Bruce Alexander - The Color of Death

“Would you pour my tea, please?” said he, apparently once more as unperturbed as when I first entered the room.

I mumbled some sort of assent and did as he asked. Once I had done, I set about buttering his bread.

“It was well writ,” said he.

“Pardon? What was?”

“The letter to that fellow, Welch.”

“What? Oh … that … well … thank you.”

“My objections had to do solely with its content.”

“Yes, of course, I understand.”

“Well, I hope you do. I do hope I’ve made my reasons clear. But sit down, won’t you, Jeremy?”

I grabbed a chair and pulled it over to beside the bed. As I seated myself, I noted that he had begun to munch upon his breakfast, a chunk of buttered bread in one hand and a rasher of bacon in the other. I waited until he had swallowed. Only then did he speak.

“First of all,” said he, “about that theory which you voiced last evening.”

“Yes sir?”

“Interesting, truly interesting, but I believe you are but half right. Where you err, I think, is suggesting that that huge theft was planned and executed solely — or even chiefly — to bring me forth as a target. Their haul from Lord Lilley’s was far too rich to be considered a mere exercise for such a purpose.

“But to me, it seems,” he continued, “that you are quite right about the rest. Which is to say, whoever organized this robbery — and there is something familiar about the manner of it — was certainly eager to use it to bring me there. I agree that he who reported it was probably sent there specifically to make sure I came. Well, I did come, and we know the result. And so I must ask you to stand again, pistols by your sides, through today’s court session.”

“I will. I’ll be there.”

“And what had you planned in the way of furthering the investigation?”

What indeed? I had given some thought to it — though perhaps not sufficient, so intent was I upon dissuading Sir John from sitting his court as usual. But I put before him what had occurred to me.

“Well, sir,” said I, “two avenues of investigation seemed possible, but I fear I know not how to pursue them — not in any practical way, that is. The first would be to find out what I can about Walter Travis, the man who was left dead by the robbers. If he had a criminal past, as Mr. Burley suspected, then knowing more of him might lead us to those who killed him — and perhaps tell us why.”

“A reasonable assumption,” said he. “I’d talk to Mr. Marsden about that. Though Travis is no doubt an alias, Marsden may have heard some stories about who left criminal pursuits for a life in service. The novelty of that would assure that it would be circulated up and down Bedford Street. A good story is long remembered. Oh, and talk to Mr. Bailey, too,” added Sir John. “He got a look at the fellow, did he not?”

“He did, sir — and I’ll do all that you suggest. But about that second avenue I mentioned …”

“Yes, oh yes, what is it, Jeremy?”

“It also occurred to me that if we could find the booty, we could also very likely find those who had stolen it. But beyond looking at those known to be fences up in Field Lane, I know not where to inquire, nor to whom.”

“Yes, well, to search in Field Lane you would need someone who knew the stolen items by sight — the butler would do if you can locate him again. Didn’t he make up some sort of list of stolen items?”

“I believe he did.”

“But in truth,” he continued, “I am not sure that you are likely to turn up anything in Field Lane. A theft of such enormity could hardly be handled by any one of the fences there — nor even perhaps all of them together. They are at best rather small enterprises. Disposing of Lady Lilley’s jewels, for instance, would be quite beyond them. Jewels are rather special.”

With that he paused a goodly pause, leaned his head back on the pillow, and gave prolonged thought to the matter. Only thereafter did he resume.

“This may surprise you, Jeremy, but regarding the jewels, you might best talk with Mr. Moses Martinez.”

“The accountant?”

“Ah well, he is that among other things — sometimes an investor and sometimes a banker, and sometimes a financial adviser. But with all else, he is a Jew, and the Jews do largely control the market for precious stones in Amsterdam. I mean in no wise to implicate Mr. Martinez in the theft, nor in the fencing of what was stolen, but he has contacts there in the diamond district and if he were to make some discreet inquiries …”

“I see. Indeed I shall do that, sir.”

“And as for the rest of the goods taken the other night, why not go to Lloyd’s Coffee House and ask Mr. Humber about them?”

“Mr. Alfred Humber? Truly? What would he know about such matters as this?”

“Mr. Humber knows a good deal about many things,” said Sir John somewhat mysteriously. “Just try him and see if he has anything to offer. That should keep you busy, eh, lad?”

I agreed that it would and rose from my chair to depart.

“Just one more matter,” said he, holding me there at his bedside. “Are you absolutely certain that the man who shot at me there in St. James Street was black?”

“Well,” said I, somewhat at a loss, “as sure as I can be about most things. That is to say, we were beneath the streetlamp, and he was not. And when he appeared I was greatly distracted, trying to push you out of the way while also attempting to get a shot off at him. Nevertheless, in spite of all that, I retain a picture of him, and that picture is of a black man — an African.”

“All right,” said he, “I accept what you say — I must. Yet I cannot think for the life of me what black man I might so have offended that he would wish to kill me.” He sighed; the matter did truly trouble him. “But on your way now. Report to me when you have something to report. And not before.”

Thus the day passed rather quickly. In no more than a few minutes, I had been given much to do: at least a day’s work, and more likely two or three. I liked it well that he had left the execution of the tasks to me. As soon as Annie returned at mid-morning, I set off at quick march to the office of Moses Martinez in Leadenhall Street in the City of London. The only difficulty I experienced there was that which I had foreseen, and Sir John had more or less foretold. I well recall the incredulous and hurt expression Mr. Martinez wore upon his face as I told him that Sir John hoped he might be of some aid in tracing jewels of Lady Lilley ‘s, stolen from the Lilley residence the night before last.

“Surely he does not believe that I had something — anything at all — to do with that monstrous robbery!”

“Indeed he does not,” said I, in what I meant to be a most reassuring tone. “He values your friendship highly, and I myself have heard him commend you to others as the most honest of men.”

At that, Mr. Martinez seemed appropriately relieved. “Very well then,” said he. “What might I do for you?”

“Sir John thought only that perhaps through your contacts with those in the gem trade in Amsterdam, you might be of some help in this matter.”

“Ah, indeed, perhaps I might. What is the value of these jewels?”

“Upwards to ten thousand pounds.”

“Indeed? Well, in that case, they would almost have to be sold off in Amsterdam. Give me a few days, young man — enough time to make some inquiries — and perhaps I shall have some information for you and good Sir John.” With that, I said a polite goodbye and ran toward the river for Lloyd’s Coffee House.

My business there with Mr. Alfred Humber was even more quickly executed. I found him seated at his usual table in the room, which even at that early hour was dense with tobacco smoke. His hands were folded over his protuberant middle, and his eyes were heavy-lidded in such a way that he seemed to be napping as a fat old tabby would do. George, his ever-present assistant, sat at the table with him; he had grown from the rag-tag errand boy I had first met to a sleek young underwriter who showed only disdain for lads like me. No matter; we ignored one another as I sat down and sought Mr. Humber’s attention.