The Color of Death Read online

  “Uh, well, I daresay Arthur was a far livelier fellow than I had realized,” said I. “A soldier he was, and a … a — ”

  “Ah, he was lively, all right,” she broke in, rescuing me. “He had a great sense of fun, he did.”

  “And how did he demonstrate it?” I had not noticed that in him.

  “He was a great tickler, for one thing. Oh, Gawd, the man was merciless ! All he need to do was come at me or the kitchen slaveys with his fingers out like he meant to tickle us and we would laugh and giggle and he ain’t even touched us yet. And just let the master and his missus be out the house of an evening, and he’d be sneakin’ about, tryin’ to creep up behind us to tickle us near to death. Oh, he was a fright, he was.” Fittingly, she ended her recollection with a giggle.

  We began walking once more and soon found our way back to Pall Mall, and from there thence to St. James Street and Little Jermyn Street. We talked little on our way back to the Trezavant residence, for most of what might be said had been said. But not quite all.

  “I understand that your master and his mistress will be returning this evening or tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “So I hear,” said Jenny Crocker. “The new butler got word today.”

  “Then Mr. Trezavant must have sent it off as soon as he arrived. Does that mean he patched things up immediately? “

  “Not likely,” said she. “It probably means they called a truce, and she’s coming back to count up all that the robbers took.”

  I laughed at that, though I should not have. Mr. Trezavant had caused far too much mischief in the last few days to be considered in any way amusing.

  “I have one last question, Mistress Crocker,” said I to her as we entered Little Jermyn Street with our destination in view.

  “And what is that?”

  “Where were you when that band of robbers entered by the front door?”

  “I was talkin’ with Cook, which I’d been doin’ for half an hour or more. You can ask her yourself, and she’ll tell you the same.”

  That satisfied me. I might indeed ask for confirmation from Mistress Bleeker, but Crocker would not lie when she could be found out so easily.

  “This was all just to find out if I was the woman told poor Arthur the tale and got him to open the door, wasn’t it?” She put it to me as a sort of challenge.

  “Why, no, I — ”

  She interrupted me: “Because if it was, you’d no need. You could of asked me the other night, and I would of told you the same.”

  “I know, but then I — ”

  “But then you’d not heard old Arthur speak my name, had you?” she said, speaking over my words. She sighed. “Well, I’m grateful you told me. That I could of given that good ol’ fella such pleasure just rememberin’ me whilst he was dyin’ is something I’ll remember till my own dyin’ day.”

  We had arrived at the Trezavant residence, and I was more than happy for it. I had hoped for a casual parting and was quite unprepared for this. I’d no idea what to say to her. It seemed, however, that I need say nothing, for she had not stopped talking.

  “Thank you for the coffee and cakes. It was a nice place you took me, though I doubt I shall ever return there. I’m sorry if I gave you some embarrassment when we left.”

  With that, she thrust her hand out at me with such speed and force that I thought at first she meant to hit me. But no, she wished me to shake it; that I did, rather limply, I fear. It was a gesture, on her part, of finality. She turned and marched up the few stairs to the door. She beat upon it with her fist, rather than use the knocker. I turned and left her there.

  In my confusion I turned toward St. James Street, which took me a bit out of my way. It was not until I reached it that I turned and looked back the way I had come. I saw that she was no longer there before the door and assumed that she had been let in. Turning down St. James, I walked, head down, my thought fixed upon where and how I had done wrong. Indeed, it was certain that I had done wrong — I had no need to be told by Sir John nor any other.

  So completely was my mind fixed upon what had transpired during the past hour and a half that I failed to hear the racket behind me until the crowd was quite close. When I did, I turned, looked, and saw them moving swiftly toward me. Running they were, a dozen or more men and a few women trailing well behind. All were in pursuit of one poor individual who was hard-pressed to keep ahead of them. They shouted after him, waved sticks, their fists, a horsewhip, whatever they might have handy. Why would they be after him? What could he have done?

  Then, as the victim of this wild pursuit came closer, I saw he was a black man, and in another instant I recognized him. It was Frank Barber, Samuel Johnson s young fellow, whom I had met but days before. I must act, I told myself — and do what I could to help him.

  “Frank,” I shouted. “Frank! Frank! Frank!”

  He turned. He saw me, and in a moment more he recognized me, beckoning to him. But what could he do? If he were to slow down to discover what I could do to help, the mob would catch him up and perhaps tear him apart. And so, I decided, I would come to him. I ran out into the street to head him off; and while I failed to do that, I was able to run alongside, matching him stride for stride — in spite of the heavy weight I carried in each pocket. Only then, as I ran beside Frank, did I realize what it was I was carrying in the capacious pockets of my bottle green coat. What indeed, but the two pistols entrusted to me by Mr. Baker the evening before. I had returned too late from my night at St. Bart’s to return them to him this morning, and I had been loath to leave loaded pistols in my attic room, so I had simply shoved them in my pockets, where they now bounced dangerously. I shoved my hands down into my pockets to steady them, and as I did I took a look to the rear and noticed that our pursuers had fallen somewhat behind us — yet they came on steadily, and I was not sure that Frank would last much longer at the pace he had set for himself.

  I pulled out the pistol from my right pocket and pointed the way with it to one side of the street. Perhaps Frank thought I was threatening him, for his eyes widened at the sight of the pistol. In any case, he did as I wished him to, running to one side of the street with me and taking a place on the walkway before one of the grand houses. We took our place before a sturdy, iron-barred fence. My original plan had been to seek shelter at Mr. Bilbo’s, but Frank was already past it when I joined him running from the mob; I had a sort of plan, and it would work as well here as anyplace else in St. James Street.

  The leaders of the mob (if, indeed, there were any leaders) were disturbed by this development — so unexpected was it — that they slowed of a sudden and stopped. They saw the pistol in my hand and liked it not.

  “Frank Barber, get behind me. Put your back to the fence, and remain there, no matter what.”

  He did as I told him. His breathing was tortured. Could he speak with me?

  “How long have they been chasing you?” I asked him.

  “From … St. James’s Square … all the way.” His words were punctuated by panting gasps for air.

  “But why? What did you do?”

  “I did … nothing … nothing! … I delivered … a letter … to a … house in the … square.”

  Though I was not then satisfied with Frank’s answer, I soon found that he told naught but the truth.

  His pursuers moved forward stealthily as if they hoped that by gradual encroachment they might overwhelm us without our having noticed.

  “That’s far enough.”

  I yelled at two of them who were shuffling ahead of the rest as a kind of advance guard; they were slender, wiry chaps, not much older than I, and each carried sticks thick enough to be called clubs, which they attempted to conceal behind them. They were no more than twelve or fifteen feet away.

  “I said, that’s far enough.”

  And to convince them forcefully, I leveled the pistol and aimed at a point above — though not too far above — their heads. I pulled back the hammer and then the trigger and thanked
God and Mr. Baker for the answering report — something between a crack and a boom.

  The effect was immediate and was just as I had expected: The two scrambled back to the shelter of the mob behind them; in his haste, one fell to the cobblestones, losing his stick as he fell, but he made it back before his partner. The entire mob, men and a few women, shifted back a good five feet. Through it all there was shouting and yelling, warnings and recriminations. Yet they did not scatter as I’d hoped they might.

  The two I had sent into a wild retreat turned round and began haranguing those behind them.

  “Here, now,” shouted one, “he hadn’t got but one ball in that pistol, and now he’s fired it off.”

  “Come, let’s grab that black boy!”

  Each took a step — no more — toward us. I let them come no closer. Pulling out the second pistol somewhat ostentatiously, I aimed it without cocking it at the nearest of them.

  “I’ll kill the first of you who comes close.” I said it loudly and most confidently; I half-believed it myself.

  Again they fell back. Yet still the mob showed no signs of dispersing. Somewhat to the contrary, a crowd of onlookers had gathered on the other side of the street. They seemed neutral in their sympathies, but rather amused and entertained by what had happened thus far. Laughing and pointing they were, altogether indifferent as to whether I, or Frank Barber, or one of the mob were killed, so long as it were done in a sufficiently diverting manner.

  Then was I surprised when one of those well behind the first row of Frank’s pursuers came forward, a man of near forty he was, stout of figure and dignified in his bearing; he seemed not to belong with the rest of them at all. He waved his hand at me, as one might at school, to get the teacher’s attention.

  “May I speak?”

  I aimed the pistol at him.

  “You may.”

  “I believe you misjudge our intentions,” said he. “We are here to see justice done. That blackie you are protecting is one of that gang of thieves that’s been robbing the homes of the gentry and the nobles hereabouts. We who are here are in service to houses in St. James Square. We saw this black fellow who stands behind you now lurking about the houses there, and he was recognized as one of the thieves.”

  “Recognized by whom?”

  “That matters little. He is the right color, and we all agreed that he is one of them. Our intention is to bring him to justice.”

  “Well, you are all most fortunate,” said I, “for I am an assistant to Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, and if you are correct, then Sir John will certainly wish to question him. And so I shall take charge of him. You have my thanks for bringing him to me.”

  “But-”

  “And now,” said I, interrupting, refusing to be intimidated by this pompous individual (who was surely a butler), “I must now command all of you to leave, disperse, and be gone.” Is this what Sir John would have said? Something sterner perhaps in final rebuke: “You have together created a mob, and mob action will not be tolerated in the city of Westminster.” There, I thought, that should do it.

  And it might have, for those who constituted the mob began talking uncertainly amongst themselves, one or two began drifting away, and their well-appointed spokesman seemed, for the moment at least, at a loss for words. But just at that decisive moment, a big woman pushed through from the rear to the very front. She was indeed large in every way — tall, broad, and weighty — and biggest of all was her mouth.

  “What’s the matter with all of you?” she shouted out at her companions. “Are you goin’ta let this young pint of piss turn you round and send you back home? How do we know he’s from Bow Street, like he says he is? I daresay his intention may be to take this nigger round the corner and turn him loose with a pat on his black arse. No, by Gawd, we’ll make an example of that African like we started out to do. Follow me! He’ll not dare to shoot a woman.”

  (Alas, reader, she had correctly perceived the limits of my ruthless intentions. Indeed, I would not, could not, shoot a woman. Perhaps I might shoot to wound a man — in fact, had done so — but I had never shot to kill anyone and dearly hoped I never would. As may have been plain to you, I was bluffing — playing brag with the mob.)

  She turned back to me, anger and contempt writ upon her face. What could I do? Threaten her with an even graver warning? What could do1

  But as she started toward me, help came from a most unexpected source. Who should come bursting through the crowd of onlookers but Constable Patley? He ran forward, halting the woman, not so much in fear as in astonishment. Bending, he grabbed up the stick-club dropped by one of the two bold lads who had first challenged me. Without a word, he went directly to her and gave her a sharp thwack on her backside.

  The audience on the far side of the street, gallants and their ladies, made great merriment of this, laughing lustily as they might at some jolly street fair.

  “The lad is what he says he is,” said Mr. Patley, “and I am a Bow Street constable. If all of you do as he says and disperse, leaving this place as quick as ever you can, then you’ll have no more trouble from us. But if you stay, 111 knock you down one by one.” And then he spoke direct to the big woman whom he had insulted with his stick: “And you, you foul-mouthed slut, I’ll bring you in for inciting to riot. Have I made myself clear?”

  There then issued from her a great stream of obscenity and profanity such as I had not heard in one dose in any of the lowest dives in Bedford Street. But reluctantly, grudgingly, she turned round, as did all the rest of the mob, and trailed out in the general direction of the square.

  The audience did truly applaud, which amazed me, though it seemed altogether in keeping with the attitude of those pleasure-seekers from Pall Mall. Moreover, Mr. Patley bowed in response, which amazed me more.

  “Jeremy,” came the voice behind me. “Could you let me out, please? I am quite squashed here between you and the iron fence.”

  “Good God,” said I, stepping quickly away. “Frank! Do forgive me! I’d completely forgotten.”

  “I rather thought you had,” said Frank somewhat dryly. “Must I now go with you to be questioned by Sir John?” He looked at me rather dubiously.

  “Oh, perhaps it might be best, since that is what I told them. You should, in any case, give him your account of what happened — the mob chasing you and all. Credit Constable Patley for saving us both. I must thank him myself.”

  Then did I look about me. The street had emptied quickly. There were but four or five scattered here and there, and Mr. Patley was not among them. He had simply disappeared — yet he could not have gone far. Where were we in St. James Street? The Bilbo house was not far, nor for that matter was Lord Lilley’s; but closer, and between the two, stood the Zondervan mansion. Could he have gone in there? Who might he know inside? Could I ask him? Would he tell me?

  I sighed. “Well, come along, Frank. Mr. Johnson will be wondering what’s become of you.”

  SEVEN

  In Which Sir John

  Begins Interrogating

  Mr. Burnham

  Though he had done with his Magistrate’s Court a couple of hours before, Sir John was still up and about when I arrived with Frank Barber at Number 4 Bow Street. For the most part, Frank had been rather quiet during our walk back; therefore was I mildly surprised when, upon entering the “backstage area” of the Bow Street Court (strongroom, clerk’s alcove, magistrate’s chambers, et cetera), he became of a sudden quite loquacious in Sir John’s presence. He did not wait for me to introduce him or present him, but rather went right to where the magistrate stood conversing with Mr. Marsden, and offered himself as an old friend.

  “Sir John,” said he, “it is I, Francis Barber. We met on a number of occasions when I was much younger at the home of Mr. Johnson in Gough Square. That was before I was sent off for schooling, from which I have lately returned.”

  He offered his hand to Sir John — nay, more than offered, for he thrust it at him, g
rasped the magistrate’s own, and shook it vigorously.

  “Ah yes,” said Sir John, “I believe I recall you now. What brings you here, young man? Have you a letter for me from Mr. Johnson?”

  “No sir, as it happens, I do not. Yet, curiously enough, it was in a way a letter from Mr. Johnson, one which I delivered to a house in St. James Square, that brings me to you now.”

  Wherewith Frank Barber told his tale, much of which I heard for the first time. He had, it seemed, done no more than deliver the letter to a Sir Exlward Talcott, resident of the square, when a crowd gathered round him. Those in the crowd demanded to know what he did there, yet would not listen to his response. Instead they accused him of being one of that gang of robbers that had been raiding the grand houses thereabouts, and would not listen to his vigorous denials. They, it seemed, were household staff members in various residences around the square. As they pushed poor Frank about, threatening him, buffeting him, he saw that what had been a crowd was now a mob. They meant to harm him (he saw a horsewhip in the hands of one of them), perhaps kill him (another brandished a length of rope), and so, seeing an opportunity to break loose from them, he took it. He ran fast as ever he could, leading them once around the square and out of it, into St. James Street.

  “And there,” said he, “I managed, with the help of your assistant Jeremy Proctor, to elude them completely.”

  With that he concluded, quite astonishing me and frustrating me, as well. Was that all there was to it? Had I not stood off a dozen (fifteen? twenty?) with a single pistol? Had I not protected him with my very body? And what about Mr. Patley? Had he not demonstrated rare courage by intimidating the mob armed only with a stick? Had he not saved both Frank and me?

  I opened my mouth, thinking to correct Frank’s version; then almost immediately I shut it. For as I looked at Frank and noted the innocent expression on his face, I realized that he truly believed that this was how it had happened: He had done all with but a bit of help from me. There was naught for me to say which would not sound self-serving. Even to describe Mr. Patley s part in it — his dramatic entrance, et cetera — required first a description of the calamitous situation in which I found myself. And so, reader, I said nothing.