The Color of Death Read online

  Yet Sir John, having heard all, must have suspected that something was amiss, for he said to Frank, “Tell me, young sir, how did you manage to elude the mob once you were in St. James Street?”

  “Ah well,” said he, “that was rather a complicated matter. No doubt Jeremy could explain it better.” Though he sounded assured and confident in his manner of speech, the look in his eyes was uncertain, almost fearful.

  “Jeremy?”

  “If it’s exactitude you seek, sir, it may take a while to work it out.”

  “Later, perhaps.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Then did Sir John return to Frank Barber. “And how did those in this crowd, which became a mob, come to suspect you to be one of the robbers?”

  “Why, it was a matter of color, sir. As I understand it, this gang of thieves present themselves as Africans.”

  “You doubt that they are?”

  “I am not convinced of it.” There was, in his manner of speech as he spoke these words, something almost arrogant. It was as if he were putting the burden of proof upon Sir John.

  “Leaving that aside, you are convinced that it was only because of your color that you were abused and pursued by the mob?”

  “Well …” He hesitated. “There may have been something else. There was something I said did not please them well.”

  “And what was that? “

  He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and plunged ahead. “When one of them, I forget which, referred to me as an African, I told them that I was no African but as much an Englishman as any one of them.”

  “Indeed that might not sit well with them,” said Sir John dryly.

  “They grew angry at that. And when I asked them which of them had served in the Royal Navy, as I had, they grew angrier.”

  In spite of himself, Sir John fell to chuckling at that. “My service in the Royal Navy never won me much respect.”

  The two might have gone on in this way for quite some time, for they had begun to warm one to the other. But then the door to Bow Street opened, and in came a surprise. It was Robert Burnham in the company of Mr. Fuller. I knew that as the day man and jailer, Mr. Fuller was the only constable Sir John had at his disposal, and so he was sent out from time to time to bring in prisoners, or those wanted for interrogation who might resist or come only reluctantly. It seemed, oddly, that one or the other might be the case in this instance, for while Mr. Burn-ham was not in chains, Constable Fuller did indeed have a firm grip upon his arm. And Fuller wore, as he always did, a brace of pistols.

  “Mr. Fuller, is that you?”

  “It is, sir,” came the response.

  “You have Mr. Burnham with you, I can tell. Did he give you any difficulty?”

  “A bit. He was about to ride off somewheres, and I had to convince him that talking with you was more important than going for a ride of a Sunday.”

  “Nothing violent, I hope.”

  “Nossir, I just had to speak to him right sharp, is all.”

  “Mr. Burnham?” It was the first time he had addressed him directly.

  “Yes, Sir John?”

  “Is Mr. Fuller accurate in what he says? You were not hurt, or treated roughly? And you came, more or less, of your own volition?”

  “I’m here. I’m not hurt. I’m not in chains.”

  “Good. Then you 11 be in good fettle for a little tete-a-tete.”

  I happened just then to glance at Frank Barber, who stood quite close to me. The look of shocked astonishment upon his face was quite striking, for it expressed something personal — disappointment so profound that it was as if he were looking upon his fallen captain. I had not known, nor had I any reason to suspect, that Frank and Mr. Burnham were even acquainted, but obviously they were.

  “Mr. Fuller, I must ask you to place Mr. Burnham in the strongroom while you and I talk briefly.”

  “Gladly, Sir John.”

  If Mr. Fuller was thus pleased by this, Mr. Burnham certainly was not. He did not physically resist, but his eyes shouted a loud protest as the great key was turned in the lock.

  “Jeremy!” Sir John, who stood in the doorway to his chambers, called back to me. “I should like you in here, too.”

  As I trailed Mr. Fuller to where Sir John waited, I wondered at Mr. Burnham’s status. If he were a prisoner, he was certainly being treated with deference by the magistrate. And if he had been brought in merely to be questioned further, then why was it necessary to lock him in the strongroom?

  I glanced back at that wooden-barred cage as I entered Sir John’s chambers and saw Frank already deep in whispered conversation with Mr. Burnham.

  “Come along, Jeremy.”

  “Yes sir,” said I, and took my usual place in the chair opposite Sir John with his desk between us. Mr. Fuller preferred to remain on his feet. He stood a space away, wearing his usual frown, his arms folded across his chest.

  “I really haven’t much to say,” declared Sir John in a low voice, “but I wish to create the impression in Mr. Burnham’s mind that we have a good deal of new information to discuss, so we need not hurry through this. If you have any questions, by all means ask them. If you have anything to add, by all means add it. You first, Mr. Fuller. Tell us, if you will, just what transpired when you visited the Bilbo residence and collected Mr. Burnham.”

  Constable Fuller utterly lacked all power of abridgement. His tendency in making any sort of report ran exactly counter to that of tight-lipped Constable Brede. Where details had to be drawn out of Mr. Brede, they flowed endlessly abounding from Mr. Fuller. While this suited Sir John well, particularly in the circumstances he described, it might indeed try the reader’s patience if I were to attempt a literal copy of the constable’s remarks. To put it another way: Since he refused to abridge, I feel obliged to do so in what follows.

  Mr. Fuller had been shown through the house by Jimmie Bunkins, for whom the constable has a special dislike stemming from Bunkins’s days as a young thief. He was fairly certain that an alarum was passed on to Mr. Burnham, who vacated the house while it was searched. What neither Bunkins, nor any of the rest expected, however, was that Fuller would have some knowledge of the place (given him by Constable Bailey, chief of the Bow Street Runners) — enough to know where the stable was located and how to reach it. He sought it out on his own, and found Mr. Burnham trying to saddle the mare without the aid of the stable boy, who happened to be visiting home that day. Burnham had it near done by the time the constable arrived, so that he made a brave attempt to mount the horse and ride out of the stable. But alas, because he was seldom called upon to saddle his own horse, he hadn’t pulled the saddle-girth quite tight enough, and in the act of mounting, saddle and all came down upon him as he fell upon his backside. Though Mr. Fuller helped him to his feet, he was unkind enough to laugh at him as he did it. This provoked an angry exchange between the two men: Mr. Burnham demanded that the constable help him saddle up again, and was told that he had no need to do so, for he was going to Number 4 Bow Street to see Sir John Fielding. Mr. Burnham then said that he was far more eager to see what awaited him at the end of the ride than he ever would be to see Sir John. And on and on they went, the matter between them never resolved, until Mr. Fuller simply ordered Mr. Burnham to return the horse to her stall and come along with him to Bow Street. He emphasized his directive by toying with the grip of one of the pistols he wore, though he swore that he never actually took it from his holster. Without further ado, the horse was tended to, and the two men set off together to see the magistrate.

  To tell that story to Sir John — complete with details and digressive excursions — took near ten minutes. Even Sir John, who had an apparently inexhaustible hunger for minutiae of every sort, was a bit overwhelmed by this, so that when he turned to me, he had but a question to be answered.

  “Jeremy,” said he, “what precisely was it that the stable boy told you with regard to the frequency of these trips? Was it every Sunday that Mr. Burnham rod
e out to this secret destination?”

  I thought back that I might be precise in my response. “Wliat he said, sir, was two or three times a week, four at the most, but always on Sunday.”

  “Hmmm,” said Sir John, giving the matter some consideration, “that is rather a lot, isn’t it? Did he say how long this had been going on?”

  “Not in so many words, no, but the implication seemed to be that it was quite a long time — months, I should think. After all, when you say ‘always on Sunday’…”

  “Well, yes, I see your point.” He quietened down for a good long time, giving himself completely to thought. At last, he said, “A woman ! That is it. That must be it. He is paying court to a woman some distance away. But how can we know who she is unless he tells us?”

  We pondered that between us. Perhaps Mr. Fuller may even have given it a thought or two, but in the end there was naught said and no suggestion made. Sir John was, I believe, ready to adjourn our meeting when I decided to seek from him the answer to the question that had earlier troubled me.

  “Sir,” said I, “can you tell me, what is the legal status of Mr. Burnham? Is he a prisoner? Is he here for questioning?”

  He smiled rather crookedly at that. “Well you might wonder, Jeremy. You’ll find his status defined in no law book I know of. Let me say that as it stands now, there are but two matters against him. The first is the accusation made by Mr. Trezavant. Ordinarily, it would not in itself be sufficient to send him to the gallows, for we know that at the time he was visited by the robbers, the man was drunk. Nevertheless, Mr. Trezavant is the coroner of the city of Westminster, and his testimony as a witness cannot simply be dismissed; it is not good for the magistrate and the coroner to be at odds. Furthermore, he received his appointment as coroner because he is friend to the prime minister, and it is not good for the London magistrate and the prime minister to be at odds.

  “But sir,” said I, emboldened by my relation to him as scholar to teacher, “would you not say that those are political considerations, rather than legal?”

  “Of course they are,” said he, “but like it or not, Jeremy, much of life is determined by just such political considerations — as you will learn, my boy, as you will learn.”

  “Yes sir,” said I, somewhat chastened. “Then I take it that Mr. Burn-ham is a prisoner.”

  “No, not quite, for putting aside the politics of the situation, there really isn’t a strong case against him. But still, he must answer the charge made against him, and he must answer it with a verifiable alibi. So far he has refused to do that, for you found that he had lied with regard to his whereabouts on the nights in question. He cannot simply refuse to respond or lie, as he has done — and that, to return to what I said in the beginning, is the second matter against him. He must be made to treat this matter seriously, or I shall have to bind him for criminal trial in Old Bailey, and with the Somerset case now before the Lord Chief Justice, it is not a good time for any black man to present himself for trial.

  “Now, as to Mr. Burnham’s present situation,” continued Sir John, “I would put it that he is here for interrogation, but we shall do all we can to create the notion that he is already a prisoner. I have instructed Mr. Fuller to dispense with the usual courtesies extended to one who is brought in for questioning. I wish to impress upon him the precariousness of his situation. I shall interrogate him in a most severe manner.”

  He paused then a good long pause, perhaps pondering what he might say to Mr. Burnham. But, rousing himself, he rose swiftly from his chair and said, “I think we’ve kept him waiting long enough, don’t you? Bring him to me, Mr. Fuller,” he said. “And Jeremy, go upstairs and fetch my sling, will you? Mr. Donnelly will soon be here and I do not wish to have him take me to task in this matter of my wound.”

  Upon leaving Sir John’s chambers, I was surprised to see Frank Barber still at the bars of the strongroom, yet they could hardly be said to be conversing. Mr. Burnham was talking at Frank passionately, almost angrily. Though he spoke in tones too low to be understood, I could tell by the set of his body and the look on his face that he was most upset.

  “Oh, Jeremy, I’d a word with you, if you don’t mind.” It was Mr. Fuller, catching me up with a tap upon the shoulder. He was remarkably respectful. I knew not quite what to expect.

  “Yes? What is it, Mr. Fuller?”

  “To tell the truth, I feel a bit foolish about this, but Mr. Baker mentioned to me that you took my little joke to heart.”

  “Your little joke?” What he referred to was now so far behind me that I was honestly in confusion as to just what he might be referring to.

  “Well … I seen you go down to the cellar with that girl who helps out Lady Kate. And just for a joke, I shut the door and locked it.” He looked away, obviously embarrassed. That quite astonished me. “Yes, it was me did it, but I meant nothin’ by it, just as you might do with one of your mates. But Mr. Baker said you got out right enough.”

  “That’s true,” said I, letting the matter pass. “No harm done, though the girl was somewhat upset.”

  “They get so. Give her my apology. But as you say, ‘No harm done.’ “

  With that, we parted company, and as we did, he offered me a little two-fingered salute, as one might give to a superior. That quite amazed me. Yet before I could consider what it might have meant, a row suddenly broke out between Frank and Mr. Burnham. I did not hear what set them off, but Frank yelled at the other not so much in anger as in a tone of pleading; nevertheless he terminated his discourse with a shout: “Don’t be a fool!” Then did he turn and stalk away.

  Robert Burnham shouted after him in an angry voice I had not heard from him before, “Do not dare cross me in this, Frank Barber!”

  It appeared, however, that Frank had no intention of heeding Mr. Burnham, for he did not turn and look back but went directly out the door to Bow Street. As the door slammed, Mr. Burnham responded by pounding the wooden bars of the strongroom in apparent frustration. By the time I reached the strongroom, Mr. Fuller had gone off to fetch the keys, and I was left alone for a moment with this prisoner (who was not quite a prisoner). He was turned away, his head bowed, and a frown upon his face.

  I considered the possibility of simply walking on to the stairs, which in a way I should have preferred. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to show him that my sympathies lay with him. Would it matter to him? Perhaps all he needed was a bit of personal encouragement to push him toward Sir John’s purpose.

  “Mr. Burnham,” I called to him, “how do you now?”

  “You see me here as I am, and you can ask such a question?” said he. “I daresay you are not the keen lad I thought you to be.”

  That stung a bit. Still, I ‘was not to be so easily put off.

  “I fear that was a bit callous, sir,” said I. “Forgive me. But … well, if you will but aid Sir John in his inquiries, then there would be no need for you to remain where you are.”

  “You, as well? Tell me, did you instruct Frank Barber in his arguments? Or did he you? Of a sudden, all those I counted as friends seem to be against me.”

  I knew not how to respond to that, and further did I hear Mr. Fuller rattling his keys behind me. There seemed little to do but take my leave.

  “I beg you to believe that I am not against you. I wish you only well, sir.

  With a nod and a wave of my hand, I left him, nor did I turn to watch when I heard the sound of the key in the lock and the door to the strongroom swinging open. Indeed I made straight for the stairs.

  What a strange scene awaited me when I opened the door and entered the kitchen! There sat Annie at the table, her face all but covered by a linen kerchief with which she dabbed at her eyes and into which she honked with her nose. At her knee knelt Clarissa, who murmured words of consolation and comfort. She held Annie’s hand in both her own.

  As I stepped into the room and closed the door, I felt the eyes of both girls upon me. There could be no doubt that the looks I received
from them were of the accusatory sort. I wondered at this, for I could think of naught that I had done to offend either one. I felt a strong impulse to get away as quickly as ever I could. Toward that end, I bobbed my head in greeting and made swiftly for the steps which led to Sir John’s bedroom. Thus I hoped to escape whatever trap had been laid for me: Get in and get out quickly, and say as little as possible. But I hesitated at the bottom step. Would Lady Kate be in her bedroom, or … ? I decided that I had better ask.

  When I put the question to them, I was informed by Clarissa in quite frigid tones that Lady Katherine had been called to the Magdalene Home. Before she could say more, I thanked her and rushed up the stairs and into the bedroom shared by master and mistress, in search of Sir John’s sling.

  It was, to be honest, an untidy room. Clothes — most of them Lady Kate’s — were tossed about on the chairs; a frock hung from the open door of the wardrobe; and the bed was unmade. It was plain that the two in the kitchen, whose duty it was to tend to this room, had so far neglected it. Ah well, it was Sunday; much could be forgiven on a Sunday — though it took a minute or two. I located the makeshift sling that Mr. Donnelly had arranged for Sir John’s left arm, the sling which Sir John seldom wore except in the surgeon’s presence. I found it hung over the bedpost. With it in hand, I ducked out of the room, careful to close the door behind me, and made my way down to the kitchen. I hoped to get past the two girls before they could engage me in argument, controversy, make accusations, or otherwise impede me on my way back to Sir John.

  Vain hope. I had not even reached them at the table when Annie bounded out of her chair and pointed her finger at me. Then, with an angry face and a voice all choked from weeping, she said, “It was you, Jeremy!” I stopped. Still she pointed. She was like some storybook witch pronouncing a curse.