The Color of Death

by Alexander, Bruce

Mr. Bilbo’s driver and footman seemed to be getting restless, as was the team of four horses. I knew those animals. They were rather high-strung. When they were in harness, they wanted to be off and running. Such inactivity as was not their lot made them fractious and nervous.

  It was now well after dark, of course, and though the square was well-lit with streetlamps, there was no moon at this hour of the night. There were dark corners and spaces enough to hide a good many. I paid particular attention to those places, looking for movement. At last I saw a bit of it, as a figure in black emerged from a passageway which seemed to run beside the house just beyond Lord Mansfield’s. As the figure moved closer to the nearest streetlamp, I saw better; it was a woman, one wearing a voluminous skirt, a shawl, and a prim little kerchief upon her head. She looked familiar.

  Of course she did! I had indeed forgotten that the last such robbery had begun with a woman seeking refuge from an attacker. That was how the robbers had cozened Arthur, Mr. Trezavant’s butler, into opening the door to them. This was doubtless the woman. Further, she looked at a distance quite like Mary Pinkham, formerly Lady Lilley’s personal maid. I had come to suspect that she had played this role earlier. She looked the street up and down, paying little mind to Mr. Bilbo’s coach, for the driver had pulled up in such a way that it faced away from her; in appearance, it seemed simply to be waiting for a passenger to emerge from the house. Having satisfied herself, the woman removed her shawl and waved it several times in the direction of Great Russell Street. From where I sat, it was impossible to see who or what she waved at without dismounting from the coach. I had no intention of doing that.

  Before I saw their wagon, I heard the sound of horses’ hooves and the squeak of the wheels. Then at last it appeared. The wagon was an unusual covered sort, so that quite a number of men could be carried in back without being seen.

  “They’re here,” said I very quietly.

  Constable Queenan shuffled and stamped, collecting himself, and was near out of the coach before Constable Rumford grabbed him and pulled him back.

  “Don’t jump out just yet,” said he to him. “They’re not supposed to know we’re here.”

  “Oh … oh yes, sorry,” said Mr. Queenan.

  “The idea,” said Sir John, “is to catch them between you two on the outside and Mr. Perkins and Mr. Brede on the inside. You see the sense of that, don’t you, Mr. Queenan?”

  “Yes sir, I do sir.”

  “Just be careful not to shoot or slice any of our fellows, won’t you?”

  “Oh, I will, sir.”

  As this whispered discussion continued, I kept my eyes upon the odd-looking wagon as it pulled up before Lord Mansfield’s residence. Five men jumped out the back, well-armed, dressed in black, and all likely wearing black face paint as well. One, whom I took to be the leader, held a hurried conversation with the woman — Mistress Pink-ham? They parted, nodding in seeming agreement, and the leader beckoned the others to follow.

  “They’re about to go inside,” said I, sotto voce.

  Once more, Constable Queenan shifted his feet nervously.

  “How many are there?” Constable Rumford asked.

  “Five of them,” said I.

  I could see her talking through the door. Was she weeping? Could Pinkham have done that? Whoever she was, she was quite an actress. The robbers were lined up behind her on either side of the door; they leaned forward in their eagerness to be inside.

  Then, of a sudden, the door came open just a bit. The woman remained a moment, but was swept aside in the concerted dash of her five companions. The door slammed shut behind them, and she went to the wagon.

  “They’re in,” said I, excitedly, all but shouting it.

  “All right, gentlemen, take your places before Lord Mansfield’s door.”

  There was a great scramble to leave the coach. I threw open the door on my side and jumped out to allow Constable Rumford an easy passage to the pavement. Constable Queenan was already out and running for the wagon, a pistol in his hand. Rumford took a place directly before Lord Mansfield’s door. While standing on the walkway, I had a better view of the situation, and saw a flaw that had developed in the plan due to the positioning of the robbers’ wagon. It had pulled up a bit shy of the door of the house, thereby making it quite impossible for Queenan to cover both the door and the wagon at the same time.

  “Sir John,” said I, leaning back into the coach, “I see something that must be done! Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  Running to relieve Mr. Queenan, I heard Sir John call after me twice, yet I continued, sure that had he eyes as I had to see things plain, he would no doubt have sent me out himself.

  (Have no fear, reader, I was armed. Though I had no cutlass at my side, Mr. Baker had buckled round me a brace of pistols. He would not allow me to venture forth at night unarmed, and on that night in particular, he thought it my duty to serve as Sir John’s guard. I hoped that in lending a hand to the constables, I was not neglecting their chief.)

  By the time I reached Mr. Queenan, he had ordered the driver and the woman down out of the wagon; they were slow to move, angry, desperate; they seemed ready to bolt at the first opportunity. I explained my intrusion to Queenan, and he assured me he was grateful for my aid. Then did he join Rumford at the door.

  I saw that indeed I was correct: The woman in black, who had played out the drama at the door, was indeed Mistress Pinkham. Her eyes widened in recognition as I pulled out both pistols and cocked them. The driver, an old teamster, hard-faced and silent, looked to be one who had driven many an illegal mile in his life.

  No more than a minute had elapsed in all this.

  Shots were fired inside the house. Though they sounded no more lethal than those of a child’s pop gun, the sound of them had penetrated an oaken door: The skirmish had truly begun.

  Then, just moments later, that oak door flew open, and out tumbled the robbers. There were just four of them; one of their number had fallen inside the house. And after them, in noisy pursuit, came Constable Perkins, a pistol in his hand, and a knife clenched between his teeth, and Constable Brede, waving a cutlass about, shouting, aiming his pistol in a most threatening manner at the nearest of the villains.

  Reader, you cannot imagine the look of consternation upon the black-painted faces of those in that robber band when, as they emerged from the house, they beheld four pistols, loaded and cocked, aimed at their hearts by Rumford and Queenan. The trouble was, you see, that I myself did not imagine that look of consternation, I saw it. In so doing, I took my attention away from my two prisoners for no more than the length of a glance. Yet that was time enough for them to wreak havoc upon us.

  First of all, I had made an error in allowing Mistress Pinkham and the driver to stand but six feet away, which was much too close. (“Jeremy,” Mr. Perkins lectured me afterward, ” you must never allow them to get that close unless you intend to shoot them on the spot” — and such was not my intention.) In that brief space of time, Pinkham leapt across that short distance, grabbed me by the back of the neck with one hand, and with the other grasped my right wrist and attempted unsuccessfully to wrestle the pistol from my hand. Unable to do more than hang on, she settled for that and hung on to me like a lamprey. And then did she begin screaming, rending the night with fearful wails.

  Meantime, the driver slipped from my view and made for his seat on the wagon box, and one of the four on the steps broke away from the others and ran to follow.

  What I did then, no gentleman would have done, but I was not then a gentleman, nor have I become one: I clubbed Mistress Mary Pinkham upon the head with the pistol in my free hand. I delivered a sharp whack with the barrel, which quite surprised her, but did nothing more. It took two more stiff blows and a bleeding pate to render her unconscious. She slipped with a bump down to the pavement, giving me the first full picture I had had of the situation since her assault upon me.

  The driver urged the restive horses forward just as he who had leape
d aboard behind him raised a pistol to shoot at us. Seeing that, I raised my own and fired at him. I did not know then whether I had hit him, but he pulled back, leaving the driver exposed. I set myself to fire again with my second pistol just as the horses pulled the wagon past me, removing the driver from my sight. But then, from behind me, was a final shot discharged. I looked round me and saw that it had come from Constable Perkins, who stood coolly, his arm still outstretched, the pistol in his hand still smoking.

  We waited, holding our breath as one for a long moment as the horses plunged onward past Mr. Bilbo’s coach and toward Hart Street. We knew that if it made the turn in good order, then it was under control. If, on the other hand, it did not, then whoever held the reins was badly wounded, dead, or dying. And as one, we heaved a sigh of disappointment as it sailed round the corner like a frigate on wheels.

  Though Sir John was reasonably pleased to have four of the robber band (including the now-conscious Pinkham) under guard, and a fifth wounded on Lord Mansfield’s floor, he had little time for his constables’ reports on how it had all been accomplished. I, however, did welcome Constable Rumford’s call; he had wiped the faces of the prisoners with a towel and all proved to be white, except the wounded fellow in the house. Once Sir John had me in the coach, he signaled Mr. Bilbo’s driver that it was time to move on to the next stop of our itinerary. As the coach began to roll, I was caught in the midst of reloading the pistol I had discharged. It was a ticklish job at best — to attempt it as we bumped over cobblestones and as he berated me for what he called my “childish propensity for getting in the worst sort of trouble.”

  He continued: “And what good did you do? One in your charge escaped. The other — a woman, if you will! — you had to beat senseless to bring under restraint. How much help did you, in truth, provide?”

  Continuing in that vein, he filled the time it took to drive from Bloomsbury Square to St. James Street — not a great distance. I made no effort to defend myself, simply let him talk on — for what, after all, could I say in my defense?

  At last, as we pulled up before the Zondervan residence, I said to Sir John: “You cannot say anything to me in criticism, sir, that I have not already said to myself a dozen times over.” And indeed it was so.

  (I did manage to get the pistol reloaded, however.)

  As we climbed from the coach, Mr. Bilbo’s driver called down to us, asking if we would be needing him further. “We’re right close to home here,” said he.

  “I know that, driver,” said Sir John, “but I fear that we have one more stop to make this evening, and that will take us all the way to Bermondsey.”

  “Ah well, sir, not that we mind. We was quite entertained by that show your lads put on back in Bloomsbury.” He cackled at his little witticism. “Ain’t that so, Charlie?”

  “Aw, ain’t it!” the footman agreed. “I ain’t seen such fireworks since the king’s birthday. I swear I ain’t.”

  Sir John did not respond. He was not amused. Instead, he turned to me. “Well,” said he in little more than a whisper, “how does it look hereabouts?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” I was honestly puzzled.

  “I mean,” said he, “do you see any villains lurking about? Any of our fellows?”

  “No villains, sir, but I see Constable Sheedy posted at the door of the Zondervan house.”

  “Then that means they have it secured. Come along, Jeremy, take me to him.”

  With that, he pawed the air with his right hand, indicating that he wished to be assisted to the door. I put my left arm out, and he placed his hand upon it. Thus we proceeded through the open gate and up two shallow stairs, where Constable Sheedy greeted us enthusiastically.

  “Welcome to your new home, Sir John,” said he.

  “Whatever could you mean, Mr. Sheedy?”

  “I mean, sir, it’s been emptied out clean as a whistle, and it’s for you, if you want it. Whoever moves in first can claim it.”

  “Hmmm,” said Sir John, giving a vigorous rub to his chin. “You followed my instructions, did you?”

  “Oh, yes sir, we waited till that black-faced crew was out of the house and away in that wagon.”

  “And you waited till Zondervan had left, as well?”

  “The big, tall Dutchman? Oh yes, sir, but that was earlier. His coach pulled up at the door, and he come out, and without a word to the driver or the footman, he got in and they took off — like it was all worked out beforehand.”

  “I’m sure it was,” said Sir John. “But tell me, did Constable Patley follow close behind?”

  “Oh, yes sir, just like he was supposed to. I don’t know where he got his horse, but he sure knew how to ride it.”

  I was quite baffled by this. I had, of course, noticed that Mr. Patley was absent from the assembly of the Bow Street Runners in the magistrate’s chambers, just as constables Perkins and Brede were; but I half-suspected that he had gone over to the other side, for I was sure that it was Patley s voice I had heard during my last visit to this house. Could he have been a turncoat, a spy for the Dutchman? Could such things be?

  “He got his horse, Mr. Sheedy, at the same place we got our coach — on loan from Mr. John Bilbo, down the street a few houses. But is that the full schedule of events?”

  “Uh, no sir, it’s not. Just before you came along, that same wagon came back, the one that left with all that black-faced crew about half an hour ago.”

  “Oh? Who was driving it?”

  “Not the one who drove it out of here. That one was an old fella, kind of hard-looking, if you know the sort.”

  “Yes, I do, I certainly do,” said Sir John. “But the old fellow was not the driver?”

  “No sir, it was a much younger one — not one of the blackies, you understand. This man was just as white as you or me.”

  “And what happened? Were you at the door then? Did he see you?”

  “Yes, I was at the door, sir, and he did see me. And when he did, he just whipped those horses and took right off again.”

  “You’re sure he saw you, your red waistcoat? And that’s why he ran?”

  (The red waistcoat, reader, was all that the Bow Street Runners had in common as a uniform.)

  “As sure as I can be about anything.”

  “Very well, Mr. Sheedy. I’d call that an excellent report. Now where are Mr. Baker and Mr. Kelly?”

  “Oh, they could be almost anyplace/’ said the constable. “They were going to go through the house room by room to make sure it was just as empty as we thought.”

  “All right,” said Sir John, “we’ll find them. Come along, Jeremy.”

  Eventually, we did, though not before we had searched through many an empty room, calling for them, hearing nothing in return but the echo of our own footsteps. I had never been in a house so big that was so empty.

  “It’s a bit like walking through a haunted house, isn’t it, sir?” said I.

  “I was just thinking something like that myself,” said he. “Ghosts, however, are not quite in my line.”

  It was not until we reached the rear of the ground floor, and the stairs which led to the kitchen, that we heard voices; I recognized Mr. Baker’s, and with a bit of difficulty, Mr. Kelly’s as well; but the third, though familiar, eluded me completely.

  Sir John and I descended the narrow stairway in the usual way: he with one hand upon my shoulder, and the other touching the walls as we circled downward. The voices ceased as we neared the bottom of the stairs. I must have taken that as a menacing development, for I suddenly found my hand upon the butt of the pistol I had just loaded. Yet I removed it when I saw that the voice I had failed to identify belonged to Mr. Collier, once the butler in the Lilley house and now the same in the Trezavant residence.

  “Well, it’s you, Sir John,” said Mr. Baker. “I’ve got a fellow here you may know.”

  “His name is Collier,” said the magistrate. “I met him at Lord Lilley’s, who discharged him following the first robbery. Jer
emy met him again on numerous occasions, lately at Trezavants.”

  “I guess I was right. You do know him.”

  “His voice is quite distinctive — whinging, most irritating. I identified him immediately when I had heard it.”

  “We found him hiding in the kitchen pantry,” said Constable Kelly. “There’s some food in there still — potatoes, apples, and the like. Maybe he got hungry.”

  “Maybe he did. What about that, Mr. Collier? What were you doing in the pantry?”

  The butler glanced left and right, first at Sir John, then at me, then back to Sir John. “Hiding,” said he at last.

  “Come now, Mr. Collier, I remember you as much more forthcoming than that. Hiding from what? Hiding from whom? Surely you can do better than that, sir!”

  “Well … I would, sir, but to answer as frankly as you wish me to would involve me in matters I do not wish to discuss. They are far too personal.”

  “Too personal?” said Sir John rather skeptically. “Or might it be that in discussing those matters frankly you would incriminate yourself?”

  Mr. Collier presented to us an expression of wounded innocence. “Why, sir,” said he, “I do not know what you might mean by that!”

  “Why, sir, I believe you do,” said Sir John, thrusting himself toward the butler with such force that he came within an inch of butting him in the head. “I believe it was you who stole Lady Trezavant’s jewels.”

  “That’s … that’s wrong. I did not even know where they were hid. How could I know such secrets of the household when I had been there but a day or two?”

  “Because you went there knowing that secret of the household. It was all too convenient, your arrival just after Trezavant’s former butler had been felled by an apoplectic stroke — and so early, too.”

  “I told you — ” Then did Mr. Collier realize his error and point at me, “no, I told him that I had heard the news on the street. Such matters are much discussed from house to house.”

  “Mr. Collier, from whom did you hear it?”

  “As I say, I heard it on the street.”

  “From whom did you hear it?” Sir John’s tone was most severe.