Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

I found it with little difficulty. “Here it is,” said I, “Elijah Elison.”

“Elijah, the son of Eli, or so it would seem. “

I remembered what Sir John had said to Mr. Bilbo about such false names. “There does certainly appear to be a relationship among the three,” said I. “When did you remember this name from years past, sir?”

‘When did I remember? Why, Jeremy, I did not remember — indeed not until you read it off just now.”

“Really? What then? Surely not the sound of his voice alone!”

“I fear that is the case.” And truly he did say it almost apologetically. “I have always found it easier to remember the sound of a voice than the name that goes with it. Even when I was a boy — that is, before my blindness — it was so.”

“Have you some idea, sir, why this should be?”

“I’ve given it some thought now and again,” said he, and with that he halted, held for a moment in a trance of remembering. “When I was a boy, I remembered always how people said my name — whether John, Johnny, or Jack. Then, later, I became aware of the specific differences between voices.”

“Differences, sir? What sort of differences?”

“It’s difficult to describe. Well …” said he, hesitating, “let me put it this way. Most voices, or perhaps about half of the many, have to them some claim to beauty — high or low, there be little difference in that. Yet one listens to the pitch of the voice, the loudness or softness and how specific words are said. Put it so: Every voice of some beauty has its own song. Learn it, and you will always remember that voice. I know not how else to express it.”

“But,” said I, “what about the rest? Those voices that lack any claim to beauty? “

“Well” — he shrugged — “all have some, I suppose. Yet those that have little are the most distinctive and they say most about their owners. For instance, people who speak always in the same tone, on the same note, come close to having no song at all in their voices. They have lives in one tone and must shout to express emotion of any kind. And then, of course, there are accents — accents of all sorts from every region of these isles, from every foreign land. They fix the speaker as certainly as the color of his skin.”

“I have noted, as well,” said I, “that I am judged by my speech, as others seem to be, too. Some seem to think the less of me due to my pronunciation of certain words and the like.”

“Who does this?”

“Oh, butlers and such.”

“Pay them no mind,” said Sir John. “You speak as a good lad born in Lichfield should speak. But come, Jeremy, we have strayed far from the subject of our letter. Add that name, Elijah Elison, to Elijah Bolton. Give my profound thanks to the Chief Justice of the colony of Virginia for his attention to this matter. Then end it all with some suitable phrase of insincere groveling, and I shall sign it. “

Delivery of the letter to the Lord Chief Justice proved no problem. I made my way to Bloomsbury Square along the route I had traveled so many times before, mounted the steps, and rapped upon the door with the heavy hand-shaped knocker. Indeed, I made such a racket with it that even Sir John would have been satisfied, I’m certain. The door came open directly, and there stood Lord Mansfield’s butler, looking down upon me. Strange that a man no more than two or three inches taller could manage always to be regarding me, as it were, from a great height.

“Ah, so it’s you,” said he.

“So it is,” said I.

“What do you wish?”

“Naught that should trouble you overmuch.”

“Let me be the judge of that. For I must inform you that Lord Mansfield has left and will not return until evening. To be blunt, I simply will not have you about all day, waiting for the master that he may give an answer to that missive I see peeking from your coat pocket.”

Since he had noticed, I whipped it out and offered it to him. Oddly, he seemed to recoil from it; he did not, in any case, immediately lay hold of it. “Here, “ I urged, “take it. I have no need to wait, Sir John has asked for no reply from the Lord Chief Justice. “

Only then did he accept it-yet, nevertheless, rather tentatively. He seemed to weigh it in his hand, and indeed it was heavier by a sheet or two than most of the letters I bore to Bloomsbury Square. “It feels important,” said the butler. “With what does the letter deal?”

“With murder, for one thing — and much else.”

“Murder? Oh, dear!”

“But it is now in your hands, sir. The onus has been lifted from me and now rests upon you.”

And with that I hopped down the steps to the walkway, waved, and, grinning, ran fast as I could in the direction of the coach house. There were letters to be posted — three altogether, one each to magistrates in York, Bardwell, and Salisbury; they were answers to inquiries of the kind that Sir John himself often sent to men of the law situated in parts of the country, both near and far. And so, once arrived at the coach house, all that needed be done was duck inside the postal office and present the three letters to the clerk.

Then it was on to Lloyd’s Coffee House, one of my favorite locations in all of London. It was no ordinary coffee house, as you may be sure. Located at a convenient corner in the City of London, it housed a brisk trade in maritime insurance. It was a place wherein there was ever a great buzz of talk, occasional shouts, and bleats of laughter from the “brokers,” so-called, who sat at the tables round about the large room. The shouts were directed at the front corner, where a fellow stood before a large slate board, making notations in chalk upon it, which followed the names and destinations of ships that would sail from London that day and the next. Thus were ships and their cargoes insured by the men who sat at the tables, conversing, jesting, and drinking Londons finest coffee. Many who came to look upon this scene were shocked that matters so serious should be handled so casually.

None indeed was more casual than Mr. Alfred Humber. For years he had been a friend of Sir Johns. He was said to be quite wealthy, but one would never have guessed it, for though he dressed well enough to mix in any company, there was naught of foolish fashion or frippery in his choice of clothes. He was comfortably stout — or perhaps a bit heavier than that suggests — yet at near sixty years of age he carried himself well still, and went by foot all about the town. Though a bachelor, he had two great loves: music, an enthusiasm he shared with Sir John; and coffee, which he shared with me.

“Ah, Jeremy,” said he as I presented myself, “come sit down with us and have a cup. George, move over, “ said he to his young assistant. “Make room for him, if you will. “

George, a few years older than myself, accommodated me agreeably enough, moving to another chair and leaving his vacant for me. All this he accomplished without moving his eyes from the ever-changing numbers on the slate board at the front of the room. As I settled myself, Mr. Humber waved down a server, and a moment later I had before me a cup of deep brown, near black liquid, wafting aromatic steam upward to delight my nose.

“What have you, lad?” said Mr. Humber. “A message from Sir John? a letter?”

“No, sir, only a request for your help in the way of information.”

“Well, make the request, by all means, and I shall do my best to fulfill it.”

I brought from my pocket the letter Sir John had dictated to the Chief Justice of Virginia and put it before Mr. Humber. “This concerns a court matter. Because the post to the American colonies is so uncertain, he would like your advice on which ship would best carry it. We take it that the next to depart is not necessarily the best choice.”