Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

‘Where he was knocked over the head and abducted — and all for that book which you admit you removed from his room.”

“I did not know that, sir,” said she. “I am. . well, very sorry for his trouble.”

“As well you should be,” said he. “Upon our return here to Bow Street, I instructed Jeremy to reread that same book, and all the entries therein, that we might have some notion of what it was interested those villains in it enough to harm him.”

“Ah, I see,” said she, frowning in thought. She remained thus, silent, for a moment. Then did she brighten a bit as she ventured on. “Perhaps it could be the map?” (It was definitely in the form of an interrogative.)

“The map?” Sir John repeated it — and I in chorus with him.

“Well, not a true map exactly — perhaps more in the nature of instructions as to how one might draw one.”

“I don’t. . quite. . understand.”

“Well, I learned to read letters long before I could read a map. Even today I can’t do it very well. Nevertheless, when I was but a young child, my mother used to send me on errands about our small city of Lichfield. And knowing it would do little good to draw a picture map for me, she would write out very explicit instructions as to how I might arrive at the destination. She called this her ‘written map.

“Yes, well?”

“I was reminded of that as I read through this ‘ Journal of ’ — well, whatever it is. I believed it at first to be a romance, or a fiction of some sort, because of the manner in which it is written — vividly, with all manner of detail. But then I realized that there was perhaps too much detail for it to be successful as fiction.”

“What do you mean?” Sir John asked.

“Well, detail of a peculiar sort. He would mention every sort of landmark along the way. Some of them, odd-shaped rocks and so on, he drew.”

“She’s right!” I interjected, for I remembered the many such drawings. “And he would always work in the number of miles traveled in a day.”

‘ And the compass direction in which they went,” said she. I believe you could draw a map by compiling all such details.”

“ Or,” said she, “if there were a detailed map of the same parts, you could probably work out their route upon it.”

I had quite forgotten my ill feeling toward Clarissa in the excitement of discovery. That occurred to me when I realized that as we exchanged information and speculation, she and I were smiling and all but laughing aloud. No less than I, she wished to play a part in the investigation.

Sir John seemed aware of this. The expression on his face had changed to one of amused indulgence. “It seems to me, Jeremy,” said he, “that you purchased just such a detailed map from Bricker’s in Grub Street. You said that with it you were able to follow the path of this mysterious expedition of Paltrow’s up to a point. Perhaps with Clarissa’s collaboration, you might be able now to go beyond that point. Why don’t the two of you take the so-called ‘ Journal ’ and that map down to the kitchen table and see what you can accomplish working together? Perhaps two can do the job in half the time.”

That, reader, is what we did. I know not whether in truth we accomplished our work in half the time, as Sir John suggested; I am convinced, however, that with Clarissa reading out to me the passages in question, and I tracing the way upon the map, we did indeed save a good deal of time. For some time afterward I was plagued by the suspicion that without her and her tale of the “written maps” which she had followed as a little girl, I might not have discovered the book’s secret at all.

In any case, well before midnight we had done with the task he had assigned us. Together, though not without some disagreements, we had found the end of the long southward trail followed by Bolt, Paltrow, and company. It terminated much farther south than I had ever supposed. I had erred in my first attempt to mark their route, by believing it unlikely they could have maintained a fast pace following a rough path through the mountains. We found their destination to be far down in the northwestern corner of the colony of Georgia. What they had found there I could not then say — nor could I with any great certainty today. Nevertheless, Clarissa was sure as could be of the nature of our discovery.

“It’s a treasure map, Jeremy. That’s what it is, and you can be sure of it.”

“Sure of it? Why?” I asked. With her, I seemed always to assume the role of the doubter, challenging her every assertion.

“Why? Well, simply because they went so far and had such difficulties. They lost one of their group along the way. There had to be a great prize for them to endure so much.”

I hesitated, making a great show of examining the matter from every side. “I suppose you’re right,” I said at last.

“Of course I am,” said she. Leaning back in her chair, she examined me a bit dubiously. “May I give you a bit of honest criticism?”

What good would it have done to say no? “Of course you may.”

“You have many excellent qualities, Jeremy. You have good intelligence. You are brave and oftentimes generous. No doubt there are others, too, which do not immediately come to mind. But what you lack — the one quality which is made prominent by its absence — is imagination. You are simply deficient in that area. If I were you, I would attempt to develop my powers of imagination.”

I was greatly annoyed at that. Who was she to give me such advice? It was apparent to me that she herself had too much imagination.

“What proof have you that I lack imagination? You’ve no notion what goes on within my head. “

“Perhaps not. It is only the indications you’ve given me draw me to that conclusion.” She paused but briefly. “Yet let us not part on such a sour note. We worked well together on this evening. Tell me, do you often have tasks of this sort for Sir John?’

“I do whatever he asks.”

“Then you are lucky,” said she.

And so, rising, she helped gather up the oddments we had scattered over the kitchen table in the course of our investigation. When she put her hand upon the ‘ Journal of Exploration and Discovery ’, she hesitated, and then pushed it toward me. I pushed it back.

“I believe you had not read through to the end,” said I.

“Oh, but I had. I was simply rereading a bit, thinking to discuss it with you. Its best that you keep it.”

“Well. . perhaps it is. I may need it for my meeting with Sir John in the morning. I shall give full credit to you. “

“Oh, no, no,” said she, insisting, “it has been an equal enterprise.”

“Nevertheless,” said I as I gathered up the items to be taken to my room. I started for the stairs and called back my goodnight to her.

(It is, by the bye, worth mentioning at this point that after giving the matter some thought, I moved the case containing the books out of my room and into the hall; only those I had chosen and bought for myself did I hold back and claim as my own.)

Next morning I carried the large map of the American colonies and Paltrow’s Journal down to Sir John’s chambers and acquainted him with what Clarissa and I had, with some certainty, established the night before.

“And where was it you said the trail ended?” asked Sir John.

“In the colony of Georgia, sir, just inside, in the northwest corner of it.”

“That is perhaps somewhat farther south than you had first supposed, is it not?”

“It is, yes, but Clarissa showed me that even Paltrow believed they had crossed into Georgia.”

“Well, pass along my thanks to her.” He hesitated, giving some thought to the matter. “What do you make of this, Jeremy? What were they after?”