Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

He was a big man, as are so many who take up the butchering trade, and he had a big voice of a strength and volume which would carry it clear across Covent Garden, as he demonstrated that morning.

“Hi, Jeremy,” came the shout. “And what brings you out so early?”

I waved in answer, knowing that my voice would not carry so far. But once I judged myself near enough, I called out, “I’ve come for another beef chop!”

At that, the heads of hungry men and women around me turned; they were laborers in the green market who had no more than heard tell of such cuts of meat. Not wishing to draw envious attention to myself, I was somewhat chagrined at that. I vowed to say no more until I reached him. When I did, I spoke at little more than a whisper, for Sir John was the subject of our discussion.

“Was it Annie chose the last?” I asked. “It was a great success with him who ate it.”

“No, it was Lady Kate herself,” said Mr. Tolliver. “She had me pick it and cut it, as she’s always done in the past.”

“Then I’ll do the same.”

Hearing that, he hauled a whole rib section of beef from the locker and tossed it on the chopping block. He took a moment to check it over, then selected a cut somewhere near the middle. With a cleaver and an unerring eye, he broke the bone in two places, then took out his saw and began cutting away. “How is he?” he asked. “Kate said he’d collapsed yesterday after his court session.”

“True enough, but he seemed much improved even before he ate your chop.”

“Well, there’s nothing like beef for putting blood back into a man. He must’ve lost a good bit.”

“Oh, he did. The ball taken from his shoulder must have been forty caliber or better.”

“I’d assume then that he’ll need more time in bed. He better not try to hold court every day. No telling what could happen.”

“We’re quite in agreement on that, sir. I’ve a plan. I may be able to persuade him.”

“Well, good luck to you on it. Once he gets his mind made up, he’s a hard man to get to change — as we both know.” Then, having finished, he held the chop high. “There, Jeremy, what do you think of that?”

Returning, I found that Annie had prepared a breakfast tray and was ready to depart for her reading lesson at the Bilbo residence.

“He’s awake,” said she. “I heard him stirring and coughing, and then he started calling for his breakfast.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I said that it would be there directly. It’s ready for him now. You can take it up to him, the way you wanted.”

“Thank you, Annie. Go along now.”

And with a nod, she took her leave.

I carried the tray up to his bedroom, where I found him on the chamber pot, purging himself of his night water. When he had done, he stood, dropping his nightshirt, and collapsed back into bed.

“Did you sleep well, Sir John?” I asked.

“I suppose I did,” he replied rather impatiently. “For one in my condition it is sometimes difficult to tell.”

“Oh? How is that, sir?”

“Without sight, how can one be absolutely certain whether one is dreaming, or having conscious thoughts?”

I mulled that in my mind as I set the tray down and proceeded to adjust his pillows so that he might comfortably sit up in bed.

“Is it so difficult to distinguish between the two?” I asked.

“Sometimes it is,” said he.

I waited, expecting him to elaborate upon that statement (which to this day puzzles me), yet he did not. So I lifted up the tray table and placed it before him. Upon it, I placed the document which I had drafted and written the night before.

“What is that which you have put there?” He reached out and touched it suspiciously. “Am I now reduced to eating paper?”

“No sir.” I laughed in spite of myself. “It is a letter written in your style. I should like you to sign it, sir.”

“And only then may I have my breakfast?”

“Of course not, Sir John. Here, I’ll put the tray before you now — bread, butter, four rashers of bacon, tea.”

“No, wait,” said he in a manner rather sharp. “Am I allowed to know the contents of this letter?”

“Certainly. It is a letter from you to Mr. Saunders Welch — ”

“Perhaps,” he said, interrupting, ” you had best read it to me.”

And that I did, clearing my throat and reading aloud. “Dear Mr. Welch: As you may have heard, during the discharge of my duties, I suffered a gunshot wound in the shoulder night before last. Yesternoon I conducted my magistrate’s court as usual, but was warned against continuing this by the attending physician, Gabriel Donnelly. And so I fear it is necessary once again to request your help. I ask only that you hear the criminal cases that would ordinarily be heard by me. The rest I shall simply delay until such time as I am once again in possession of my full strength and can resume my duties. Please give your answer in the space below. I remain yours, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Well,” said he, “this is interesting, is it not? I had mentioned my occasional difficulty in distinguishing between the waking and sleeping states. But there are always clews that help me to know. For instance, now that you have read this letter to me, I know that I am dreaming.”

“What’s that, sir?” Was this one of his tricks?

“Indeed, dreaming! For I know very well that in my waking hours I told you just yesterday that I would continue to hear cases at the Bow Street Court. I remember declaring to you the importance of demonstrating to him who shot me that what he did will in no wise interrupt the dispensation of justice. I thought I put that rather well, didn’t you?”

“Why, yes, but — ”

“Now, I know, Jeremy, that you are far too bright a lad to forget what you are told from one day to the next — ergo, I must be dreaming! Only in a dream could circumstances be altered so radically.”

He was making light of me, playing me for a fool. In my boyish way I resented that. Yet far more did I resent his reckless treatment of himself. Did he not know how important he was to us all? What would we do without him? How could London spare him?

“Yes,” said I, ” you made that speech about not interrupting the dispensation of justice, then you went to your courtroom, heard a few cases, then promptly collapsed.”

“I did not collapse,” he replied. “I merely suffered a passing spell of lightheadedness, as I made clear at the time.”

“But why not allow Mr. Welch to take your cases? It is his duty to do so. He should have come to you yesterday and made the offer.”

“Why not indeed! I’ll tell you why. He is, first of all, a bad judge, a poor magistrate, and no more than a few hairs short of corrupt. He would rather fine a murderer than free an innocent man, for there might be money to be squeezed from the innocent.” I had never heard him talk about another in such strong language, certainly neither judge nor magistrate. But there was more: “And as for your last point, Jeremy, you are correct — he should have made the offer. But he did not, which shows us what sort of man he is. That gives me another very good reason to continue to hear cases at Bow Street.”

“And what is that?” By this time the two of us were fair shouting one at the other.

“It should be obvious: Because he did not volunteer, it would be completely inappropriate for me to ask it of him. I will not beg from one such as he.”

“But … but … but …” I sputtered and fumed, yet there was no more to be said. I, at least, could think of naught. “All right,” said I. “Consider the letter withdrawn. The matter is closed.”

With that, I picked up the tray and delivered it to Sir John. “Your breakfast,” said I as I slammed it down before him.