboriously swallowed the last bit of cake in her mouth, “do you think you might sometime leave your line of work?”

  The question took me so completely unaware that I burst out laughing. “Why? What’s wrong with the work I do?”

  “Well, there’s ways of makin’ more money, ain’t there?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You’re sort of a constable, right? Or kind of an assistant magistrate?”

  “That’s right, but now that you mentioned it, I am studying to be a barrister. That may pay more, depending on how well I do.”

  “But it’s still the law, ain’t it?”

  “Certainly it is. What’s wrong with the law?”

  “Oh, nothing, I suppose, though you’ll not get rich.”

  She did then go into a sulk. She fell silent and thrust out her lower lip until she discovered how difficult it was to chew with a drooping lip. I decided that now was the time to bring up the matter I had been about to broach a few moments before, though I had not yet thought of the proper angle of approach. That being the case, I decided to meet it head-on.

  “Arthur died last night,” said I.

  Her response to the news was much stronger than I should ever have expected. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. Her chin trembled. I whipped out my kerchief, which was fair unused and handed it to her. She dabbed and blew almost noiselessly into it.

  “He was a dear man, old Arthur was.”

  “I was with him at the time.”

  “You was — er, were? Did he say anythin’ before he passed on?”

  “Yes, he did,” said I. “He said your name.”

  “My name?”

  This time the tears did indeed fall; they simply brimmed over and coursed down her pretty cheeks in a great flood. She wiped at them but could do little to stanch their flow. Blowing her nose seemed to help. Indeed, she seemed to be gaining control of herself — that is, until I made a fundamental error.

  “And when he said your name,” I added, “the pleasantest, happiest smile you could imagine appeared upon his face.”

  With that, she seemed to lose control completely. She threw her head back and let out a tortured wail which seemed to ring through the room. Then more tears, more sniffling, more blowing. Those at the table nearest us looked at us rather disapprovingly. The server came and asked rather pointedly if there were anything he could do. I took that as a hint that he would be happy to see us depart. Flustered and intimidated, I told him we were just leaving and threw three shillings down upon the table, overpaying shamefully. I had Mistress Crocker up and on her feet, then out the door in a trice. Out in the Strand, she managed to calm herself quickly enough. One last great blow was followed by a few dabs at her eyes with a dry corner of the kerchief. She offered it back to me, and I urged her to keep it lest she have need again. She assured me she would not and insisted I accept it. With a shrug, I took the kerchief. Clearly, I had put aside the role of the gallant.

  We walked along in silence for quite some distance. I noted those we met did now look upon us quite differently. If they noticed us at all, they seemed only to glance at us in a manner that conveyed a certain patronizing attitude, then did they look swiftly beyond us. We left Pall Mall and wandered a bit in St. James Park. To me, at least, Mistress Crocker seemed to have recovered completely from her attack of lachrymosity: She walked with a quicker step and even ventured a smile at me. I thought it possible at last to proceed.

  “Mistress Crocker … Jenny, I was wondering if you could account for this.”

  “How do you mean?” she asked, looking up at me quite innocently.

  “How indeed. Well, I was referring to the fact that your name was his last utterance, and it was said with a smile. Why was that? Wliat was your relationship to him?”

  “Oh, I had a very good relationship with good ol’ Arthur.” She said it in such a way that she implied a good deal more than she had actually said.

  “Really,” said I, “can’t you be more specific?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s all right to talk about it, Arthur bein’ dead and all, but I must say it u a bit embarrassin’ to me.”

  I said nothing, but simply waited for her to continue, a device I had seen Sir John use countless times. Silence, he had said, can be a powerful weapon in the hands of the interrogator.

  She had stopped in one of the paths which ran through the park. This one ran parallel to Pall Mall and afforded some degree of privacy in that we could see if others approached. She looked up the path and down and, satisfied that there were no listeners about, began her explanation.

  “I noticed, Mr. Proctor,” said she, “that you look often at my bosom.”

  I was quite taken aback. Had I stared? Had my attention been so obvious? “Why … why, no … er, well,” I stammered, “perhaps once or twice. I
— ”

  “Oh, think nothin’ of it,” said she, dismissing my chagrin with a wave of her hand. “It pleasures you so, and that pleasures me. It seems perfec’ly natural that it should. My point is, you see, that Arthur liked them, too. Oh, didn’t he though! Many’s the time I caught him starin’ at my bubs, and one time when I was tryin’ to get some time off so’s I might visit m’mum, I caught him glancin’ down as you was doin’, and I said to him, ‘Arthur, I see you keep lookin’ at my bubs. If you’ll give me the time off I want, I’ll give you a real good look at them.’ So he thinks that over, and he gives me a nod, and he says, ‘Done!’ And I unbuttoned and showed him right then and there.

  “So it became a kind of game with us, it did,” said she, continuing. “Whenever I wanted somethin’ extra out of good ol’ Arthur, I’d let him have a look. But him being a man, it wasn’t long till he wanted to touch what he saw. Ah, but I wouldn’t allow that — not unless it was something very special I wanted, like St. Stephen’s Day off as well as Christmas. But that wasn’t often, and Arthur was always a gentleman about it.”

  I was simply speechless. This was no questioner’s device to get her to tell more. On the contrary, I thought she had told me quite enough. I was amazed she had told me so much.

  She looked at me, studied my face, and came to quite a reasonable conclusion: “I ain’t shocked you, have I?”

  I denied it, of course. “Why, no, of course not.” Yet I’m sure I did not convince her.

  Indeed not, for she went on then to justify herself: “Well, if you are, you shouldn’t be, for I’ve heard it that there’s a good many places in this world where the women don’t wear nothin’ at all up there on top. Arthur told me so himself.”

  I had not only heard from her a great deal about herself, she had also told me more than I would ever have dreamed about Arthur Robb. He had never been more to me than the friendliest — certainly the gentlest — of all the butlers with whom I came in contact on my usual rounds about the city delivering letters and messages for Sir John. I thought some comment upon Arthur might be appropriate, and I believed I was sufficiently recovered from the surprise she had given me to make it.