Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“Well, let me see. I can feel it upon my face as a slight dampness. And you might not credit this, nevertheless, its true: Fog does have a smell.”

“Oh, truly? What sort of smell, sir?”

“Not a very lovely one, I fear. I should say that the fog — the London fog, that is — smells of the Thames, for that is where it comes from for the most part, is it not? And we both know that the smell of the river is not an altogether pleasant one. Yet I can hear the fog, too, Jeremy.”

“Surely not, sir.”

“Yes, oh, yes, though not as a noise in itself, but rather as a condition which affects all other noise. It tends to dampen — or perhaps better put, to muffle all other sounds. And finally, my extra sense tells me something, too.”

“Do you mean your common sense? “

“No, something a bit different. It’s this way, Jeremy. Each time I hear muffled footsteps approaching through the fog, I sense you tensing with apprehension, and I perceive a small motion with your right hand to the pocket of your coat. You’ve a pistol in that pocket, haven’t you?”

“Uh, well, yes, sir. I fear you’ve caught me again.”

“You and Mr. Baker.” He sighed. “Well, perhaps on a night such as this, it is not entirely unnecessary to carry along a pistol. Besides, you’re older and wiser now than you were the first time I caught you out. How old were you then?”

“Thirteen, I believe.”

“Good God! Well, you seemed older. And how old are you now?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

“You still seem older — in most ways, though in some ways not.” I refrained from asking him to enumerate them, and he supplied no further information, so there the matter stood between us, and we lapsed into silence once more.

After a time, and a considerable time it was, he inclined his head toward me and, lowering his voice as if conversing in secret, he asked, “Have you made any progress toward placing that voice you heard in Oxfordshire?”

“What voice was that, sir? “

“Why, the voice of your captor, the voice of the puppet master, the voice of him standing behind the claimant,” said Sir John with some slight annoyance evident in the tone of his voice.

“He spoke but a few words within my hearing. “

“Then I take it your response would be in the negative?”

I attempted to address the matter, realizing instantly that it could not be done so casually. “I suppose, sir, that it must be in the negative,” said I quite regretfully. Yet what was it? Something there was, certainly, tugging at the back of my mind. “Let me give it some thought,” I said at last.

“Could it, for instance, be one whose voice you have heard since our return from Oxford?”

I concentrated for a moment, seeking somehow to re-create the sound of the voice by repeating in my mind what had been said: “That will be quite enough, Mr. Bolt” and “Come up here — now.” Little enough to go on. Still, it seemed that I had heard something like it not long before. I waited, but nothing seemed to come. Yet, finally, the only reply I could give him was “Perhaps.”

Then did we pass another space of time in silence. I concentrated on the problem he had given me. And he? His thoughts were then a mystery to me — and, as I think back, they are still. Nevertheless, I should have taken some hint from his next remark, though it came some minutes later. We were, as I recall, just turning from Russell Street onto Bow Street, having nearly reached our destination.

“Lord Mansfield,” he began, “told me something he thought rather amusing the other day.”

“Oh?” This was something new. Though Sir John enjoyed laughing with his fellows as much as the next man, jokes and witticisms were not normally his line.

“Well, yes, he did. It seems that he was present when old Lord Chesterfield remarked to Sir Patrick Spenser that he had no sure notion of what might be the duties of the Solicitor-General. He suggested that perhaps Sir Patrick might make it plain to him. ‘You ask what I do,’ said Sir Patrick. ‘Why, Lord Chesterfield, I do whatever I am asked and attempt to do so with a smile upon my face.”

I sought to find the story humorous, yet it seemed rather pathetic to me. All I could manage in response was a rather weak chuckle.

“Then, you do not find it amusing?” Sir John pressed me with the question.

“Well, no, sir, I do not.”

“Neither do I. Recall that I said that Lord Mansfield found it amusing — not I. And what he said he found particularly ‘piquant’ — his word and not my own, and I do dislike the Frenchification of the King’s English — was the fact that almost in demonstration of that smile, Sir Patrick put one upon his face. It was ironic to the extreme, he said, quite cold enough to cause a shiver. Now, Jeremy, do you not suppose that a man who said he did whatever he was asked and could smile such a smile would look for the opportunity to bite the hand that fed him? To advance his own cause, even at the expense of others? That I find distinctly amusing.”

Such talk, then, tended only to confuse me, for the truth of it was I was then too naive and indeed knew too little of the world to understand truly what Sir John was getting at. Nor would I look in the direction he was pointing me; perhaps, reader, I was being willfully obtuse — a bit stubborn.

“Perhaps I would agree with all that you say, Sir John, but I must first think upon it.” I felt frustrated and incapable. I wondered whether I might ever meet him on his own level.

“Well, then,” said he, “do so. Think upon it, and we shall discuss these matters again soon.”

Thus the conversation which led us to the door of Number 4 Bow Street — and to the surprise which awaited us there. I know not quite how to set the scene for this, and so I shall not even try. I shall simply say that as I opened the door on the right, which led to the area which Sir John referred to as backstage of the court, I heard the voices of two men in earnest discussion. The voices were familiar; one of them I identified immediately as that of Mr. Baker; the other I’d heard — and recently — though I could not immediately place it.

We advanced. I closed the door behind us, Sir John came to a halt; he stood rooted for a moment as he listened, then did he whisper to me, “Good God, Jeremy, its the claimant!”

I was quite as astonished as he. Since it was relatively certain that he had killed Eli Bolt, I wondered what could have persuaded him to seek out Sir John. Others in the same position would have left London quickly as ever they could, preferably for the colonies, possibly for the Continent and then to the colonies. Quite naturally, I had some affection for the fellow. After all, had he not rescued me from my captivity in Oxfordshire? Though he had whispered only his instruction to turn right at the gate, I had been certain even then that the fellow who had freed me was the claimant; once I had spent the better part of the afternoon listening to him at Lord Mansfield’s residence, I was quite certain of it. Quite naturally, I felt in his debt. It disturbed me no end that he had not done the sensible (or at least predictable) thing and made a run for it.

“Sir John, is it you?” The claimant rose from his place opposite Mr. Baker, pulled himself to his full height, which was considerable, and advanced toward the magistrate with his hand extended in friendship; on his face he wore an expression that might have been described as a solemn smile. Solemn it certainly was, but there were hope enough and even confidence in it so that he seemed one about to ask a favor which he was reasonably certain would be granted.

For his part, Sir John stood flabbergasted into silence as the claimant came forward. I saw that he limped and, as he came close, I noted the bruises upon his face and the pained manner with which he bore his left shoulder and right hand. It was clear that though he had emerged the victor in a fight to the death, he had nevertheless sustained injuries.