The Color of Death

by Alexander, Bruce

  Sir John was deep in whispered conversation with Constable Brede and Constable Perkins. Though I wanted greatly to know the subject of their conversation, the three were so absorbed that I simply could not bring myself to eavesdrop in a crude and common way. I kept a respectful distance and simply burned with curiosity. It was only at the end of it all that I managed to hear anything worth hearing.

  Mr. Perkins had broken away from the other two and was heading for the street door, when he turned and called back to them: “You may count on me, of course. But sir, tell me, when do you wish me there to start?”

  “A little earlier than Mr. Brede, I think,” said Sir John. “Perhaps an hour, if you don’t mind, Mr. Perkins. I must arrange a few things first.”

  “I don’t mind at all. I live quite near.”

  “That, of course, is why you were chosen,” said Sir John.

  “And not my fierce nature? My lion’s heart?”

  “That, too, certainly.”

  Both men turned away, laughing. Nor did Mr. Brede stay a moment longer than was necessary. Taciturn by nature, he mumbled no more than a few words, bobbed his head to the magistrate, and headed after Constable Perkins out the door to the street.

  “Now you, Jeremy,” said Sir John as he waved in my approximate direction.

  “I, sir? How did you know I was here?”

  “Oh, I had a notion you were about. I hoped you would be, in any case.” As I came closer to him, he fumbled down into his voluminous coat pocket and fetched up a letter; sealed tightly it was, so that there seemed little chance of peeking inside. “This is a most important letter,” he continued, holding it out to me, “which I dictated to Mr. Marsden when you were out wandering about St. James Park with that chambermaid.”

  “But sir, I — ”

  “Oh, never mind. You’re being teased, lad. Can’t you tell?”

  “I suppose so, sir,” said I. (Overearnestness was ever a fault of mine.)

  “Very well, I wish you to deliver this immediately.”

  I took the letter and saw that the name writ upon it was that of Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice.

  “You’ve been there often, and know the way,” Sir John continued. “The most important thing, however, is to get this to him swiftly, before he leaves for Old Bailey. But this,” said he, drawing out a letter from his other pocket, “may be delivered afterward. It is, as you see, addressed to the provost marshal at the Tower of London. He will not have an immediate reply for you, but Lord Mansfield will — a simple yes or no. All that understood?”

  I took the second letter. “Perfectly, Sir John.”

  “Then off with you, lad.”

  Indeed I did know the way. I had brought letters so often to the grand house in Bloomsbury Square that I could find my way wearing a blindfold — though I should never make such a claim to Sir John. And though it was quite early, I must say that I enjoyed the brisk walk up Drury Lane and beyond. I even found myself looking forward to the duel at the door with Lord Mansfield’s arrogant butler. Thank God, thought I, that I had had the presence of mind to wear my best coat that morning.

  The butler, whose name was Egbert, answered my insistent knock a bit tardily, but answer it he did. He stood in the doorway, blocking my path, as if he feared that my intent was to push past him and into the residence. He was tall, over six feet, and he seemed to enjoy looking down at me.

  “You again,” said he. There was no evidence of emotion to be seen in his face, certainly no sign of pleasure at my visit.

  “Yes, it is I.” With a smile upon my face, I responded most pleasantly to his baleful look. “I have a letter for Lord Mansfield from Sir John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”

  “What does your letter concern?”

  “I know not, for I did not take it in dictation, and I would not tell you in any case, for what it concerns comes under the heading of official court business.”

  “Hmmmph,” said he, something in the nature of a belch it was, and yet it sounded, too, like a bit of a cough.

  “Is Lord Mansfield still here?” I asked. “Or has he left for court?”

  “Oh, he is still here. Give me the letter, and I shall deliver it to him.”

  “I fear I cannot,” said I. “There is an answer requested.”

  “The usual thing, eh? Well,” said he, throwing open the door and stepping aside, “come ahead then. His Lordship is at breakfast for the moment. Do not interrupt him longer than is necessary.”

  I followed the butler at a respectful distance until a thought occurred to me. Then did I catch him up by moving forward at a jog-trot.

  “Sir,” said I to him, “may I ask you a question?”

  “You may.”

  “Have you recently added to your staff a maid of the name of Pinkham?”

  The butler looked back at me over his shoulder. “I am in charge of the staff,” said he. “I do all the hiring. I can assure you that no maid named Pinkham, nor anyone else, has been added to the staff for years.”

  “Thank you.”

  He conducted me to a surprisingly small room at the back of the house. It drew light through its eastern-facing windows. It occurred to me that this breakfast room may have been a later addition.

  Lord Mansfield, wearing a robe, still in his nightcap, looking for all the world as if he had just staggered from his bed, looked up from a bowl of country porridge and squinted distrustfully at me.

  “Ah,” said he, “it’syou, is it? Sir John’s lad. Got a letter for me, have

  9”

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  “Yes sir, I do.” Wherewith I produced the letter and presented it to him.

  “He wants an answer, does he? He usually does.”

  “A spoken yes or no will do, he says.”

  “Hmmm.” Only then did he break the seal, open the letter, and start to read. As he did, he began blinking his sleep-weighted eyes and rubbing them vigorously until he had them wide open. At the same time he sat up straight in his chair and shook his head in a gesture of bewildered astonishment. He held the letter open before him for such a length of time that I was sure that he had taken the trouble to read through it twice. At that moment, I would have paid dearly to know the contents of the letter I had given to Lord Mansfield.

  When at last he lowered the letter, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “You may tell Sir John, yes — emphatically yes.’ “

  “Thank you, Lord Mansfield, I shall, of course, deliver your message.” I bowed and started for the door.

  “Joseph,” said he to the butler, “show this young man out and return here immediately. We have much to discuss before I leave for court this morning.”

  My route to the Tower of London took me near the office of Mr. Moses Martinez in Leadenhall Street. Because no limit of time had been put upon me, I thought I might look in on him. There was, after all, a chance that he might have heard something from Amsterdam regarding the jewels stolen from Lady Lilley. Or was I perhaps a bit too optimistic? It was less than a week that I visited him on Sir John’s advice to ask his aid in the matter. In any case, I proceeded up the street which led past the imposing home of the East India Company, then beyond to the more modest building wherein Mr. Martinez maintained his chambers, and his living quarters, as well.

  Again, I was ushered swiftly into his chambers by a young assistant. (I had but to mention Sir John’s name.) Mr. Martinez stood, welcoming me politely, yet he wore on his face a curious and slightly confused expression as he waved me to a chair.

  “Was there some other request from Sir John?” he asked in a somewhat tentative manner.

  “Uh, no sir,” said I, “but I was wondering if any word has come from Amsterdam. I know it hasn’t been very long since — ”

  “Longl Young man, two letters were posted only Wednesday. They may not even have arrived yet. I would remind you that Holland is some distance away.”

  “I … I know that, sir. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” I rose
from the chair where I had sat, feeling quite mortified of a sudden at my own impatience, my inability to allow things to happen in their own time. No doubt I had caught a bit of that same sense of excitement that seemed to have possessed Sir John that very morning. “In truth, Mr. Martinez, Sir John did not send me — not today. Coming here was my own idea. As you may have heard, there has been another robbery, and I simply hoped for the kind of information that might move the investigation along at a swifter pace. Again, forgive me.”

  By the time I had concluded this speech, I had retreated to the door, bowing frequently, and was about to leave in a great rush before Mr. Martinez could say another word. Yet he spoke out before I could make good my escape.

  “Stay! Stay!” said he. “As a lad, I was like you myself. I could not tolerate the pace at which the world went — always too slow, never swift enough to suit me.”

  He waved a finger in the air rather sententiously; I was reminded of a schoolmaster, or a vicar, perhaps.

  “As I say,” he continued, “I remember having the same sort of feelings that you have today, and because I remember so well, I will tell you something that may be of interest to you.”

  “Oh, tell me, please do.”

  “It was something that happened yesterday which indeed made me wonder. There is a man known to me by reputation — his is a bad reputation. He was pointed out to me a year ago on the streets of Rotterdam, and a good many colorful stories were told me of his nefarious enterprise in Europe. It should be said, by the bye, that his criminal pursuits constituted his second business, for he presented himself as a successful trader in ordinary goods — compasses, lenses, linens — the sort of thing the Dutch are known for.”

  “He was Dutch, then?”

  “Oh yes, did I not make that clear? He did well enough in his first line of trade that he managed to keep secret his second line.”

  “Which was … ?”

  “He dealt in all manner of stolen goods.”

  “Jewels? Paintings?”

  “That and much more.”

  “And you saw this same man here in London, did you?”

  “It was but one day past.”

  “What is his name, sir?”

  “Oh, I could not tell you that.”

  Why ever could he not? He had good as described Mr. Zondervan of St. James Street to me. And now to withhold his name? That made no sense. Yet I told Mr. Martinez nothing of the kind. I had learned there were subtler ways of handling a reluctant witness.

  “Then, sir, you must dictate a letter for Sir John in which you tell him all that you have told me about this man with the addition of his name. I shall wait in the next room, so I shall be none the wiser, and you may double-seal the letter tight so that I may not peek inside.”

  “That would do no good,” said he. “I cannot divulge the name, not even to Sir John.”

  “I honestly do not understand,” said I. “Do you not trust Sir John?”

  “Of course I do. And for that matter, I trust you, too.”

  “Do you fear retribution from this nameless trader?”

  “I fear no one.”

  “Then, sir, please make it clear to me why you refuse.”

  Mr. Martinez nodded, then said nothing for a good long moment as he considered the next step to take. At last he proceeded.

  “Are you a Christian?” he asked me.

  “Well, I … I try.”

  “And you know that I am a Jew, and I, too, try. Our two religions have much in common. Among the most important: We worship the same God, and we live by the same rules of life.”

  That last was a bit obscure to me. “Sir?”

  “The Decalogue,” he explained.

  “Sir?”

  “The Ten Commandments.”

  “Ah yes,” said I, “of course.”

  “One of these Commandments — it is the ninth — prohibits the bearing of false witness. It tells us not to say of another what we know to be false. In commentary, this has been extended to mean not only must we not speak falsehoods, we must also say of another only what we know to be the truth. Now, concerning the man of whom I spoke, it may well be that all I told you of him was true, yet I cannot be certain. I do not know it from my own experience, therefore I have withheld his name that I may not bear false witness against him.”

  I followed his reasoning, and I admitted to myself that it was sound reasoning. Nevertheless, I felt obliged to attack it.

  “But sir,” said I, ” you said that the man in question is Dutch. Surely that provides a considerable hint to his identity.”

  “Indeed,” said he, “but there must be hundreds of Dutchmen in London, perhaps over a thousand.”

  “Well …” said I, grasping for inspiration, “it may interest you to know that what little you have told me has already suggested to me one who fits it in a number of ways.”

  “Excellent! I had hoped that it might, and that is why I chose to venture as far as I did in this matter.”

  With that, he clapped his hands together in a gesture which I took to mean my time with him had ended. I could, I suppose, have wheedled and begged, but I was sure that it would have done no good and would have reduced me considerably in his eyes. Having thus made my decision, I thanked Mr. Moses Martinez politely and took my leave of him.

  So elated was I at what I had learned from Mr. Martinez (or what I thought I had learned), that upon delivering the letter to the office of the provost marshal at the Tower of London, I charted a course for my return to Bow Street which would take me by Lloyd’s Coffee House.

  As I had hoped, Mr. Alfred Humber was there at his usual table, sipping the usual strong blend of coffees served there. He was alone, which is to say, his young assistant was absent — off, no doubt, on some errand ordered by his chief. Lloyd’s was, as it always was at that time, humming with quiet conversation, with occasional interruptions from the brokers to the clerk at the chalkboard. He saw me enter and immediately signaled the nearest server. Thus the coffee was poured just as I reached the table. Though I was eager to be off to Bow Street, I could hardly decline the steaming cup that awaited me. I was, however, ungracious enough to say to Mr. Humber, as I sat down beside him, that I could not stay long.

  “Ah well,” said he to me, “I’ve never known you to turn down a cup of coffee.”

  “Right enough, sir,” I admitted, “and I thank you for it.” Then did I add: “I was wondering, sir, if you had any information for Sir John as might pertain to the robberies of the past week.”

  “Well and good,” said he. “Indeed I do have information of a kind that may be helpful to the investigation.” He reached deep down into the interior of his coat and into a pocket hidden from plain sight and brought forth a letter of a kind quite like the one I had delivered to the Lord Chief Justice; only the color of the sealing wax differed. “It is all in here.”

  Thus did he catch me unawares, taking my first gulp of the coffee that he had kindly provided. I swallowed it quickly — too quickly, I fear, for I fell immediately into a fit of coughing.

  “You all right?”

  I assured him that I was quite well as soon as I had my voice back. Only then did I venture to take a bit more coffee — just a sip this time. After clearing my throat once again, I asked Mr. Humber: “Might I know what information you’re offering to Sir John?”

  He leaned toward me then and, lowering his voice, he said: “I’m afraid not. There are a bit too many about who would be interested in anything I might have to say on this matter.”

  Looking about, I saw that what he said was no doubt true. Conversation had stopped at a number of tables around us. Two men at the closest were openly staring in our direction.

  “I quite understand, sir,” said I, concealing my disappointment with another gulp of coffee. “That being the case, I fear that I must be off. Do forgive me, Mr. Humber.” I took another swallow of that sublime brew and stood. “Sir John will be eager to have the information you’ve provided. With
your permission, then?” I bowed rather formally and, seeing one last sip left in the cup, I took my leave and that last sip, as well.

  Well, of course I ajjumed Sir John would be eager to know what was inside Mr. Humber’s letter, but I knew I was myself more than eager. Therefore, I hurried the distance to Bow Street that I might have time to give Sir John my report and deliver the letter before his court session. Presumably, of course, I should be the one to read it aloud to him.

  Upon my arrival, I saw just ahead of me that a most impressive (and familiar) coach-and-four had pulled up at the door to Number 4. It was unmistakably that of Lord Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice, to whom I had earlier delivered the letter. Had he come to respond to that message which had disturbed him so in some more personal way?

  No, evidently not, for when the footman came round to open the coach door, it was not Lord Mansfield who stepped down, but rather two young ladies of obvious quality. Both were well dressed; neither looked to be any older than I. The only difference I could discern between them (and, oddly, it struck me then as being of little moment) was in their complexion; the second of the two to emerge had face and hands of a rich chocolate hue. I had come to an abrupt halt, expecting Lord Mansfield to emerge and not wishing to get into his path; so I saw the young ladies at a slight remove, and they wasted no time in getting inside. I was nevertheless certain of what I had seen. With them inside, the footman leaned against the coach door, and the driver began his descent. It was evident they meant to stay a good, long while. I saw that it was time to follow those two young ladies inside.

  They had not gotten far — no farther, indeed, than the strongroom. There they had taken their places. While the darker of the two posted herself at the bars and talked in earnest whispers to Mr. Burnham, her companion had taken a place behind them. Watchful as a sentry, she guarded them both.

  I walked swiftly past them, yet not so swiftly that I failed to notice a few things. Though voices were so hushed I could not make out a word that was whispered, I did see that the darker of the two was standing so close to the prisoner that they were able to clasp hands between the bars; I saw, too, that in spite of her tears, she was quite beautiful. Her skin was a rich, lustrous brown, not quite so dark as Mr. Burnham s. Her facial features seemed also a mixture: She had full lips in the Negro manner, but her nose was as long and narrow as any in the city of London.