Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

The place smelled of death. There were the odors of sweat and bodily evacuation and there was a peculiar sour smell that I could not quite place. It was dark in the room. The single candle mentioned by the porter burned low in its holder and provided the only light. I grabbed it up and asked the fellow to light more candles. By the time I had located the body and knelt over it, there was appreciably more light by which to look.

There was, in any case, sufficient to see that the man upon the floor was Eli Bolt. But for his beard, I am not sure I would have recognized him. It was not only black and gray in the same pattern and proportions as Bolts had been, but it was also long and braided. There could surely be only one such beard in two braids in all of London.

“It’s Bolt, Sir John,” said I to him.

“Are you sure?”

“The beard’s the same, and the size of him is right. As for the rest …” I was reluctant to claim absolute certainty.

“Describe the body to me.”

“The face is somewhat battered, the eyes protrudent — bulging nearly out of his head, they are — and his tongue is discolored, a sort of dark purple.” I turned to the porter and asked if the body had been moved in any way.

“Well, we turned him over to see if he might still be alive,” said he.

“Though he surely looked dead, lying on the floor, it seemed only proper to make sure.”

“You felt his pulse? His heartbeat?’’ asked Sir John.

“I didn’t have to. I been up to Tyburn often enough I know how a hanged man looks.” He hesitated, then added: “There was one of them with us — I think it was the old man from the room next door, he put his hand on this. . this dead man’s chest and said there was no heartbeat.”

As the two discussed this matter, I discovered something that did pique my curiosity. The porter had mentioned the presence of vomit and blood in Bolt’s beard. I had expected that the blood had been regurgitated with the vomit, and perhaps some of it was; but beneath that dark beard of black and gray I found a wound, a cut where the leather had dug so deep into Bolt’s throat that it caused a wound and left some bleeding. I called this to the porter’s attention and, holding his own candle close, he inspected the bloody wound in the throat.

“Aye,” said he, “went deep, didn’t it? Never seen that before, but then again, I never seen a rope of leather used before. You could damn near cut a man’s head off with such as that, couldn’t you?”

“Which reminds me,” said Sir John, “the victim of that unfortunate hanging in 1763 had had his head nearly severed from his body by the leather rope from which he was suspended.” He took a moment to ruminate upon that and then addressed the porter: “Mr. Simmons, or Simon, or however you would prefer to have it, could you suggest how it came about that the report carried to the Bow Street Court had it that Mr. Lawrence Paltrow had committed suicide? Now, it is evident to us that the dead man is not Mr. Paltrow, and should be evident also that he did not die a suicide. You did not cut him down, I assume?”

“Oh, no, sir, I did not. Except for the fact that he now lies on his back instead of his belly, he is just as we found him. But about your question on how the matter was confused when it come to you, I would say it was Mr. Templeton did the confusing.”

“Mr. Templeton?”

“The night manager.’’

“Ah, yes, we met him, of course. Mr. Bailey is with him now, or may indeed have concluded his business with him. But how did it happen that the information I received was so confused?”

“Well, it was like this, “ said the porter, “Mr. Templeton is a squeamish sort, and so he had no wish to accompany us. When we d had our look inside the room, found the dead man and all, we went back down to him, all four of us, and reported that there was a dead man in Room Twelve. ‘Of what did he die?’ asks Mr. Templeton. ‘Of strangulation,’ said the old gent from the room next to it. ‘There is a rope round his neck.’ Well, all that together must have meant suicide to Mr. Templeton, for that’s how he told it to the kitchen boy he sent off to you. He probably looked into the register book and saw that Room Number Twelve was occupied by a Mr. Lawrence Paltrow, and so that was the name he sent along.” Then did the porter add to what he had said: “Some of that I heard, and some of that is pure reckoning, for I returned right off to my place up above.”

“But you knew that the dead man in Room Twelve was not Lawrence Paltrow,” said Sir John, “didn’t you?”

“Well, I knew that the dead man were not the young fellow gave me his coat and let himself into Room Twelve. Which of them was this Paltrow gent, I really don’t know.”

“Almost certainly neither one,” said Sir John.

“What’s that?”

“Never mind. You’ve been most helpful, sir, and you’ve made me regret the harsh things I said to you earlier. You may lock up this room again. A party will come here tomorrow morning to bring the body to the office of the medical examiner of the City of Westminster. You might pass that on to whoever it is relieves you. “

“I shall do that, sir.”

And having spoken, Sir John signaled to me that we might now leave.

“There was one more matter which I thought you should know, “ said the porter.

“Oh? And what is that?”

“The coat given me for a brushing by that — how was the name? — Mr. Paltrow.”

“And what about it?”

“It was gone when I come back from making the report to Mr. Templeton.”

“Was it hung in plain sight?”

“Well, you could see it, but it wasn’t easy to get to.”

“Do you believe it was stolen?”

“No, sir, I believe the owner of the coat come back for it whilst I and the rest were in his room, or p’rhaps downstairs talking with Mr. Templeton.”

Sir John rubbed his chin. It was evident that this opened possibilities which he had not considered. “Could he yet be here in this hostelry? Are there places he might sequester himself?”

“Oh, many,” said the porter.

“Then as soon as you have done in here, lock the room up once again and return to your post, and I shall send a constable to you. Together with him, you must visit all the places Paltrow might hide, so that we may be absolutely certain that he is not here still. Will you do that?”

“You may count upon me.”

With that, Sir John surprised him by offering his hand. The porter took it after a moments hesitation and gave it a firm shake. We two departed then and made swiftly for the stairs.

Mr. Templeton, now situated behind the desk, seemed more composed than earlier. He held himself in tight control as Sir John corrected him on the identity of the dead man in Room 12, and went so far as to apologize for the confusion he had caused.

“You see, sir, this sort of trouble is simply unknown to us here at the Globe and Anchor. We’ve had no crime at all in this hostelry.”

“Not even theft?”

“Not during my five years here — and certainly nothing like murder.”

“Then, sir, you have indeed been fortunate. But let me ask you, what has happened to the constable who entered with me? Is he — ”

“Is he still here?” asked Mr. Templeton, anticipating and interrupting. “Indeed he is. I admitted him to the room of — well, the late Mr. Bolton, which he proceeded to search. Ah, but look” — he pointed — “here he comes now.”

I turned to look, and it was so. For one so large, Mr. Bailey moved with easy grace. His descent of the stairs was accomplished two or three at a time in a kind of loose, dancing style which brought him swiftly to us; he ended the dance before Sir John with a quick step and a bold salute. Ever the soldier.