The Color of Death

by Alexander, Bruce

  “Was it Annie chose the last?” I asked. “It was a great success with him who ate it.”

  “No, it was Lady Kate herself,” said Mr. Tolliver. “She had me pick it and cut it, as she’s always done in the past.”

  “Then I’ll do the same.”

  Hearing that, he hauled a whole rib section of beef from the locker and tossed it on the chopping block. He took a moment to check it over, then selected a cut somewhere near the middle. With a cleaver and an unerring eye, he broke the bone in two places, then took out his saw and began cutting away. “How is he?” he asked. “Kate said he’d collapsed yesterday after his court session.”

  “True enough, but he seemed much improved even before he ate your chop.”

  “Well, there’s nothing like beef for putting blood back into a man. He must’ve lost a good bit.”

  “Oh, he did. The ball taken from his shoulder must have been forty caliber or better.”

  “I’d assume then that he’ll need more time in bed. He better not try to hold court every day. No telling what could happen.”

  “We’re quite in agreement on that, sir. I’ve a plan. I may be able to persuade him.”

  “Well, good luck to you on it. Once he gets his mind made up, he’s a hard man to get to change — as we both know.” Then, having finished, he held the chop high. “There, Jeremy, what do you think of that?”

  Returning, I found that Annie had prepared a breakfast tray and was ready to depart for her reading lesson at the Bilbo residence.

  “He’s awake,” said she. “I heard him stirring and coughing, and then he started calling for his breakfast.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I said that it would be there directly. It’s ready for him now. You can take it up to him, the way you wanted.”

  “Thank you, Annie. Go along now.”

  And with a nod, she took her leave.

  I carried the tray up to his bedroom, where I found him on the chamber pot, purging himself of his night water. When he had done, he stood, dropping his nightshirt, and collapsed back into bed.

  “Did you sleep well, Sir John?” I asked.

  “I suppose I did,” he replied rather impatiently. “For one in my condition it is sometimes difficult to tell.”

  “Oh? How is that, sir?”

  “Without sight, how can one be absolutely certain whether one is dreaming, or having conscious thoughts?”

  I mulled that in my mind as I set the tray down and proceeded to adjust his pillows so that he might comfortably sit up in bed.

  “Is it so difficult to distinguish between the two?” I asked.

  “Sometimes it is,” said he.

  I waited, expecting him to elaborate upon that statement (which to this day puzzles me), yet he did not. So I lifted up the tray table and placed it before him. Upon it, I placed the document which I had drafted and written the night before.

  “What is that which you have put there?” He reached out and touched it suspiciously. “Am I now reduced to eating paper?”

  “No sir.” I laughed in spite of myself. “It is a letter written in your style. I should like you to sign it, sir.”

  “And only then may I have my breakfast?”

  “Of course not, Sir John. Here, I’ll put the tray before you now — bread, butter, four rashers of bacon, tea.”

  “No, wait,” said he in a manner rather sharp. “Am I allowed to know the contents of this letter?”

  “Certainly. It is a letter from you to Mr. Saunders Welch — ”

  “Perhaps,” he said, interrupting, ” you had best read it to me.”

  And that I did, clearing my throat and reading aloud. “Dear Mr. Welch: As you may have heard, during the discharge of my duties, I suffered a gunshot wound in the shoulder night before last. Yesternoon I conducted my magistrate’s court as usual, but was warned against continuing this by the attending physician, Gabriel Donnelly. And so I fear it is necessary once again to request your help. I ask only that you hear the criminal cases that would ordinarily be heard by me. The rest I shall simply delay until such time as I am once again in possession of my full strength and can resume my duties. Please give your answer in the space below. I remain yours, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Well,” said he, “this is interesting, is it not? I had mentioned my occasional difficulty in distinguishing between the waking and sleeping states. But there are always clews that help me to know. For instance, now that you have read this letter to me, I know that I am dreaming.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Was this one of his tricks?

  “Indeed, dreaming! For I know very well that in my waking hours I told you just yesterday that I would continue to hear cases at the Bow Street Court. I remember declaring to you the importance of demonstrating to him who shot me that what he did will in no wise interrupt the dispensation of justice. I thought I put that rather well, didn’t you?”

  “Why, yes, but — ”

  “Now, I know, Jeremy, that you are far too bright a lad to forget what you are told from one day to the next — ergo, I must be dreaming! Only in a dream could circumstances be altered so radically.”

  He was making light of me, playing me for a fool. In my boyish way I resented that. Yet far more did I resent his reckless treatment of himself. Did he not know how important he was to us all? What would we do without him? How could London spare him?

  “Yes,” said I, ” you made that speech about not interrupting the dispensation of justice, then you went to your courtroom, heard a few cases, then promptly collapsed.”

  “I did not collapse,” he replied. “I merely suffered a passing spell of lightheadedness, as I made clear at the time.”

  “But why not allow Mr. Welch to take your cases? It is his duty to do so. He should have come to you yesterday and made the offer.”

  “Why not indeed! I’ll tell you why. He is, first of all, a bad judge, a poor magistrate, and no more than a few hairs short of corrupt. He would rather fine a murderer than free an innocent man, for there might be money to be squeezed from the innocent.” I had never heard him talk about another in such strong language, certainly neither judge nor magistrate. But there was more: “And as for your last point, Jeremy, you are correct — he should have made the offer. But he did not, which shows us what sort of man he is. That gives me another very good reason to continue to hear cases at Bow Street.”

  “And what is that?” By this time the two of us were fair shouting one at the other.

  “It should be obvious: Because he did not volunteer, it would be completely inappropriate for me to ask it of him. I will not beg from one such as he.”

  “But … but … but …” I sputtered and fumed, yet there was no more to be said. I, at least, could think of naught. “All right,” said I. “Consider the letter withdrawn. The matter is closed.”

  With that, I picked up the tray and delivered it to Sir John. “Your breakfast,” said I as I slammed it down before him.

  “Would you pour my tea, please?” said he, apparently once more as unperturbed as when I first entered the room.

  I mumbled some sort of assent and did as he asked. Once I had done, I set about buttering his bread.

  “It was well writ,” said he.

  “Pardon? What was?”

  “The letter to that fellow, Welch.”

  “What? Oh … that … well … thank you.”

  “My objections had to do solely with its content.”

  “Yes, of course, I understand.”

  “Well, I hope you do. I do hope I’ve made my reasons clear. But sit down, won’t you, Jeremy?”

  I grabbed a chair and pulled it over to beside the bed. As I seated myself, I noted that he had begun to munch upon his breakfast, a chunk of buttered bread in one hand and a rasher of bacon in the other. I waited until he had swallowed. Only then did he speak.

  “First of all,” said he, “about that theory which you voiced last evening.”

  “Yes sir
?”

  “Interesting, truly interesting, but I believe you are but half right. Where you err, I think, is suggesting that that huge theft was planned and executed solely — or even chiefly — to bring me forth as a target. Their haul from Lord Lilley’s was far too rich to be considered a mere exercise for such a purpose.

  “But to me, it seems,” he continued, “that you are quite right about the rest. Which is to say, whoever organized this robbery — and there is something familiar about the manner of it — was certainly eager to use it to bring me there. I agree that he who reported it was probably sent there specifically to make sure I came. Well, I did come, and we know the result. And so I must ask you to stand again, pistols by your sides, through today’s court session.”

  “I will. I’ll be there.”

  “And what had you planned in the way of furthering the investigation?”

  What indeed? I had given some thought to it — though perhaps not sufficient, so intent was I upon dissuading Sir John from sitting his court as usual. But I put before him what had occurred to me.

  “Well, sir,” said I, “two avenues of investigation seemed possible, but I fear I know not how to pursue them — not in any practical way, that is. The first would be to find out what I can about Walter Travis, the man who was left dead by the robbers. If he had a criminal past, as Mr. Burley suspected, then knowing more of him might lead us to those who killed him — and perhaps tell us why.”

  “A reasonable assumption,” said he. “I’d talk to Mr. Marsden about that. Though Travis is no doubt an alias, Marsden may have heard some stories about who left criminal pursuits for a life in service. The novelty of that would assure that it would be circulated up and down Bedford Street. A good story is long remembered. Oh, and talk to Mr. Bailey, too,” added Sir John. “He got a look at the fellow, did he not?”

  “He did, sir — and I’ll do all that you suggest. But about that second avenue I mentioned …”

  “Yes, oh yes, what is it, Jeremy?”

  “It also occurred to me that if we could find the booty, we could also very likely find those who had stolen it. But beyond looking at those known to be fences up in Field Lane, I know not where to inquire, nor to whom.”

  “Yes, well, to search in Field Lane you would need someone who knew the stolen items by sight — the butler would do if you can locate him again. Didn’t he make up some sort of list of stolen items?”

  “I believe he did.”

  “But in truth,” he continued, “I am not sure that you are likely to turn up anything in Field Lane. A theft of such enormity could hardly be handled by any one of the fences there — nor even perhaps all of them together. They are at best rather small enterprises. Disposing of Lady Lilley’s jewels, for instance, would be quite beyond them. Jewels are rather special.”

  With that he paused a goodly pause, leaned his head back on the pillow, and gave prolonged thought to the matter. Only thereafter did he resume.

  “This may surprise you, Jeremy, but regarding the jewels, you might best talk with Mr. Moses Martinez.”

  “The accountant?”

  “Ah well, he is that among other things — sometimes an investor and sometimes a banker, and sometimes a financial adviser. But with all else, he is a Jew, and the Jews do largely control the market for precious stones in Amsterdam. I mean in no wise to implicate Mr. Martinez in the theft, nor in the fencing of what was stolen, but he has contacts there in the diamond district and if he were to make some discreet inquiries …”

  “I see. Indeed I shall do that, sir.”

  “And as for the rest of the goods taken the other night, why not go to Lloyd’s Coffee House and ask Mr. Humber about them?”

  “Mr. Alfred Humber? Truly? What would he know about such matters as this?”

  “Mr. Humber knows a good deal about many things,” said Sir John somewhat mysteriously. “Just try him and see if he has anything to offer. That should keep you busy, eh, lad?”

  I agreed that it would and rose from my chair to depart.

  “Just one more matter,” said he, holding me there at his bedside. “Are you absolutely certain that the man who shot at me there in St. James Street was black?”

  “Well,” said I, somewhat at a loss, “as sure as I can be about most things. That is to say, we were beneath the streetlamp, and he was not. And when he appeared I was greatly distracted, trying to push you out of the way while also attempting to get a shot off at him. Nevertheless, in spite of all that, I retain a picture of him, and that picture is of a black man — an African.”

  “All right,” said he, “I accept what you say — I must. Yet I cannot think for the life of me what black man I might so have offended that he would wish to kill me.” He sighed; the matter did truly trouble him. “But on your way now. Report to me when you have something to report. And not before.”

  Thus the day passed rather quickly. In no more than a few minutes, I had been given much to do: at least a day’s work, and more likely two or three. I liked it well that he had left the execution of the tasks to me. As soon as Annie returned at mid-morning, I set off at quick march to the office of Moses Martinez in Leadenhall Street in the City of London. The only difficulty I experienced there was that which I had foreseen, and Sir John had more or less foretold. I well recall the incredulous and hurt expression Mr. Martinez wore upon his face as I told him that Sir John hoped he might be of some aid in tracing jewels of Lady Lilley ‘s, stolen from the Lilley residence the night before last.

  “Surely he does not believe that I had something — anything at all — to do with that monstrous robbery!”

  “Indeed he does not,” said I, in what I meant to be a most reassuring tone. “He values your friendship highly, and I myself have heard him commend you to others as the most honest of men.”

  At that, Mr. Martinez seemed appropriately relieved. “Very well then,” said he. “What might I do for you?”

  “Sir John thought only that perhaps through your contacts with those in the gem trade in Amsterdam, you might be of some help in this matter.”

  “Ah, indeed, perhaps I might. What is the value of these jewels?”

  “Upwards to ten thousand pounds.”

  “Indeed? Well, in that case, they would almost have to be sold off in Amsterdam. Give me a few days, young man — enough time to make some inquiries — and perhaps I shall have some information for you and good Sir John.” With that, I said a polite goodbye and ran toward the river for Lloyd’s Coffee House.

  My business there with Mr. Alfred Humber was even more quickly executed. I found him seated at his usual table in the room, which even at that early hour was dense with tobacco smoke. His hands were folded over his protuberant middle, and his eyes were heavy-lidded in such a way that he seemed to be napping as a fat old tabby would do. George, his ever-present assistant, sat at the table with him; he had grown from the rag-tag errand boy I had first met to a sleek young underwriter who showed only disdain for lads like me. No matter; we ignored one another as I sat down and sought Mr. Humber’s attention.

  “Well,” said he to me, rousing himself from his somnolent pose, “what will you with me today, young Mr. Proctor?”

  “Information, Mr. Humber. Sir John suggested that I come to you in this matter of a great theft which occurred night before last. All manner of valuables were taken: paintings, silver settings, plates, even jewels. There is some question of where these goods might be disposed of. He suggested you might have some idea.”

  “He did! I wonder how he might have come by such a notion as that!” Then light did flicker in those sleepy eyes and a smile spread cross those hanging jowls. “But wait,” said he, “perhaps I do have an idea or two about that — something I discussed some time ago with Jack. Dear God, he does have a long memory.”

  I leaned forward eagerly, wishing to miss none of what was to follow. Yet, there was nothing to miss.

  “Yes, indeed,” said he, “but I fear you’ll have to wait. It will
take a day or two at least to talk with everyone. And to be sure, I must talk to them all. Come tomorrow — or perhaps the day after would be better.”

  I sighed. “Whatever you say, sir.” With which I rose, offered my thanks, and took my leave. Only then did I receive so much as a glance from George. I replied with a sneer.

  And so I managed to return to Number 4 Bow Street, just in time to strap on the brace of pistols and take my place at the courtroom door as Sir John rapped upon the table and called his magistrate’s court to order. Again, what followed was more or less uneventful, and I praised God for that. The session did, however, go on a bit longer than the usual; by the end of it he was visibly depleted, his face pale with exhaustion. He waited until the last of the spectators had left. I shut the door on them and barred it, and then did I come forward to assist Mr. Marsden in bringing the magistrate to his feet. He rose easily enough and kept his feet solid beneath him, but when he walked toward the door and on to the stairs, he moved at a slow plodding pace. Joined there at the stairway by Mr. Fuller, we undertook to move him to the quarters up above in the same manner we had employed the day before: I moving ahead of Sir John, who trailed me with his hand on my shoulder; Mr. Marsden and Mr. Fuller brought up the rear, ready to catch him should he fall.

  Thus we brought him as far as his bedroom, where we sat him upon his bed and helped him out of his coat. Kicking off his shoes, he threw his feet upon the bed and, in breeches and waistcoat, eased himself back upon the two pillows that I had prepared for him. I nodded at the two men who had helped bring him to his bed, and they backed silently out the door. There, a moment later, Annie appeared.

  “Can I bring you something, Sir John?” she asked. “Anything at all?”

  “Annie? Why yes, child. A nice, hot cup of tea would suit me well.”

  “You’ll have it, sir, in no time at all.”

  As she left, Sir John turned to where he knew me to be and asked for my help in getting out of his clothes and under the comforter. “And by all means, hang my things out of sight. I’ll not have another lecture from Mr. Donnelly on the harm I do myself by daring to venture out of bed.”