The Color of Death Read online

  As soon as we were alone, Clarissa began muttering to me about Francis Barber. She asked who he was and what was his relation to Mr. Johnson. I assured her that I had neither met nor heard of the fellow before. Rather insistently, she rephrased her question, and I rephrased my answer. We might have gone on so for the rest of the morning, had not the subject of our lame discussion swiftly returned and bade us come along with him that we might see Mr. Johnson. Following obediently, we were conducted down a short hall to a room just off the kitchen where I had met Johnson at breakfast on one previous occasion. Frank introduced us, and, with a cheerful goodbye to all, took his leave.

  Mr. Johnson looked from me to Clarissa and back again to me. “Well,” said he, “you, young sir, have been here before. We are somewhat acquainted, and I understand there is a letter for me from Sir John Fielding, but is it of such heavy matter that it took two of you to carry it?”

  Clarissa, never at a loss for words, spoke up fearlessly as ever: “By no means, sir. I came along that I might meet you and gaze upon your face.”

  “If that was your purpose, child, you must be sorely disappointed,” said he in response. “This face of mine frightens some — but gives others cause for merriment.” He took a prodigious gulp of tea and smiled upon her.

  “We have things in common,” said she.

  “Oh? Tell me then, by all means.”

  “Well, we are both natives of Lichfield.”

  “And we have proven ourselves wiser than its entire population by leaving the place when we could.”

  “You are the son of a bookseller,” said she, “and I am the granddaughter of one. My mother did often tend the shop for him.”

  “What was the name of the shop?”

  “Gladdens. Perhaps you remember it?”

  “I thought I might — but no. It has been many years since I left.” He seemed to be attempting a polite withdrawal from his conversation with her.

  But Clarissa, not in the least mindful of this, pressed on with what she had so boldly begun. “Finally,” said she, “we have in common the vocation of literature.”

  He looked at her slyly. “Ah, could one so young as you be an author?”

  “Not yet, but I am preparing myself for a career similar to your own.”

  “Well, in that case, I have two bits of advice for you. First, do not neglect your Latin, for there is nothing quite so good for style as familiarity with that language and its grammar. My second piece of advice is more practical: If you are truly serious about writing, then you must choose a pen name of the masculine sort, for as a female you will greatly limit your chances of acceptance — by editors as well as by the general public.”

  She found this quite unacceptable. “There I must disagree with you,” she began.

  Yet she never finished, for Mr. Johnson turned from Clarissa to me, chastising her by ignoring her obviously and completely. “Now,” he said rather pointedly to me (and not to Clarissa), “what of this letter from Sir John? I do hope he is not communicating to me in his official capacity.”

  “Nothing of the kind, sir,” said I, as Clarissa at last fell silent. “It is naught but an invitation.”

  Again that sly look from him. “Are you then in the habit of reading the missives you deliver?”

  I produced the letter in question and handed it to him. He wiped his hands thoroughly on his napkin, preparing to read it.

  “No sir, I am not in the habit of reading them. I am, however, in the habit of taking them in dictation.”

  He chuckled approvingly at my response and pulled open the letter at the seal. So poor was Johnson’s eyesight that he was forced to hold whatever he wished to read at no more than three inches from his face. Thus it was that he perused the contents of the letter. I had seen all this before and was not in the least surprised, but when I glanced over at Clarissa, I noted the look of consternation upon her face. I feared in that instant she might make some unwanted exclamation of sympathy, but, catching her eye, I shook my head, and she kept silent.

  “Well and good/’ said Mr. Johnson as he put down the letter. “I should be happy to come at the date and hour which he has specified. Ten days hence — that should give me time and opportunity to do any rearranging that need be done.” Then did he pause, or perhaps hesitate, as if taking a moment to reach a decision. “You do not have an invitation for that fellow Bos well, do you?”

  “Nooo,” said I, “but one might be written for him if you wished

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  It SO.

  “On the contrary,” said he, “I would not wish it so. As it happens, he is down from Edinburgh, and he manages to beg invitations to every dinner to which I’m invited. It seems that no matter where I go he is there, asking questions, drawing me out on every conceivable question. It is most annoying. Do ask Sir John not to invite the fellow, will you?”

  I gave a proper little bow. “Very good, sir.”

  “Shall I write out a reply to Sir John’s letter?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Johnson, I shall convey your response to him.” I paused but a moment. “And so, with your permission, we shall take our leave of you.”

  “Good day to you, young sir. And to you, young lady,” said he to Clarissa, “I shall repeat my advice. First, work at your Latin, and second, adopt a male pen name.”

  Would she insist on pressing her argument? I turned and saw her performing a careful curtsey. Reassured, I took her arm and guided her from the breakfast room and down the hall to the door. It was not Frank Barber but Miss Williams who was there to see us out. That she did with a curt “good day,” pausing not an instant to wave us out to Fleet Street.

  “I went too far, didn’t I?” The words were out of Clarissa’s mouth the moment that the door slammed shut behind us.

  “Well …” Was I to tell her the truth? Was I to say that she had embarrassed me, irritated Mr. Johnson, and disgraced herself — and managed it all with just a minute or two of idle talk? No, I could hardly say that, could I? And so all I said was: “I think perhaps you failed to keep in mind who it was you were speaking to.”

  “I think you’re right. Oh, Jeremy, what am I to do? To have the ear of Mr. Johnson and then simply to prattle on about what I had in common with him — as if he cared for a moment — and then to try to engage him in argument on the question of a pen name. What could I have been thinking? Samuel Johnson, after all!”

  “Dictionary Johnson,” said I, as we turned back on to Fleet Street and there joined the tide of humanity on the move toward Temple Bar.

  “Yes, so they call him. Just imagine what it would be to be the author of a dictionary of the English language!”

  “Well, he had assistants — six, I believe.”

  “But Samuel Johnson id generally recognized as its author.”

  “Insofar as a dictionary can be said to have an author — yes, I suppose so.”

  “But of course! Every book has an author. And poor Mr. Johnson ruined his sight in the great effort to produce his dictionary. Why, he is near as blind as Sir John.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve heard it said he had an infection of the eyes when he was a child, as a mere babe. That may be why he must read with his nose in the pages.”

  “Whatever the reason, my heart goes out to the man.” Clarissa walked along in silence for a bit. I waited, sensing that she had left something unsaid. Then at last she spoke: “Jeremy, the next time it becomes obvious to you that I should hold my tongue, I would like you to let me know. Give me a pinch or squeeze my hand, or … do something, anyway, to pass a signal to me that I must stop.”

  “You say the next time? What about the time after that?”

  “Then, too — and the time after that, and so on, until I’ve mastered my tongue.”

  “That may take quite some time,” said I, merely meaning to tease. “Your arm may be blue from all the pinching.”

  “So be it,” said she. And, having taken what between us amounted to an oath, she set her face in such a way that
she seemed much older than her years, and marched resolutely forward.

  Clarissa kept up the pace for quite some time, but eventually she slowed somewhat. Yet still, she said nothing. She seemed to be giving thought to a particularly troubling matter.

  After we had walked thus for a good, long way, she turned to me and sought my opinion. “Do you suppose,” said she, “that the study of Latin would truly improve my writing style?”

  Late that evening — after Clarissa had exhausted me through the day with her questions and comments, and following Lady Fielding’s tardy return from her board meeting, slightly tipsy from the duchess’s wine served at the luncheon — late that evening (to repeat) I was summoned down from my eyrie to the kitchen where Sir John awaited.

  “We must be gone, Jeremy,” said he. “Robbery and murder have been perpetrated in St. James Street. Mr. Baker brought the news only moments past.” In fact, just then I could hear his footsteps descending the stairs.

  “St. James Street!” It came from me as an exclamation. “Surely not Mr. Bilbo’s residence?”

  “No — but close by. Pull on your coat and grab your hat. We are to meet Mr. Bailey there. The new constable, Will Patley, was first on the scene, and I fear that he may forget all that he was taught about protecting the premises against intruders, the curious, even against the victims of the robbery themselves.”

  “There are some who never seem to learn those lessons,” said I.

  “All too true, I fear.”

  We went down the stairs together, he with his hand upon my shoulder, the two of us in close step. (He had recently taken a tumble and had become quite distrustful of even the most familiar stairway.) Mr. Baker waited near the door, in his hands a brace of pistols, holstered and mounted on a belt. I took them from him and buckled them on under my coat. Mr. Baker claimed it was foolish to go out in the streets unarmed at any time near midnight or after; and I, as Sir John’s companion on these late-night rambles, had the responsibility of defending him, so I wore the pistols. For his part, Sir John disapproved on principle of all but his constables bearing firearms, so he said nothing. (It was a blind man’s way of looking in the other direction.) As a result of all this, not a word passed among the three of us until I was satisfactorily armed.

  Only then did Mr. Baker speak up: “There’s a hackney at the door. I whistled him down from the corner and told him to wait on pain of death.”

  “On pain of death, Mr. Baker?”

  “Well, Sir John, sometimes I exaggerate a little just to keep their attention.”

  “And your threats work well enough?”

  “I ain’t had to kill any yet.”

  “And thank God for it,” said Sir John with a chuckle. “It would indeed be a black mark against the Magistrate’s Court.”

  With that, we departed Number 4 Bow Street and climbed into the waiting coach. I had so often walked to the Bilbo residence in St. James Street and knew the way so well, that I thought of it as only a short distance away. In reality it was not, but the time it took to get to St. James was barely sufficient for Sir John to tell what he knew of the robbery. He knew little of the murder; we would learn more of that upon our arrival.

  To summarize: At about ten in the evening, a gang of well-armed men tricked their way into the home of Lord Lilley of Perth. As it happened, Lord and Lady Lilley were absent that evening, attending a dinner at the residence of the Dutch ambassador. The robbers herded the entire household staff into the kitchen below the stairs, put a guard upon them, and then proceeded to strip the place of everything of value — Lady Lilley’s jewels, paintings, statuary, silver plates, the odd piece of furniture, et cetera. So much was taken that it must have been necessary to cart it away in a wagon; evidently one was waiting at the rear of the mansion. It took less than an hour to empty the house of its treasures. The homicide was most peculiar: One of the staff, a footman, was taken from the company in the kitchen and summarily shot. Even more peculiar was the fact that the raiding party was made up entirely of black men.

  When the hackney driver pulled up at the number on St. James Street which he had been given, I spied Constable Brede standing guard at the door. I passed word of this on to Sir John. He seemed quite pleased to hear it.

  “That means,” said he, “that Constable Bailey is inside. He will have heard something from every witness in the house and will be able to inform us just who of them is worth talking to and which may be passed over. This need not take as long as I feared. I, for one, Jeremy, was quite ready to retire when word came of this outrage.”

  “But you’ve always said, sir, that the most important work in any investigation is done at the first visit to the scene of the crime and that there was no point in rushing through it.”

  “Have I always said that?” He sighed. “Probably I have. How unkind of you to remind me.”

  Mr. Brede passed us through, saying little, as was his way. And once inside we soon discovered that Mr. Bailey had arranged things as Sir John predicted. The magistrate’s chief constable may not have been greatly talented as an interrogator, but long experience had taught him the sort of thing Sir John would be interested in; it had also taught him how to recognize one who was withholding information, equivocating, or just plain lying.

  According to Benjamin Bailey, though he had not quite finished talking to all the potential witnesses, it seemed to him that only a few would be worth the magistrate’s attention.

  “I thought you might want to talk to the butler first,” said he to Sir John.

  “Always a good place to start.”

  “He it was who opened the door to that murderous crew.”

  “Ah yes, but the mention of the murder reminds me, Constable Bailey, has Mr. Donnelly been sent for?”

  “Yes sir, indeed he has. I sent Will Patley for him soon as I arrived. Just like you told us, sir, if there’s a killing or even a wounding, we send for the medical examiner — right away — ain’t that right?”

  “Quite right. But now, if you will just put me with the butler …”

  “Certainly, sir — right over here.”

  The butler, a Mr. Collier, was a slight man of not much more than forty years with a bloodied bump on his forehead. He stood in a corner of the great entry hall, somewhat apart from the rest of the servants gathered there. His small hands were clasped before him in such a way that if his eyes had been shut or his lips moving, I should have sworn that he was praying. Indeed he looked like a man in need of prayer. Never, I think, have I seen a man appear so obviously overcome by worry. Sir John did not add to his burden. He questioned him as gently as I had ever known him to question any witness.

  He did not, for example, ask Mr. Collier directly how it had come about that he had opened the door to the robbers; rather, he took a circuitous route and first solicited the opinion of the butler on a variety of matters related to the invasion of Lord Lilley’s residence.

  Sir John asked, for instance, how many there were in the raiding parry. Mr. Collier’s reply: “That is difficult to say, sir, for in the beginning they seemed not so many, but I’m sure there were more of them there at the end.”

  “All of them were black men?”

  “All that I saw.”

  “And did they speak as black men would speak?”

  In forming his answer to this question, Mr. Collier paused; he seemed troubled. “Well, that was where I was deceived, you see,” said the butler. “I wouldn’t have opened the door to a black man at any time of the day or night, no matter what his tale of woe. But whoever it was talked through the door — I’d say he was probably the leader — and he talked just as any Londoner would. He made a fool of me for fair — and now I fear for my position. I shall be blamed for this.”

  Only then did Sir John ask the question that must have interested him most: “What was it that he said which persuaded you to open the door to him?”

  Realizing that he had come at last to the matter he wished sincerely to avoid, the butler hesit
ated long enough to clear his throat, then plunged ahead: “He described a most terrible carriage accident which he said had taken place nearby in St. James Street. ‘Was there a doctor who lived hereabouts?’ he asked through the door, for there was, he said, a woman pinned in the wreckage who could not be freed unless the carriage were set right. Footmen would be needed, or porters. Could any be spared? ‘The poor woman was near crushed,’ he declared. ‘She might die if she weren’t soon helped.’ “

  The butler continued: “All this, mind, was said in tone and manner just as one might hear the same said in Covent Garden or any street in London — except there was terrible urgency in his voice. He seemed quite overcome with worry and fear. To this moment I find it difficult to believe that he was shamming.” At that point, Mr. Collier took a deep breath, as if fortifying himself for what lay ahead. “Well, what can I say in my defense? Convinced by the sound of his voice, I opened the door out of kindhearted concern, sympathy, and, well, curiosity, too, must have played a part.”

  “But indeed you did open the door,” said Sir John.

  “I did, sir.”

  “What then occurred?”

  “I had no sooner heaved back the night bolt and opened the door a crack when it was slammed against me. I fell unconscious there in the hall, probably only for a minute or less, for next thing I knew I was dragged down the hall and then down the back stairs to the kitchen. It was not until all the rest of the staff had been moved into the kitchen that I was fully conscious.”

  “How many men entered by way of the front door?”

  “I would have no way of saying exactly, for I was unconscious most of that time, but probably no more than three.”

  “And were all of them black?”

  “I could only say that the face I glimpsed ever so briefly as I opened the door was that of an African. I was told by others of the household staff, however, that all who entered, including some who were seen to enter through the rear door of the house, were unmistakably of the black race.”