The Color of Death

by Alexander, Bruce

  “Oh yes, but one of the constables has come with word of another great robbery. Jack cannot go, he simply cannot.”

  “I agree.”

  “I would not even wake him to tell him. I fear you will have to go and act in his stead.”

  “It will take me no time at all to be ready. If anyone is waiting downstairs, you may tell him that I shall be there in minutes.”

  And, indeed, I was. Fully dressed but with shoes in hand, I descended the stairs. At the bedchamber of Sir John and Lady Fielding I paused a moment to hear his steady breathing. As I did, she appeared and whispered, “Take care, Jeremy.” Then did she surprise me with a motherly kiss upon the cheek. And I continued upon my way.

  Below, none other than Constable Patley awaited me. Mr. Baker, for his part, stood ready for me, holding two pistols in holsters, prepared to buckle them about my waist. As he did this, he cautioned me to hold my fire as long as possible, and aim carefully at the trunk. It sounded like good advice. I only hoped that in the event I should have the presence of mind to follow it. But, having been readied for the worst, I could now depart. After I thanked Mr. Baker, we set off into the night.

  Constable Patley was my companion and my guide. As we made our way, he recounted to me all that he knew of the crime. It seemed that Mr. Bailey, the captain of the Bow Street Runners, had been his companion this night when again they were approached by someone, a servant of a house in Little Jermyn Street, that had just been sacked by a band of black men. Were there any injuries? Yes, a man lay dead, though he had not, strictly speaking, been murdered. In the course of the robbery one of the household staff had been taken by an attack of some sort — apoplexy or a sudden stoppage of the heart — and it had put him in such a state that he could not be revived.

  Having heard this much, I asked the question which I was sure Sir John would have asked in my place. To wit: “Has the doctor been sent for?”

  “He has, yes,” said Mr. Patley. “Soon as Bailey and me arrived, he took a look at the body where it was lying and sent the stable boy off on a horse to fetch the doctor.”

  “Gabriel Donnelly in Drury Lane?”

  “I b’lieve that was the same as before.” He was silent for a moment. “Yes, that was it.” He had grown a bit sullen.

  “And you went to Bow Street to fetch …”

  “Well, not exactly you — not you alone, anyways. I thought — and maybe Mr. Bailey thought, too — that the magistrate would be well enough to come.”

  “But he’s not,” said I with great certainty. “He has sent me in his stead.”

  “You know how to do all that asking questions and all?” He seemed rather dubious.

  “Yes.” That seemed sufficient. I could see no need to convince him of my qualifications.

  He was silent for a good long space of time. We must have crossed a number of streets before he spoke up again. Then, of a sudden, he burst out with something quite unexpected; it was as if he had thought long upon it yet held it back.

  “I want to ask you something,” said he.

  “Ask me anything you like.”

  “How old are you, anyways?”

  “How old am I? Why should that matter?”

  “You said I could ask you anything.”

  “But I didn’t say I’d answer.” I hesitated but a moment and thought better of what I had said. “Oh, all right,” said I. “I am seventeen years of age.”

  “Well, let me tell you something, mister damn-near-a-magistrate, seventeen is how old I was when I took the King’s shilling. And I then had as fine an opinion of myself as you seem to have of your own self.”

  Having heard that, I was about to interrupt with a counterattack before he had even properly begun. However, curiosity persuaded me to hold my tongue.

  “Yet we differed in one partic’lar,” he continued. “And that was in respect of our elders. I soon found out that if I cared to live out the length of my enlistment, it was important for me to pay attention to what those who’d been in the regiment a while might have to say, and not go trying to tell them how I thought they ought to do things. I had much to be grateful for to them.

  “Now, I know you had a bad opinion of that report I wrote out on that first big robbery in St. James Street. That much I heard from that man Marsden, the magistrate’s clerk.”

  Finally, reader, I could hold my tongue no longer. “Mr. Marsden had a bad opinion of it, too,” said I, “and so would Sir John have had if he had sufficient sight to read it. Well, he couldn’t have read it — none could — not the way the words were spelled. You authored something unique! It seemed another language entirely. Not to mention the near total absence of facts and details.”

  “Well,” said he, “I’m working on those reports — with Mr. Bailey. He’s showing me how to write them the way Sir John wants.”

  “Can he teach you how to spell correctly?” It was, I blush to say, a question intended less to elicit a reasonable response than to antagonize. And antagonize it did.

  “You ain’t going to leave me alone on that, are you? You would scorn me as a man for no more than some words ain’t spelled to your liking. Well, all right, young sir, you may discover there’s more to judge a man by than that. I’m not saying I’ll be the one to teach you, but I can damn near guaranty you’ll find out from somebody sometime, and it’ll probably be sooner ‘stead of later.”

  I had offended him, which was bad enough, though to make things worse, I had offended him by intention. Of a sudden I saw this, which is to say, I had a clear picture of myself as an arrogant young puppy. The picture appalled me, and I might well have set about to make amends (which would have been proper) had he not grabbed my arm and jerked me to a halt. Instinctively my arms came up, and my hands formed into fists. If it came to it, I was ready to defend myself.

  But no. Mr. Patley pointed somewhat behind me and to my right. “We’re here,” said he. “This is the house.”

  I turned and looked at it, frowning. Why, I knew the place, and I knew it well. I had delivered many a letter there, and even been inside a number of times. “This is the Trezavant house, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, “that’s the name.” It occurred to me that it might indeed have been better if Sir John had come, for Mr. Trezavant was the coroner for the city of Westminster. There were political considerations, matters of precedence, which I hardly felt competent to deal with. Nevertheless, I would deal with them as best I could.

  “Come along then, Mr. Patley. Let us do what must be done.”

  FOUR

  In Which Mr. Trezavant

  Makes a Most

  Terrible Accusation

  The door was opened to us by a big man in his shirtsleeves — a porter, no doubt, or perhaps a footman (I’ve no skill in telling them apart). In any case, we were warned by him to step carefully as we made our way inside. Immediately the door shut behind us and I saw the cause for caution.

  The body of him described by Mr. Patley as having died from apoplexy or a stoppage of the heart lay on the floor of the hall just beyond the door. I was somewhat taken aback by the sight.

  “The master told us not to move him until the doctor had a look at him,” said the big fellow.

  “Quite,” said I. “So I take it the doctor has not yet arrived?”

  “No, young sir, he ain’t.”

  I knelt beside the black-clothed body and called for light. Given a single candle in a holder, I examined the face of the dead man and found that he was, as I had feared, the Trezavant butler, a sweet-natured old man who had shown me only kindness on my frequent visits to the house.

  “The butler,” said I, rather superfluously.

  “So it is, and a good man he was, too,” said he who had opened the door. “His heart had been giving him trouble the last year or two. I wager that’s what done him in.”

  If so, a stoppage of the heart must have been more painful than ever I had supposed, for the features of his face, frozen by death, bore an express
ion of great pain. His had not been a peaceful passage.

  I rose and handed back the candle. I inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. Trezavant. (I was sufficiently aware of the rules of etiquette governing the situation to know that it was the master of the house to whom I must speak first.) And I was directed to his study, where I had always found him in the past. I made ready to go there, but first I addressed Mr. Patley in what I hoped would seem the proper note of polite authority: “Constable, perhaps you will find Mr. Bailey now. Tell him I am here and ready to talk with any whom he deems worth questioning.”

  “Certainly,” said he — a proper response.

  Assuring the porter (or again, perhaps he was a footman) that I knew the way, I set off down the hall for the study. When I arrived, I paused a moment before the door, taking time to organize my thoughts and prepare myself for what lay ahead.

  I was quite unprepared for what I found beyond the door. I knocked upon it and was invited to enter. Was there something strange about the voice? The manner of speech? Perhaps, but I threw open the door and marched inside, eager to find out what I could which might aid materially in the capture of this crew of ruthless robbers.

  Mr. Trezavant was at his desk, as he always seemed to be, his great weight and huge girth quite obscuring the chair upon which he sat. His head hung low, and as I came close I saw that his jaw had gone slack; his mouth hung open.

  He was drunk. I had seen drunken men — and women — in sufficient numbers on the streets of London to know the look well. When he raised his eyes and regarded me, they carried a familiar dazed expression. And then the proof: Nearly, though not quite, hidden behind a considerable pile of ledgers on his desk, I spied the brandy bottle from which he had imbibed.

  He squinted at me, probably seeking to fix my image in focus. “Who’reyou?” he asked at last.

  “Jeremy Proctor, I came when — ”

  “Oh yes, I … Now I reco’nize you. You … you … Sir John …”

  “Yes sir, I am Sir John’s assistant.”

  “Whar’s he?”

  “I fear he was unable to come. He was wounded two nights past in the discharge of his duties. I have come in his place.”

  “You?” He laughed. “You’re … you’re … but a …”

  “A lad? Indeed that is true, sir, but I have been well-prepared by Sir John, and with your permission, I shall question you and members of your household staff to gather information for our investigation.”

  “All I can tell you …” And at this point came the longest pause of all; near a minute passed by, perhaps more, as I waited. But eventually, my patience was rewarded. “All I can say is … they were a crew of cruel black buggers.”

  “Yes sir,” said I. “I’ll make a note of that.” I could see there would be little of use that I would get from him. “But tell me, sir, is Mrs. Trezavant here? Would she be available for questioning?”

  “My wife,” said he, “is where she blongs.” He seemed to feel that he had explained all.

  “And where is that, sir?”

  “In … at home.”

  “Here?”

  That seemed to anger him somewhat. He glared at me. Was he annoyed at me for asking, or at his wife for some unexplained offense?

  “No … in Sussex, and she took the coach … the coach and four this morning.”

  “Well, thank you, sir,” said I, backing toward the door, “I’ll not bother you further.”

  “No bother … a pleasure … Always were a most p’lite lad. My best to Sir John… . Talk to anyone you like.”

  I had reached the door. I felt behind my back for the doorknob. “Thank you, sir,” said I.

  “I b’lieve I’ll just take a nap,” said he.

  And so saying, folded his arms upon the desk and laid his great head, rather like a baby’s, down upon them.

  Not waiting another moment, I made a quiet exit from the room and into the hall. And there, waiting for me, I found Mr. Benjamin Bailey who, as chief constable, directed the quotidian operations of the Bow Street Runners. Perhaps, to put it more clearly, he was regimental sergeant major to Sir John’s colonel. That arrangement seemed to satisfy him.

  He walked me a bit down the empty hall to a point removed from Mr. Trezavant’s study so that we might talk more freely.

  “Did you get anything from the coroner?” he asked.

  “Nothing at all. He was quite besotten.”

  “Drunk?”

  “Completely.” I looked at him then, no doubt as hopefully as I felt. “What about the servants? Are there some worth talking to?”

  “Oh, I suppose so,” said he. “Yes, you should talk to a few of them, but you’re going to find that this robbery was just like the last, except for one or two details.”

  “And what are they?”

  “You’ll find out, Jeremy. It wouldn’t do for me to draw conclusions for you.”

  I sighed. It seemed that even my old friend, Mr. Bailey, intended to put me to the test. Ah well, I could hardly have expected it to be otherwise.

  “Lead the way,” said I to him. “Find me a room, and bring them to me one at a time.” I meant that as a challenge.

  The first particular in which this robbery differed from the earlier was in the crucial matter of gaining entrance. Mr. Collier, Lord Lilley’s former butler, had been duped into opening the door by an individual, evidently a black man, who told a sad tale of a terrible coach accident — and, what is more, told the tale in the tone and style of a native Londoner; there were no African inflections, not even the flat and now quite familiar accent of the North American colonies.

  But there at the Trezavant residence, the butler could not tell us what was said, how it was said, nor for what reason it was decided to unlock and open the door. No, the butler could not tell us, but, as it happened, there was a witness to the event — and he could.

  Mr. Bailey brought to me a John Mossman who, as it turned out, was the selfsame fellow who had admitted Mr. Patley and me to the Trezavant residence. He said that he and the butler, whose name was Arthur Robb, had been discussing in the hall what they might do with the master. There I halted him and asked what was meant by that. Why, after all, need anything be “done” with Mr. Trezavant?

  “Well, the way of it was this, young sir,” said the porter. “The mas-ter’d been drinking through a good bit of the day, and quite steady after dinner. He had collapsed at his desk — quite unconscious he was. So Arthur and me, we was discussing just how we might get him up to his bed on the floor above, the master bein’ so big and all.”

  He went on to explain that he was the only porter on the household staff and that those who might have helped — the footmen, the coach driver — had taken Mrs. Trezavant off to the country home in Sussex and would not return until the morrow. Arthur, he was just too old and frail to be of much use carrying a big load like that. All of which was quite interesting, and perhaps later would prove relevant, but I urged Mr. Mossman to get on with his story that I might learn how the robbers had gained entry.

  “We was some distance back in the hall,” said he, “but we both heard the knockin’ on the door real plain. It was loud and you might say right frantic. So we hastened to the door, and Arthur calls out his ‘Who is there?’ — for it was well past the hour when you might open the door to anybody who knocks upon it. Then in response we heard this terrible wail, a cry for help it was, and the voice that did the crying was a woman’s voice.”

  “A woman’s voice?” I exclaimed. “You’re sure of that?” “As sure as I’m here before you now. She said she’d been attacked in St. James Street, which is only a little ways over, and that she was bein’ chased. Oh, she sounded terrible frightened. Well, Arthur and me, we looked one at the other. All I could do was shrug, saying it was up to him, like. But Arthur, he didn’t give it but a moment’s thought. He was damned if he’d have some poor soul raped on our doorstep, so he starts pulling the bolts. And once that was done, he moved the door back — he couldn
’t have had it open much more than an inch when it came open just like it’d been flung. It hit Arthur hard in the head, but I was behind him and managed to jump back out of the way. Then all of a sudden, there was four black men swarming through the open door with pistols and knives in their hands, and poor Arthur was reelin’ about holding his head where the door hit him. Before you knew it, he was clutchin’ at his heart and not his head, and, well, he just collapsed there by the door where you saw him. I couldn’t even ease his way down because by that time one of the blackies had a pistol stickin’ in my face.”

  “Did you get a look at the woman who knocked upon the door?” He thought about that a moment, as if for the first time. “No, I can’t say I did. They hustled me downstairs to the kitchen far too quick.” “Could the woman’s voice you heard have been mimicked by a man?” “You mean makin’ his voice sound like a woman’s? No, I don’t think so. I don’t see how it could’ve been a man.”

  Except for fixing the time of the assault (“Not long after ten,” said he, “but not yet half past the hour”), the porter and I had finished our business. Mr. Bailey brought into the room (barely a corner cupboard, really, beneath the stairs, and just off the kitchen) one of the maids, a sort of assistant to Mrs. Trezavant’s personal maid. She had more or less come forward as a volunteer, according to Mr. Bailey, for she wished to make a few things clear — or so she said.

  “What is it you wish to make clear?” I thought it likely she sought to be interviewed purely for the attention that it would bring her. Therefore I had determined to spend as little time with her as possible.

  “I wish to make clear it wasn’t me responsible for telling the robbers what happened to the lady’s jewels,” said she. A bold girl, not much more than my own age, she was attractive in a saucy way.

  “If it wasn’t you,” said I, hoping to move her along, “then who was it? They’re gone, I take it.”

  “It wasn’t nobody,” said she with firm conviction. “They’re gone, but wasn’t ever stolen.”